The Entropy Sessions

by Novo Dé

  “Do you…still feel that way—”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to release me soon doc?” I interject, trying to change the direction of the questioning again.

  And Cohen pauses.

  “We’ll see – we’ll see how things go. Do you think you’re ready for that?”

  “I mean, kind of, yeah. I gotta be close right.”

  And Cohen says nothing to this at first; simply pauses and gives me one of his closed lipped smiles.

  “I can see that you’re at least ready for the next step,” he says, tapping at his temple.

  What a strange gesture.

  “Wait? What do you mean—”

  But what would have been a sharp set of questioning is stopped short as I notice a cascade of events in Cohen.

  He ever so gently repositions himself in his chair. His left arm gently pronates, which allows the hands of his wrist-watch to meet the gaze of his eyes as he slowly lowers his head down and to the left. The facial muscles surrounding his eyes contract very delicately to help sharpen his vision. His nostrils slightly dilate and his lips begin to purse.

  Everything tells a story.

  I know what he’s going to say before he even says it.

  “I hate to do this, but I actually have to stop you right there. That’s, that’s actually time.”

  “But—”

  “We can just pick up where we left off, on the next session, as always,” he says with a smile.

  “But—”

  “Tiffany will get you all checked out; I’ll see you next time. Have a great day Tybalt,” he pushes, giving me a final set of non-verbal language as he lowers his head to his tablet and begins to type in his notes for the session, clearly analyzing our visit together.

  And just like that – it’s over – the session is over.

  I can’t count how many times he’s done this to me in the past, with our previous sessions together, but for some reason, this one, this one seems, almost, deliberate.

  Purposeful.

  And strangely, I find myself simply getting up with no opposition, simply gravitating toward the door almost subconsciously, accepting the end of our session together, a goodbye with my back to the doctor; my own non-verbal language.

  I check the time, and see that we really were at the end of our scheduled appointment time together. No early dismissal.

  So until next time I then think.

  Stepping out to the lobby, I see an array of glum faces awaiting their turn to gab on and on about their boring mundane lives. I never try to say hi to them, make pleasantries. Just make my way to the outside and await my ride home. It’s this way every time. And I use to be excited to leave. But not today for some reason.

  The car ride home seems almost sullen today as well. Joyless. Like something’s wrong.

  Upon reaching my home, I stare out the window at my front door for a moment, stalling – I don’t really want to go in – my prison, away from prison, away from prison.

  Eventually, I make my way toward the door.

  Reaching the door however, I’m stopped short at a locked knob; clearly no active CHARLIE to recognize my fingerprint data.

  Now that doesn’t make any sense.

  Luckily I always have a key on me out of habit from the good ole days, but fuck, I don’t even remember the last time I had to use an actual key to enter my own home.

  It feels archaic. Barbaric almost.

  And upon entering, there’s no welcoming aesthetic from CHARLIE either.

  And I’m so use to our CHARLIE that the silence I’m greeted with feels eerie. Unnatural. Abnormal. Funny how we get use to new things, and as soon as we have to revert back to a previous common practice, do we find ourselves lost. Like in a forgotten land. How did we live before CHARLIE? What did we do before CHARLIE?

  The dining room reveals the answer to the change in the dynamics of the house – Juliet – sitting at the head of our dining room table, her back to the door, eating a meal alone. She doesn’t even turn around as I enter the room.

  “So how’d it go today?” She begins, acknowledging my presence.

  “Umm, y’know, typical,” I respond, a sense of déjà vu in the air.

  “So…progress?”

  And I nod ever so gently.

  “Progress.”

  To that, she says nothing else.

  “So ah, did you turn off CHARLIE or somethin’?” I say, changing subjects.

  “Hibernation mode actually. I just. Kind of felt like being alone today.”

  “And…you’re not working?”

  “I take it you don’t remember me telling you I get Friday’s off now?”

  “When did you…? I’m sorry, no I ah, I don’t remember.”

  No response.

  I walk steadily over to her side.

  “May I sit?”

  “You do whatever you want Tybalt,” she says low, flat.

  I sit with her, but her body language is unresponsive. Cold. Calm as well, but with a tension.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You just seem—”

  “I’m fine. What do you want?” She says with a sternness in her voice, like I’m bothering her for even asking.

  “Nothing, I just, what the hell? You trying to pick a fight…already? I just walked into the house for god sakes.”

  No response.

  “What’s with you?”

  “What’s with me? What’s with me? I’m tired Tybalt. Didn’t you hear me? I said I wanted to be left alone.”

  She doesn’t even turn to me to respond.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “It’s fine. It’s ok. Just leave me be please.”

  More sternness.

  I give her a sideways glance, but still no response; still not even a turn in my direction.

  “Ok, what the fuck? What’s up with you!?” I snap.

  She finally looks at me.

  “I don’t want to do this.”

  “What do you mean you ‘don’t want to do this? ’ I don’t wanna fight either.”

  “No – I don’t want to do this anymore. Any of it.”

  And those words bring me to a pause.

