By J.M. Allison
As I clicked the holovision remote, images cycled with lazy ease, adding unintelligible noise to my apartment. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the stagnant monotony of my life.
The micro-oven dinged and I peeled the cellophane seal from my premade dinner for one. Steam rose from the mush in each divided compartment. Perhaps today I’d detect a difference between the processed meat and veggie portions. I retrieved a glass and held it under the running faucet. I swirled the gathering water. Liquid sloshed over my fingers, stealing the glass from my hands, causing it to shatter in the sink.
I disposed of the largest broken shards, then swept my fingers across the base of the sink to scoop out the last fragments. A sliver nipped my skin, and several drops of red splashed against the stainless steel.
I rummaged through the first aid kit for a bandage, sighing as my search ended in failure. I moved to the communications panel by the door of my apartment, entered the medical line’s number, and waited. The panel pulsed in a soft white light as the tones signaled the connection.
“Megalopolis Medical Division, how can we assist you?” a monotone voice asked.
“I cut my hand and need to request a packet of small bandages.”
“Is this cut life-threatening?”
“No.”
“Is it infected?”
“No.”
“Is it longer than your finger?”
“No.”
“Is it deeper than an inch?”
I held my finger closer to the soft light of the panel and squinted at the small line of red. “No.”
“How would you prefer bandage delivery?”
“Options?”
“With standard shipping, you can expect delivery in twelve to fourteen business days. Expect delays if delivery dates coincide with holidays or high-demand shipping times. Or you may choose delivery with a house call.”
A house call? Hadn’t those discontinued with the practice of leeches and bloodletting? I considered my finger. Blood still oozed from the laceration. “House call.”
“Medical personnel arrival in approximately nineteen minutes.”
The communicator clicked off and I returned to my seat in front of the holovision. The wall clock ticked off the seconds with deliberate slowness. Horns blared outside and a siren wailed, sending a chill down my spine. Sweat gathered at my neck, though I hadn’t touched the thermostat. A trickle of vibrant red still seeped from the cut. I grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the blood.
A searing shock lanced up my finger. Had I caused that? I dabbed again and the shock repeated. Fascinating…
A sharp rap at my door interrupted my thoughts. I opened it, revealing a short man wearing the drab green tunic denoting a medical aide.
“You requested bandages?”
I nodded and motioned him inside.
“Is the wound still bleeding?”
“Yes.” I raised my finger for his inspection.
“Doesn’t look too bad.”
“Do you have something for the…” I wasn’t sure how to describe the sensation. “… Unease?”
His eyes snapped to mine and he studied me. “Unease?”
I nodded.
He took my hand and pressed against the cut.
“Ow!” I pulled my hand away.
“Hmm.” He chewed at his lower lip, then folded his arms. “How long have you been having these sensations?”
“Sensations?” My pulse quickened. The word brought an urge to stop speaking and more unease at having asked in the first place.
“It’s a good thing you requested a house call tonight. Ignoring the problem could have been very serious. Left untreated, your condition could result in total emotional and sensory immersion.”
I stared. Did the air seem thin in here? “I thought such things had been eradicated.”
He smiled. “Officially, yes. But a few isolated cases still occur. Usually brought on by moments of trauma or unexpected injury.”
I tried swallowing. I couldn’t afford a total emotional or sensory immersion. I had work, and my holovideos, and… other stuff. I staggered to the window and slid it open.
A warm breeze brushed my cheek, a reassuring caress as I struggled to regulate my breathing.
“What do I do?”
“Immediate neurotherapy is the recommended course. Shut down the nerves and limbic systems before the brain has time to build new neuropathways. Or…”
I turned to look at him when he didn’t continue. “Or?”
He eyed me as he held out a bandage, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “You can try an alternative treatment.”
“Meaning?” I bandaged my finger, marveling at the sensation the action caused.
“There are”—he glanced around as if afraid of being overheard— “those who enjoy living in total emotional and sensory immersion. Some even attempt to force themselves into such a state.”
He placed two red pills on the table. “Take these and total immersion becomes permanent. Neurotherapy can’t undo the effects. Most suffering from total immersion end up at the asylum within a week due to overstimulation. But you’re the patient. It’s your call.”
He snapped his bag closed. “As they say, take two and call me in the morning.” Then he slipped out the door.
I stared at the little pills. A mouthwatering aroma filled my nose, and I looked down at my dinner mash. How had I never noticed this smell before? I stared at the food. The veggie substance displayed various shades of green. The brown mash in the neighboring compartment had flecks of red and black with a savory, smokey scent. I tentatively dipped my spoon into each and popped it into my mouth.
A rich fire of pleasure rippled across my tongue. Was this how they always tasted? Or was this the effect of my condition? I looked again at the red pills.
I could be locked away in an asylum for the rest of my days…
I glanced around my apartment and ran one finger across the silky smooth, polished surface of my table, then against the soft warmth of the blanket discarded on my couch. Or I could request immediate neurotherapy and return to life in a numb void.
With a deep breath, I downed the pills.
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