by Jenna Inouye
Actually, it intensified.
The nameless doctor walked in as I absently took off my jewelry, placing it on the tray in front of me. I remembered to unwrap my anno from my left wrist. My arm felt strangely light and ethereal without its weight. The doctor fiddled with the screen embedded in the machine, and then sent me a glance and a nod. I reclined onto the table.
Soon I would be stripped of all the unnecessary—flesh, sinew and bone—until all that would remain would be my mind and nerves, the immortal components.
My mind, my nerves, and my secrets.
And upon this frail framework the computers would rebuild me. They would construct me. They would grow me, filling me with living materials that pulsed and throbbed, and I would emerge just as decades before, with perfect newborn skin stretched upon fragile new bone. I would look fresh-faced and young, beautiful and wrong; no lines, no scars, just a perfect, healthy body for myself and time to destroy again.
As I was strapped into the luxuriously padded New Life Apparatus, all I could hear was the industrial, pervasive hum of yet another life being sloughed from me. As I fell asleep I thought of meaningless things, the artifacts of daily life. I considered whether or not I left enough food in my fish feeder, which was rendered even less meaningful because it was on automatic delivery and they were plastic fish and the food was really glitter, anyway. I thought about what I would have to do when I returned to work; generally, avoid it. And distantly there was a flash of something else, like a voice speaking to me over a storm.
When I awoke it was easy, not like the first time. My lungs exploded, and I gasped. My eyes flicked open involuntarily, and twitched from side to side. Everything trembled, like an earthquake from my heart to my extremities—like electroshock therapy, not that I had ever required it for my own safety or the wellbeing of those around me.
My skin convulsed with its new alien presence: me.
Flashes ran across my body like an electric fire. It seemed like years passed—but it was really only moments. A seemingly endless series of virtually identical technicians passed in and out of the room, carrying their vacant smiles and impassively noting the electronic numbers streaming across the wall.
Finally I struggled my way up, sitting on the now warm metal. I stood and wobbled. Rather than the robe, I was now dressed in a paper gown that had formed itself around me—as thin and insubstantial as the gossamer assistants that floated in and out. Another doctor walked in—presumably another doctor, she was female this time—and studied my figures. It was purely for show; they were all green, and that had to be good.
I thanked the doctor and she smiled to me the polite smile of someone who had a thousand more appointments to meet. Her assistant nodded to me in a kind, dismissive way. They had no idea who I was, and that was good. That took time; time for generations of people to die and memories to fade away.
The assistant began to walk me to the changing and recovery room, steadying me gently while still trying to hurry. I briefly considered going boneless.
Further Reading
Science Fiction & Fantasy Short Stories
CPR: A Short Story about Mistakes, Chronology and the Love of a Good Dog
Cold Machines: A Short Story about Unique Invaders
Science Fiction & Fantasy Novels
Rapture: Initiation
Aquion: To the Moon!
Mira, Mira on the Wall
The Ballad of Mistress S
About the Author
Website: www.howtolivewrite.com
Email: [email protected]
Google+: https://plus.google.com/u/0/+JennaInouye
Jenna Inouye spends her spare time running small scale sociological experiments on varying species of ant. As a reader, she enjoys science fiction and fantasy. As a writer, she enjoys calzones. As a golden retriever, she would like to play fetch.
Jenna Inouye can be found at www.howtolivewrite.com shambling into the depths of the unknown and flailing endlessly against an infinite brick wall that extends skywards until it eclipses the sun.