| Original Fiction: |
This is the room where I was first put. The soft padding all around so I wouldn't hurt myself. Soft lights, soft voices... everything was so soft. The medication helped; all the softness wrapped into a floating warm blanket. How long had I been in here between treatments?
I'm sitting on the edge of the old bed, but my feet still don't touch the floor.
The psyche nurse had told me not to worry about it, "You'll get used to it". They had no idea what I'd been thinking back then. It all seems like a lifetime ago.
Five toes on each foot, five fingers on each hand. Matching sets, symmetry out of chaos. Laughter and amusement, how strange. Now I feel sluggish as I battle -- yes, "battle" is the word for this slow coming out from a distant world of oblivion into newness. Anger again -- a familiar presence -- lashes at my fumbling ineptitude.
I couldn't shout at the nurses. Control -- had to keep control! I "hated" (such a delicious word) the patronizing looks of "it's just my illness".
Neatly stacked clothes beside me, crisp and clean, these will be mine. New shoes, personal toiletries and a carry bag... or is it a case, or perhaps a backpack? Language, the most bizarre artifact of all -- a tool or a weapon? At least it doesn't take up any room, but it's so sticky in my throat. Strange what you can pack into that "grey" stuff within the skull and then have the audacity to call it personality. Concepts so large and complex, fitting into a comparatively small space.
The clothes now pull and tug at parts that perhaps were meant to be free. The fabrics are stiff and coarse from chemicals added to give the illusion of success. All this precise sterility will disintegrate once I'm away from here.
The attendant softly knocks, seemingly oblivious to the harsh and intrusive world that I'm about to enter. I'm led down the soft pastel corridors. I pass others who seem happy in their knowledge that they are being helped and will get to stay. The looks and stares hold pity for me -- for me! -- they're the fools! They are the ones who don't know what it's like to hold power, to want to rule. Control; don't lose it now, when you're so close to being released. Stay calm, deceive them, enjoy the last of manipulating them. It's easy as walking and much more rewarding.
A few turns and an elevator; more turns and a doorway.
This is it! This is where I make my final decision. Do I really want to leave or will I stay with the others? All the preparation, the re-learning, treatment after treatment, and psyche tests one upon the other. All for this moment! Always giving just the right answers -- whatever they wanted to hear! These idiots are so easily manipulated! There’s no hesitation; I am greedy for what lies ahead in my new life. That greed will serve me well.
The door opens softly... everything's so fucking soft, where the word itself grates against my existence. Everyone's so gentle, polite and so fucking nice. Fucking -- now there's a word that had been twisted and mutilated throughout human history. Wonder what new meaning I will bring to it?
"Hello, would you like a seat?" The words slow and deliberate from the 'head honcho'. One day I'll be a 'head honcho'.
Am I being set up for one last test? Will they let me leave? Hang on, don't blow it, keep cool! Remember, that sort of thinking got me here in the first place. Now it's getting me out. So, I sit.
"I see you've adjusted well. The clothes fit. Any last minute problems that we can help you with?" -- precisely chosen words.
Hearing the release warden talk like that is unnerving. Are my innermost thoughts and feelings that transparent? I guess not, it's just me being paranoid again.
"No problems." I suppose they will be glad to get rid of me anyway.
"You've got all the information on where you will be staying? Do you have your personal papers?"
"Yes, everything is here, even some money to get me a few things." A few things my arse, I'll multiply it somehow and have anything I want.
"I know I'll do well in my new place. The temperament of the people there is so much like mine, I'll fit in quite well."
"Scared?"
"Terrified, but isn't that a normal emotion for a person." I am sick to death of anal-ising my personality, it just is the way it is, and I like it. There's no way I'd stay and have their alternative therapy.
Head honcho lets out an air of resignation and says, "Well, I suppose that's it. Earth, they call it. Strange name -- even stranger are the human primates. I still have difficulty with the voicings. We'll do the memory swipe, but I'll never understand why you would want to keep your personality... but that's why you're going, isn't it? After all, it’s your choice. They're the barbarians, not us. I'll never understand why some still choose to be left in such an aggressive and maladjusted society. In human terms, they would be called the "Universe's insane asylum" and we've been sending our incurables there for thousands of their years".
The old fart winced in pain, as so many words caused him discomfort with the temporary voice organ. Delicious revenge in watching him suffer. Satisfaction in knowing that so many humans with personalities like mine hold positions of power and control. I am really going to enjoy my new life on Earth. Where would personalities like mine go if it were a fair and just planet? What would the Universe be like without arseholes like me? Constipated no doubt!
The memory probes descend around the head of this strange body -- a human body. The machine starts to hum while I sit.