  “What are you, what are you saying?”

  “I’m sayin’ I’m done. I’m sayin’ I can’t do this shit anymore.”

  “What shit? We barely even see each other.”

  “I see…enough. I’ve done…enough. And now I’m tired. I’m so so tired.”

  She’s emoting, but she’s numb, almost robotic.

  “What the fuck are you saying?”

  No response.

  “Say it.”

  “You already know what I’m going to say…”

  “Say it,” I say again, sharp.

  “It’s time,” she begins, shaking her head. “…to say goodbye Tybalt. To all of this. To everything. Our relationship. Our lives together. To each other – I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  She brings me to another pause, and I turn away. Can’t look her in the eye. And then a strange emotion covers my being. It’s not shock, or sadness, but a sense of, feeling surprised. I’ve been preparing myself for this moment for a long time now. But I was beginning to think it was never going to happen, and not like this.

  So sudden. So abrupt. Without warning.

  But I guess bad news always goes this way.

  “So there is someone else,” I say aloud without thinking, clearly hurt.

  “Jesus, Tybalt,” she says softly, gently with a deep breath. “There’s never been anybody else.”

  “Yeah. Well. I saw you again, with some guy, at that same bar. Didn’t look like a patient to me. It actually, kind of, looked like—”

  “You’re fuckin’ shrink. Cohen. Christopher Cohen. Yeah that’s because it was him.”

  And now I can’t move, definitely not sure what to say. So I say the only thing I think I can say; I stay on target, on message, focusing in.

&nbs
p; “So you admit it?”

  “Admit what? Have you listened to a goddamn word I’ve said? There. Is. No. Affair – I’ve never cheated on you. Not ever.”

  “Well then, what the fuck? Why were you with him of all people? How do you even know him?”

  “You still don’t see it yet. I was with him because I have to be; he's around much more than you realize,” she says, pausing. “God they’re good. They really do only show you the things he wants you to see. Guess they wanted you to get close that day without any of the augment changes. Sounds like you got a little too close.”

  No system is perfect.

  “And you know how I know him Tybalt. Remember the therapy I needed after the war.”

  And I remain speechless.

  “You don’t remember do you? God what’s the point of even trying with you anymore? You’re just gonna forget,” she continues.

  “I don't understand....”

  No response.

  “You still didn't answer my…why were you there? What were you doing there with him?”

  “Doesn't matter anymore. I’m done with this shit. I’m out. So if you want answers, you’re just gonna have to ask him yourself.”

  “Ask him what? I don’t even know what you’re fuckin talkin’ about? This is all—”

  “I can see why he chose you,” she says under her breath as she pushes herself away and up from the table.

  “Wait! You have to tell me.”

  “I. Can’t,’ she says, beginning to make her way to the door.

  “Wait!”

  “Look, I didn’t want to do it this way, really, and I thought I could last longer, but when I saw your face…it all…I, I…”

  “Please!”

  “Don’t come after me,” She says back, making her way closer to the door. “You can tell Cohen the same.”

  “Don’t. Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

  And she turns around.

  “Yes – I do Tybalt.”

  And upon hearing that, my quick spark of sadness turns to anger, resentment.

  “Fuckin’ go then. Fuckin’ run away. Like you always do. That’s all you’re good at. But it doesn’t matter because you’ll be back. You always come back.”

  “Not this time,” she says dryly.

  She reaches for the door knob and the anger, resentment, quickly shifts back to despair.

  “Ok ok, please, just stop. I’m sorry I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  She turns and gives me a side-ways glance, followed by a shaking of her head, and then reaches for the knob again, turns it and begins to open the door.

  “Please please, just, just, tell me please…what were you really doing there?” I say insinuating extra-marital affairs again.

  I need to hear something; I need closure.

  But as she’s about to exit the door, she says something else.

  “I was trying to save you,” she utters, slamming the door behind.

  And just like that – she was gone – and I’m left, staring at the door, asking myself what just happened.

  And just like always, not long after, denial begins to settle in.

  ‘She’ll be back’ I begin to think. ‘She’ll be back.’ ‘She always comes back.’ We’ve had worse fights before. ‘She’ll be back.’

  And I begin to cycle through the denial. It helps. Numbs me. Brings me to a little sense of peace. That everything will be ok. Everything will be ok.

  So I return to the only thing I know – routine and schedules – awaiting her return.

  I of course carry out the rest of the evening and night as usual, completing all of our nightly rituals, a sense of déjà vu again in the air. But just like last time, there’s no surprise entrance by Juliet. No surprise food preparation. No silent dinner together. Nothing.

  The rest of the evening is silence, and our bedroom is no different.

  Turning in, I crawl into bed, turn off the lights, and try to drift to sleep, hoping to hear a change at the front door.

  But nothing ever comes.

  Luckily, I begin to drift into sleep.

  As seconds drift into minutes, and minutes into hours, I’m delighted to find myself stirred back by a creaking of the hardwoods, again moving in from the front door, ever so closer, ever so closer, until stopping at the bathroom. Water from the faucet comes next, and then a pattering of sounds as someone tries to disrobe and change. This goes on rhythmically for some time, but no Juliet ever comes out, no woman silhouetted at the door.

