GoodThoughts®

I first heard about the cure while eating cereal and watching the news. A company, named oddly enough, “Good Thoughts”, had created a tiny device which fit in the brain, between the two hemispheres, connecting it to the electrical brain-current of one side, and relaying this to the other, so not a single synapse could become entangled in turmoil and cause suffering. “Lead a Worry-Free Life,” they advertised. Having just left the psyche ward, and terrified of going back, I considered it seriously. The cost was considerable, and my insurance only covered half. I decided to postpone a few root-canals to pay for the procedure. After all, what was more important, healthy teeth or a healthy brain?

******

The building was quite modern. Built in stacks, with space-like windows, bubbling out to the right and left. This was the day of my preliminary interview. If they were not convinced that I was an appropriate candidate, I could get no operation.

The waiting room was full, and I signed in and sat down. After about forty-five minutes, the doctor came out with his clipboard. “Mizz Bekula?” he asked, looking around.

I stood up and walked towards him. There was no greeting. He was strangely cold. He led the way to his office, and walking in, closed the door, sat down at his computer, and began to type. What? I do not know. I hadn’t said a word yet. I sat in the chair across from him and waited. For a while he kept on typing like I wasn’t there. I tried to amuse myself by looking at the walls, but there was not so much as a painting hanging. No pictures, no clever sayings, nothing personal; no remembrances of any kind. Just a strangely framed medical degree which gave me the creeps. And what creeped me out even more, was the possibility that the inside of this man’s head, was just like this room.

“Okay.” he finally said, like he was addressing a child. “I’m going to ask you a few questions and you are to answer them.”

“Yes sir,” I replied, with a mock salute. He grumbled his disapproval, and turning back to his computer, seemed consumed by the questionnaire. He began his inquisition, and without looking up from the screen, asked, “Married or single?”

“Single,” I replied.

“Are you pregnant or trying to get pregnant?”

“Neither.” I said. A slight pause followed by another long stretch of typing, rather long for a yes or no answer I thought.

“Education?” he asked.

“College.” I said.

“And what is it you do for a living?”

“I write.” I replied.

He stopped and looked at me for the first time. “You what?”

“I write.” I repeated.

“Then you are able to work?” he said.

“I do work,” I said.

“Oh?” he said, not understanding, “Where do you work?”

“At home,” I said, “I told you, I write.”

He turned back to the computer with an air of not very subtle disgust. “So you don’t have a steady income.” he finally concluded.

“No.” I replied, realizing that the questionnaire left no room for anything beyond the cut-and-dry conventional. The facts had been decided long ago, in a room not so very different from this one. For the entire rest of the interview, the doctor regarded me as crazy.

About a week later, I got a call from GoodThoughts. The voice on the other side was brisk and informative. “Mizz. Bekula? You have been accepted into the GoodThoughts trial run. You are to report to Lab 13Q on Thursday July 6 ^th at 5 a.m. Do you have any questions?”

“No,” I said and hung up the phone. I stood stunned for a minute, all manner of thoughts racing.

The night before the procedure was a bad one. The kind of night that got me thinking about the operation in the first place. And as usual, I found myself praying, “Dear God take it away before it takes me.” The next morning, I was the first patient there.

I could feel the cool air at the bottom of my gown as they rolled me down to Lab13Q. Room I. On the operating table, I was surrounded by medical blue, and the shiny silver of those dreaded cranial instruments. I closed my eyes, intent on not seeing the monster knife which would crack my skull.

The anesthesiologist was right on time with his black, rubber, mask. And then something strange. He seemed ashamed. Before he placed the mask over my face, he asked in a whisper, “Are you sure about this?” But then the head surgeon eyed him boldly, and he resumed his task. I slid into unconsciousness with that question repeating in my head; the answer of which would be on the other side, late and possibly irrelevant.

It was very hard to open my eyes, and when I finally did, everything was blurry. My head felt like a steel beam had hit it. I screamed with pain and the nurse came running in. “Alright, alright,” she said, “Just let me get soma this morphine inta ya.” She shot it through my IV, and slowly the pain began to drain away. I took a long breath of relief.

“How long will that last?” I finally asked her. But the doctor came in before she could answer.

“Well?” he asked, “How do you feel?”

“Better with the morphine,” I replied.

“Your head will be hurting for a few days,” he said, “How do you feel otherwise?”

“Fine I guess.”

“You are unusually alert for a patient waking up from such a surgery?” he said.

“Isn’t that good?” I asked.

“Yes of course it is,” he replied quickly, “A good thing…”

An hour later my appetite returned, and the nurse watched me scarf down an entire meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and peas. She brought me two extra apple juices. I was just finishing the second when a flock of doctors suddenly appeared around me; whispering things to each other and writing things down. Then they disappeared just as quickly, like a noisy, compact, flock of seagulls. They didn’t even speak to me. I finished my lunch thinking maybe the faster I got out of there the better.

