Fifteen minutes since I swallowed the breakfast pill and I’m still waiting for the comfort of its artificial blanket of docility to envelop me. When it comes, it does a shoddy job. How am I supposed to drift off when my feet are cold?
The drugs want to funnel me down the tunnel to alertness and obedience so I’ll do my job like a good cog. I resist. I need my dose upped but I won’t be eligible for ages. I could plead.
Or I could go with rebellion. Wean myself off. De-cog myself from the machine.
‘Yes, I know. I mean, what’s with the torso? It is so out of proportion, it’s almost comical. And don’t even get me started on those dead eyes. How creepy are they? But you know what bugs me most? That it’s so confused. It’s got the limbs of a woman, the chest and shoulders of a man and the face of a two-year old child. What the hell was the sculptor thinking? And who commissioned this monstrosity – Dr. Frankenstein?’
‘You’re not wrong, I guess. I meant the bracelet, though. Those are the worst kind of plastic beads.’
She inspects her callused, battered feet. Pretty shoes aren’t going to make a difference, are they? Not to mention that her feet have become so flat and wide she wouldn’t find a shoe that’d fit. She says no thanks but mentions she’s glad they invited her.
Not to mention she cannot go anywhere.
But everyone treats her as if she were still a member of the community. They visit her at the western edge to give her the opportunity to turn them down. She doesn’t have a choice, but she appreciates the charade.