Mistreatment

The treatment was helping to smooth things out. Definitely. Since managing to snag the job at the Centre, JP had been taking the fine, powdery compound daily in order to prevent the ‘mishaps’ (his mother’s words) that had him in and out of Corrections on a regular basis. Everything was OK now, he said to himself, like a mantra, as he felt the tightening and warmth in his chest, the hard, nodular jaw muscles, and the sensation of choking in his throat. Anxiety, as he had eventually learned to name the ponderous, suffocating, yet confusingly fleeting creature. ‘It’s not the anxiety itself, it’s the way you think about it’—JP’s therapist, Mx Stakowicz, was nothing if not diligent about getting their points through, even if they sounded a bit like Therapy for Dummies. That was the problem with being smarter than most people, smarter than yourself, really. How did you trick the mind into believing it was OK? It was relatively easy to do with most people, since they were generally absorbed in their own reverie, and mostly just pretended to listen (yes, even paid therapists; maybe particularly the latter, actually, so jaded had they become, and so used to thinking in categories rather than relating to individuals). And most other people were just stupid, or generally unworthy of being interacted with. It made one question the guiding principles, and principals, of the Great Rebirth Plan promoted on every social media, wearable and legacy support (even the oh-so-precious and rare paper!) that could be mustered by the Board.

JP’s own slipping into unfocused thoughts was interrupted by three brief, hard knocks on the door of his consulting suite on the fourth floor of the Facility. He pulled his chair up to the desk, reminding himself to adopt the straight, ‘dignified’ posture, as described by the calm, poised voice that emanated from his mindfulness meditation programme. And, of course, the breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth…being the observer... But who was observing what? Were there many JPs ‘in there’?

This emergence of confused, babbling thoughts, surely, was just a sign that JP was tired. It could also be one of the allegedly rare side effects of the medication, an experimental compound that he had been offered before any great amount of testing had been done on it. In a way, he was one of the test subjects. However, he knew, albeit through a mind fog, that it was very important for him to take this medication. Crucial, even, to his mission at the Centre, and with regards to society as a whole. That important, really.

Ever since the Federation, Ltd, as a result of the Great Outbreaks of the late 21st century, had instituted mandatory genetic screening of all pregnant women and the foetuses they carried, it was the Centre’s patriotic and commercial duty, as well as a great honour, of course, to study the non-conforming outputs that had somehow ‘passed through the net’. This included clandestine pregnancies and births (there were still networks of people assisting women despite the authorities’ attempts to stamp these out), as well as those births that had eventuated despite the ever-increasing precision of the algorithms, scanners and other tools used to prevent inadequate outputs from occurring.

It was all in the service of not only preventing the immense ravages of the Great Outbreaks, when laboratory-engineered pathogens had escaped en masse, or been released, no one was quite sure, but also, looking further ahead, of seizing upon this as an opportunity. Indeed, well before the Great Outbreaks, it had become clear that a lot needed improving in humanity, not simply socially and politically, but also from a biological standpoint. Or, really, just from a biological standpoint: wasn’t everything else, society, the arts, politics, technology and a myriad more, just an emanation of that initial biological impulse? Everything genetically-derived, and therefore, the gene was the key. Information was the key. This is what Dr Lockhart, otherwise known as the Director, always liked to conclude with, appearing as she did on the news with her distinctive heart-shaped locket catching the lights of the studio. Some said this rather Victorian affectation, which conspired to give her a somewhat comforting, old-fashioned and almost motherly appearance (well-suited to the times and the needs of the Great Rebirth Plan), was an obvious, and of course, entirely appropriate and charming, pun on her surname; others, as evinced in shadowy murmurs and asides, were of the opinion that said locket harboured a more sinister significance. For some, it contained the genetic blueprints of another devastating virus, should the Federation be attacked by one of the more aggressive territories that surrounded it; for others, a suicide pill of some type, should biological warfare fail; there were also those who were convinced that the locket was a memento from the Director’s time in Enhanced Interrogation after the Third Outbreak. In this interpretation, however, who this locket may have been taken from, and for what purpose, remained obscure, which only added to the potential for speculation and rumour about the good doctor’s character, history and inclinations.