Two days after that, I resumed a story on a yellow legal pad, which I had begun at home. Every once in a while, a doctor would stop in the hallway and just stare. One doctor was ok, but two or three gave you the creeps. When they came in as a flock again, I could hear a pin drop, as they observed me confusedly. Finally, starting to feel like a guinea pig, I asked. “Everything ok doctors?”

One of them stepped in front, as if awaiting the opportunity. “Something has gone wrong with the ex, ah, surgery. We will need you to stay in the hospital under observation until we can resolve the issue.”

“But I feel absolutely fine?” I protested.

He looked around at the others. “Ms. Bekula!” he yelled suddenly, “We are the doctors, not you!”

“You would hold me here against my will?” I asked.

He let out a mocking breath. “Free will is irrelevant.” he said. “It is now a legal matter. GoodThoughts cannot release you into the general populace until we are certain that you will not be a harm to yourself or others.”

“But I’m not a harm to myself or others?” I said.

“Again,” he said, “That is not for you to decide.”

“And if I stand up and leave right now?” I asked.

“You will be sedated,” he replied blankly, “But I wouldn’t try it if I were you.”

“How long?” I asked, beginning to understand it could be a while.

“At most a month,” he said, “Nothing you can’t handle.”

My body began to seize up, entering into survival mode; the scariest mode there is.

The next morning, the doctor came in to talk to me. “We are transferring you to the patient ward.” he said. “If under observation you prove to be fully functional, we might offer you a release.”

“But I feel fully functional now?” I maintained.

The doctor sighed wearily. “We will decide that Mz. Bekula.”

“You’re certainly deciding something for me,” I replied, “I just don’t know what it is.”

He ignored the remark. “You can bring your things now.” he said. Little did I know the world I would be bringing them into.

My first thought was that I had been brought to the wrong ward. All these people were catatonic? I watched them walk up and down the hallway in two straight rows: one going and one coming. There was just one guy not walking. He sat on a green, vinyl couch, his leg extended over the armrest, arms folded, sometimes laughing, other times shaking his head. I felt safer upon seeing him. But I had to try to get out one more time. I turned to the doctor. “Surely I am more functional than these patients?” I said.

He ignored me and pointed to a man. “Follow him,” he said, “He will show you to your room and explain the rules.” Then he walked away.

“This way.” the man said.

I followed him down the end of the hall, and the last room on the right. It was a fair size room, there was even a window, though shackled and facing an alley with a dumpster. Rooms without windows were horrors to me.

“So this is your room while you’re here,” the man explained.

“No roommates?” I asked.

“Nope,” he replied.

“So?” I asked, “What are the rules?”

“Pretty simple really,” he said, “Get up, take a shower, eat with the others, and show up to group. There’s ping-pong and a TV.”

“Anything artistic?” I asked.

He looked at me. “I think we have some crayons and paper in the community room.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

I was beyond exhaustion when I flung myself onto the bed, resolved never to move again, or at least not until I got some energy back. All night long I heard the catatonics shuffle their feet; back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

In the morning, I opened my eyes and rubbed them. Outside, I could hear the hustle and bustle of people going to breakfast. Considering the eerie shuffling of the night before, it was a strange sound. I stood up slowly and walked towards the doorway. I peaked out. To my astonishment, there were all the catatonics of last night’s march? Talking and laughing and carousing all up and down the hall, headed towards the cafeteria. Had I even seen what I saw last night? I went back inside, put on my foam slippers, and stepped out.

I felt like a spy. Like someone who knew something they didn’t. I took it upon myself to find the man who had been laying on the green couch, since he seemed to be aware of the same thing.

I fondled my apple jacks with my plastic spoon, looking from time to time. But I never saw him. I looked for him all day, but there wasn’t a single sign of him. He just vanished. Again, I wondered if last night had been a figment of my imagination. But then the more reasonable side of my brain took over, and I doubled down on the fact that last night had happened, and that there was something not very kosher about it.

Now reader, put yourself in my shoes, if at precisely eight o’clock that same evening, you were lying in your bed, and all of a sudden, all the hustle and bustle of that morning, shut off like the switching of a light. And there was a silence so deafening, that it rivaled the aftermath of a bomb for effect. And slowly rising, you walked to your door, and stood watching in horror, as the dead-eyed, catatonic march, resumed.

A sharp light hit my eyes, blinding me. “Hey you!” the voice on the other side commanded. “Get up and march.”

“Where’s the other guy?” I asked.

“Never you mind where he is,” he replied, “March with the others or I will confine you to solitary.”

I walked out of my room, found a place in one of the rows, and began to march. The new orderly just stood there and watched me. Every once in a while, he would face a wide mirror and nod his head. I walked slowly, seething inside. What kind of game was this? And who dealt the cards? But my fear replaced all reason, when I looked across to the other row, and found the man from the green couch marching dully to the same controlled shuffle, eyes vacant like all the rest. Without thinking I yelled, “Hey!” But there was no response, as he walked right past me like a zombie.

“Hey!” the orderly yelled from up the hall, “No talking down there.”