  The faucet then comes on again.

  Listening, I find myself creeping out of bed, beginning to slowly pace to the door to investigate. But upon entering the bathroom, I find myself alone, the whole room empty.

  No faucet on. No clothes on the floor. No presence of another person afoot. The room simply pristine. Exactly how I left it.

  I look at myself in the mirror, take in a deep breath, and begin to make my way back to bed.

  Of course, upon return, I can’t fall back asleep this time around. So I toss and turn. Mostly because I want to be awake when she returns.

  But.

  She never does.

  The only greeting I actually get as the new day opens, is the rays of the sun peering through our blinds, warming Juliet’s empty side of the bed, still cold from the night.

  February 3rd, 2052

  February 5th, 2052

  I had to.

  I had to cancel on Cohen. I had no choice. Our reckoning has to wait.

  Because. I can’t put off the surgery any longer, and today was the soonest they said they could get me in.

  So I told Cohen the only thing I could, that I was sick. Sick with the flu. And then had a friend on the inside change the DRI feed he receives to match, the last of my favors.

  Because.

  Because. I haven’t heard from her in multiple days, and the silence is becoming unbearable.

  Complete radio silence they used to say.

  And I’ve tried everything I can think of to reach her, but to no avail, making it abundantly clear she doesn’t want to be reached, at least by me. But maybe if, maybe if it was through an NCL, she’d, she’d, maybe have a change of heart. See that I’ve changed. That I can change. That I will change. And that I’ll continue to change. And through it, kill two birds with one stone – Show her the new me, and connect again.

  Simple.

  Just have to muster the courage.

  Even trying to leave the house for my appointment felt like there was a force pushing against me however. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. But I have to prevail.

  Eventually, I make it to their facility door.

  But just touching their front door sends a shiver through my nervous system. Luckily, their almost robotic-like staff gives a warm welcome, easing a little of the tension.

  “Ah you must be Mr. Nielson. Welcome,” a young receptionist sings as I approach their lobby’s front desk.

  “That’s me,” I say matter-of-factly. “So do I need to sign anything else before we do this thing? Or check-in? Or—”

  “No sir. We’ve been expecting you of course. Been tracking you on our DRI feed. No need to check-in; already done it for you Mr. Nielson. As soon as you touched the door in fact.”

  She said the whole thing with a smile.

  “Of course.”

  “Please take a seat sir. We’ll be with you in a moment.”

  I nod, and make my way to the nearest seat.

  And now the long wait. Why do they even have me come in so early just so I can wait in their lobby for what feels like a lifetime? Why give me the time to reconsider this whole fucking fiasco.

  “Mr. Nielson, we’re ready for you,” a female voice says from behind, mere seconds after touchdown to the seat, presumably a nurse.

  Turning, I make my way toward her, and follow along as I pass the threshold of the door she’s silhouetting.

  “Excited?” she quickly turns to say.

  “I, ah, guess,” I return
with a shrug.

  “Little nervous huh?”

  “Very.”

  “You have nothing to be afraid of – I promise – this is half the battle right here.”

  Following along to the pre-op suite, I can’t help but notice that the wall décor, and overall scheme and look of the corridors and facility, is almost exactly like the promotional ad I saw months ago. I notice the nurse noticing me look at the walls and the floor and the ceiling.

  “Just like the video huh?” she says, virtually reading my mind.

  “Yeah, I thought—”

  “You’d be seein’ somethin’ different – well, we pride ourselves on authenticity here,” she says. “Ah, here we are.”

  She stops, motions to my suite, and with a sway of her arm, tells me to enter.

  “Your cap and gown’s on the bed. Feel free to put your clothes and personal items in that plastic bag near the chair. We’ll of course make sure all your belongings are taken care of while you’re in surgery. And last but not least, do you need us to arrange a ride for you, for after the procedure?”

  And I nod yes in return.

  “And a maybe an aide to help you into your home, into bed? Or will your wife, or maybe a family member be there?”

  “The aide’ll be fine.”

  “That’ll all have to be out-of-pocket though,” She says nodding. “Is that ok?”

  And I nod yes.

  “Splendid. Any other questions or concerns?”

  And I shake my head no.

  “Excellent. Well if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call,” she finishes, exiting the room.

  Alone now, I’m in no rush to disrobe and put that cap and gown on.

  Taking off my clothes proves difficult. I feel the same force acting against me that I felt at home. I knew this wouldn’t be easy.

  And I hate hospital gowns. I hate their course material. I hate how they make me feel. Vulnerable. Naked.

  Once changed, I keep myself from getting too comfortable, so I stay seated on the side of the hospital bed. Not sure why exactly; seemingly, I guess, to be prepared for anything. And as soon as I begin to think about the idea that this is where I’ll be facing the long wait, the excessive time-lapse where nothing happens, what appears to be a doctor wearing scrubs enters the room.