The Conversion

by DK Andrews

voice quavering as I say the words.

  “Great! Then we can start the process immediately” Dr. Kismen says, pleased that she was able to close the deal. “You will be spending full days here at Ultima Center beginning tomorrow. Your first appointment is for 8 am, please don’t be late.”

  She hands me a card with the appointment time written on it.

  “I won’t be late,” I say.

  I take the card, open my backpack, grab my diary, and put the card inside.

  “Excellent. I will give you more information before our first session tomorrow. When you come in tomorrow, ask for me at the reception. Do you have any other questions?” she asks.

  “I don’t.”

  I can’t think of anything right now as I’m still spinning from what I’ve been told. I also get shy when it comes to asking questions, makes me feel like I’m a nuisance.

  “Wonderful. Then I will see you tomorrow, Alina. Welcome to the program.” Dr. Kismen gets up from her chair and heads toward the door.

  “I’ll walk you out, Alina.”

  We leave her office and walk down the hall. She swipes her card to let me out and extends her hand.

  “It was nice to meet you, Alina.”

  “You as well,” I respond indifferently, shaking her hand.

  Dr. Kismen turns around and walks towards her office. The door to reception is half open, and all I need to do is take a step forward and leave. But I can’t—I feel as if I’m rooted to the floor. What am I doing here? Is this the right decision?

  Of course, it is! My life only consists of nothing but pain and agony. I will never be able to fight this depression—it’s been with me as far back as I can remember. But what if things get better? What if I meet someone who can be my friend and who can help me through? What if all I need to do is to escape? Micah and I could just run away together and start a new life. I know that this moment of enlightenment will not last long, soon a big dark cloud will drop like a shutter across my mind, and I will draw deeply into my depression again. It’s like drowning slowly in a sea of sadness and pain. It’s easy to change your clothes, where you live, but it’s impossible to run away from a depressive state.

  My hands are shaking. Very quietly, I turn around and walk cautiously back to Dr. Kismen’s office. I want to tell her I’ve changed my mind.

  When I reach her office, the door is slightly open, and I hear her voice. I know I should knock, but my curiosity is killing me. I slow down and very carefully lean forward in the hope of hearing what she’s saying.

  “Yes, Mrs. Holding, that’s right. I just met her, and it’s a perfect match.”

  I’m sure she’s talking about me.

  “Can you come by with your son at 8 am tomorrow morning to Novus Center?” Dr. Kismen asks, “Do you need directions?”

  I know what building she’s talking about. It’s located in a beautiful area of the city, on the edge of the lake. I remember when it was being built. I’ve passed by it a few times, admiring its modern architecture. It takes the shape of the rising sun, which, to me, symbolizes hope. The Center is covered with faceted glass panels attached to free lines and that twist and turns in the wind so that the whole facade shifts and moves during the day.

  “Very well,” Dr. Kismen continues. “Yes, tomorrow, that’s right! It is very soon.” There was a pause.

  “I know, it’s good news we were able to find someone.”

  I should not be listening, but I can’t help it. I want to know more.

  “There is no blood relation, and the subject’s expected life span at Conversion is estimated to be about 50 years. I know the lifespan could have been longer, but we just can’t wait for another Dator of this quality.”

  My hands are shaking, and I’m about to knock on Dr. Kismen’s door when I suddenly think of the person who’s waiting to receive my life. Is it fair to them to change my mind? In the end, their life is certainly more valuable than mine. I’m not satisfied with my existence, I really don’t feel like fighting anymore to just survive only to endure more pain. Signing the LifeTrans contract has to the best decision I’ve ever made.

  With that thought, I lower my hand, turn, and stumble to the exit. I keep my head down while walking past the reception desk.

  “See you tomorrow,” the receptionist says.

  “Yes,” I say softly. “See you then.”