I kept walking, my head down, feeling a little zombie creeping into my own soul. We marched for nearly two hours before we were sent to bed. The next morning I searched for the man on the couch again, and again he was nowhere to be found.

I had a device-tweak. The doctors said my brain wasn’t responding properly to the coding. That my thoughts still raced ferociously and confused the programming. That they just zapped around my brain any old way and did not contain themselves to the surgically-specified area.

“I feel fine.” I repeated for the millionth time.

The head doctor looked at me enraged. “No! No! You are not fine!” he yelled, “You are malfunctioning!”

It scared me enough to want to hit back. I watched him panting, his nostrils flaring and red. “Guess your little tweak didn’t work huh?” I said. He stomped out of the room and whispered something to the new orderly. The orderly nodded. I just watched, wondering what it was he’d nodded about?

The next morning, I awoke to find a blur of white standing above me. I focused in on the new orderly, waiting impatiently. “Are you awake yet?” he asked.

“Hardly.” I replied, yawning and rubbing my eyes.

He got stern. “The doctors have sent me to tell you that you require a second operation.”

“No.” I said, adamantly.

“It is not a suggestion Mz. Bekula,” he said.

“And if I refuse?” I asked.

“You will be sedated.”

I sat at breakfast in a heavy daze. I couldn’t swallow a bite. Then the room began to spin ferociously, and I felt dizzy and weak. I slipped onto the ground and passed out.

There was a soft light in my eyes, and a voice above me, calling me to. As I focused in, I could see it was not the orderly. I immediately recognized the face of the anesthesiologist. He told me to calm myself and breath slowly. The orderly was watching the whole affair with arms folded. The doctor looked at him. “It’s alright,” he said, “I’ve got it from here. Why don’t you go get yourself a cup of coffee?”

He unfurled his arms. “You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure,” The doctor replied, “You go on now, you deserve a break.” The orderly left, and the doctor listened for his footsteps to get far enough away, before turning to me and saying quickly, “You have to get out of here, tonight.”

“Why did you try to warn me before?” I asked, “What are they doing in this place?”

“Madness,” he replied.

“Of what nature?” I asked.

“Of no Nature at all.” he replied, his eyes sinking before me. “After they found the cure for suffering, they became bored. And with idle hands, pondered the power of thought manipulation. The possibility that every spark of the human mind could be controlled through their fingertips. A series of mathematical equations arrived at for only one purpose; to obtain the desired result, the agreed upon solution.”

I stared at him. “And me?” I asked, “That man from the other night?”

“You are their most challenging subject.” he said, “The gem of their research. If you stay here, they will pick apart your brain, perhaps even remove it as a specimen, to find out why it is not responding properly, just so they can use the data to improve their machinations. There will be nothing left of you, you your real self. Get it now? Understand?”

“I wish I didn’t,” I replied solemnly.

“Well, you will have to,” he said, “Or tomorrow they will put a device in your head so strong, it will rival an entire power grid.”

“How will I escape?” I asked.

“At eight o’clock tonight,” he said, “When the others are switched to “catatonic-state…”

“Switched to?” I interrupted.

“I want you to get in line and march like the rest of them,” he continued. “At some point, I will open the outside door and call for the orderly. When I shut it behind me, I will leave a piece of cardboard at the bottom, between the door and the jamb. Then I will walk the orderly down the hall on the pretext of a pressing matter. You absolutely must slip out then.” He stopped for a moment and listened for the orderly. “Take the stairs,” he continued, “Do not go near the elevator. At the bottom of the stairs, there is a silver door which leads into the alley. I put some clothes and shoes behind the garbage bin on your right. There’s a hundred dollars in the back pocket of the jeans. And; this is the important part; get as far away from here as possible. Change your name and your look. But do a damn good job. If so much as a gas-station camera recognizes you, they will find you. You are now the property of GoodThoughts.”

My standard reply for all situations of this nature was… “Shit?”

I lie in my bed that night, heart racing. I waited impatiently until I heard the deafening silence click into place, and the clock strike eight. I took my place in the dead-parade and began to march; my ears attune to the sound of the opening door. The doctor had not arrived after ten rotations, and I began to worry that maybe he’d backed out. But about halfway down the hall on the eleventh, I heard the door creak open, and the doctor call the orderly over.

I was careful not to look up. The line was closest to the door now. The orderly’s back was turned. I heard the doctor say, like he was talking to me, “Yes. It must be done right now.” I merged quickly from the head of the line and opened the door quietly, slipping out like a ghost.

I went to the spot the doctor had told me about, and getting dressed quickly, left the blue scrubs and headed for the nearest train station. Entering an airport would be like waving a red flag. It was only when the train rolled out and the past began to whoosh by, that my heart slowed down, and I began to relax. I had escaped some kind of experiment. And the only thing I’d learned was it is better to have a few painful thoughts, than to have no thoughts at all.

THE END

Bio: Hala Dika is a poet and writer. Her work has been accepted for the TallTaleTV podcast and SciFiShorts.

E-mail: Hala Dika

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.