  It’s drizzling outside. I love the cleansing feeling of rain on my face. I close my eyes and stand in the rain for a few minutes. I walk towards the bus shelter. As I get closer, I see a woman who is probably in her 30s or 40s waiting for a bus. Most likely she’s in her 30s—if she’s a Dator like me, she can’t be 40. Conversion participants have to be between the ages of eighteen and thirty-nine. The younger you are, the longer your lifespan is. The price tag for a young life is quite high. I’m happy at the thought of the money that will go into my trust fund, and that will be released after the Conversion. It will be enough for Micah to get on his feet, pay for his education, and even buy a decent house. I wonder how much this woman got for her life? Not much, I’ll bet, given she is much older than me

  I see that her red eyes are full of sadness and sorrow as she stares at me. I quickly turn away; she gives me an uncomfortable feeling. I step away from her slightly, hoping that she won’t start a conversation with me. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I certainly don’t want her to share her distress with me. The bus approaches, and I let her get on first so that I can sit in front of her and not be bothered by her presence.

  As I step onto the bus, the driver looks at me, and his eyes fill up with grief—somehow he knows my situation, and he feels sorry for me.

  The woman takes a seat in the middle of the bus, so I make myself comfortable in an empty disabled place for one at the front. I put on my headphones, doze off, and lose myself in my music.

  By the time I wake up, I’m the only one left on the bus.

  “Last stop, city center!” the bus driver yells, trying to wake me up.

  “Thank you,” I say, as I get off the bus.

  A short ride on the subway and then I will be home—well, the place where I sleep, anyway. I can’t even call it home; hell is a more appropriate word for it.

  Thankfully, Micah should be there by now. I’ll get to see and talk to him. Only he can get me through the next 30 days.

  By the time I get out of the subway, the rain has stopped, and the clouds are no longer gray. The sun is starting to set, its rays creating beautiful colored patterns across the sky. I love that the clouds are transforming into beautiful masterpieces as if the celebration of my last days.

  I slow down and breathe in the fresh air. I never noticed before how wonderful and pure this time of the year can be.

  I turn onto my street and count the steps to my house. I hate the street my house is on, ugly and dirty as it is, there is nothing pleasant about it.

  My heart is beating fast in anticipation of another violent fight waiting to explode at home.

  Here I am, standing in front of a gray run-down house that was built decades ago—it’s deplorable. My mother got this two-bedroom shack after my grandmother, whom I never knew, passed away. I was too young to remember my mother’s mother, but I’ve heard she wasn’t a nice person.

  I open my backpack and reach for my key, dreading the moment of facing my mother. Hesitantly I open the front door and pray to God that my mother is not there.

  As soon as I walk through the door, I inhale the strong stench of smoke and booze. This poisonous mixture has been the smell of misery and suffering throughout my pathetic life.

  “Is that you?” I hear mother’s drunken voice slur from the living room. I quietly place my bag on the floor and hope to sneak into the bedroom without talking to her. No such luck. I hear mother getting up off the couch and walking towards me. With each step, my anxiety grows, feeling like a ball inside my stomach that is growing bigger and bigger.

  “Is that you, you little brat?”

&nb
sp; I gather what courage I have left in my heart to face this woman-my mother.

  “Yes, Gloria.”

  She stands right in front of me. Years of binge drinking has shaped her face into a puffy mess surrounding sunken eyes.

  “Where have ya been, conniving girl?” she says, slurring her words.

  She blocks my way, and I have no choice but to answer her.

  “Out,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  The less I speak, the less agitated she will become.

  “Yeah, I know you’ve been out, that’s obvious!”

  Her voice had risen to a shout. She coughs smoke in my face.

  “What do you want, Gloria?”

  My body and voice shiver in unison. I can’t even bring myself to call her “mother” because to me she’s not. It’s true she gave birth to me, but that doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t deserve to be a mother. How is it possible that she got to have kids when there are so many wonderful people in the world that can’t have children? Why did God pick Gloria to be my mother?

  “What do I want’? Repeat that, you waste of space!” she screams, grabbing my arm.

  I know what this means—she’s going to do it. She rolls up my sleeve, takes a final puff of her cigarette, glares at me, and then puts it out on my arm—on my bare skin. She throws the crumpled cigarette on the floor.

  This time, however, I don’t scream. I try not to let the fear and pain affect the expression on my face. I try to focus on the thought that this is just going to leave another scar on my arm, but not on my heart. The scar marks are part