Whatever the truth of the matter, JP had work to do. His bespectacled, haughty assistant, Mr (always Mister, no first names, nicknames or other salutations allowed) Ben Allatch, was standing at the door with a child. This young boy of around 11 kept his head down, eyes low, and was clearly reticent to enter. His whole body, tense and taught, bespoke a defensiveness and a refusal to engage with the world. It was as if this young boy, his chin pointed to his chest, were trying to retreat entirely. No wonder Enhancement Services had seen fit to send him to JP’s assessment room. Such an individual could bring immense disruption to the sense of friendly, efficient and collaborative orderliness that Dr Lockhart and the other members of the Board embodied. In fact, JP already had a fair idea of what this specific individual’s dysfunction was. It was one of the textbook cases of the handful of non-detectable ‘imperfections’ that were unwanted in the Rebirth Plan. It had a strong genetic component, certainly, but the specific genetics and epigenetics of the condition, its protean reality, made it a slippery beast to pin down in the labs, during gestation, and even in the first few years of life. There were even (totally unverifiable) stories according to which the condition was indetectable in some individuals, and, even more preposterous, that certain famous inventors and creators in the distant past (maybe even some of the illustrious members of the Board!) carried the defective genes and some of their expressions. Ben Allatch cleared his throat and intoned:

-“Sir, this is subject B/#345M. As you will see, rather in line with your…expectations”. A knowing smirk.

-“Right, Mr Allatch, that will be all, thanks”, replied JP, stiffly. God the guy was a drag, always an undercurrent of innuendo and judgement. Creepy too, although JP couldn’t quite pin down why.

Ben Allatch raised his eyes to the sky, passed his hands over his gelled, spiky, hair, and, with a sigh, was gone. In his place stood the boy.

-“Come on in then, no dallying”, intoned JP. This was going to be fine. He could do the job now, the medication would help. Also, not to be forgotten, he was now the boss, not a subaltern. He would no longer be taking any crap from anyone, especially not these pitiful subjects.

The youngster entered the room, eyes to the floor; he was now hugging himself and humming, between a bark and a bird sound, something not quite human. That is how it always seemed to JP with these types. He also vaguely remembered a time, long before, when seemingly everyone was going on about how these were vulnerable, but smart and sensitive people, like any others, and deserving of understanding and support. Them, but not him, JP, always made to feel like ‘less than’, like there was ‘something wrong’ and even rather ‘unwholesome’ about him---hence the medication, eventually, after some unrecalled misconduct had got JP more than the usual reprimands and slaps on the wrist. But, now, with his important work, JP would prove to them all that he was worthy. More than worthy, unique and special. Of course, to make his point, control and stability were key. None of the getting waylaid of the past—again, the medication, the meditation.

-“What’s your name? Sit, will you!”, JP spat out brusquely. He could already feel that red cloud, the tight jaw, his aching, taut, spasming trapezoids— they called them ‘trigger points’, and now JP was certainly triggered.

-“No woe woe…no woe woe woe…”. The child was rocking, hugging his knees, his stare vacant. He was mumbling, the sounds nonsensical.

-“What?! Cease those nonsensical mutterings this very minute! My time is precious, you cretinous imp!” roared JP. The pressure was too much, medication or not. He grabbed the child by the lapels and prepared to experience the rush of adrenaline that always came. Allatch had been right, as usual.

However, unlike what usually happened in these appointments, the child raised his eyes and stared at JP, unblinkingly. Then, in a thunderous, booming voice disproportionate to his size, he intoned:

-‘Wake up! I said wake up now dumbass’.

The child’s slender form resolved into an all-together different scene: a prison guard was barking at JP, who felt the tremors of deeply conditioned fear and humiliation.

-‘Lockhart, you sleepy moron, there’s someone in the visiting room for you. Now get the fuck up before I cancel for you and beat the shit outta ya. NOW!’.

JP rose from the bottom bunk, slowly recognising the dank, grimy cell, its narrow, barred window, and fluorescent lighting. A one-piece stainless steel toilet and sink graced one of the corners. Well, stainless was a figure of speech, as many unspeakable trails of matter adorned the commode.

-‘Psst! Hey psst lil boy!’. A mellifluous, slithery voice issued from the upper bunk. JP turned around, the iron tendrils of dread gripping his heart, while cold sweat dripped down his back, his forehead, his pits and crack…JP considered the spiky, gelled hair, the haughty figure. Ben. Ben Alec. Or, rather, Mr Ben. Always Mr Ben, especially when the guards were away, and the corridors dark. Turn around, close your eyes, retreat to that ever-shrinking light inside…that was the drill. ‘I’ll be seeing ya later, JP’. A wink and a smirk.

JP followed the guard, gloomy corridors and steel gates, buzzing sounds and the ‘tap, tap, tap’ of the guard’s truncheon against his leg.

-“Ya got 10 minutes shithead, enjoy”.

JP headed towards the table where the woman was sitting. The ghost of a smile graced her thin, unpainted lips, and her eyes seemed to bore into him. Not menacingly, but uncomprehendingly. A heart-shaped locket hung at her neck.

-“Hi, mum”, mumbled JP, “What brings you here? You haven’t visited in months”.

-“John, it’s been a while, I know. I wanted to see how the treatment was going…any improvement in your anger? Any flashes of violence?”.

JP thought back to the other prisoners, the endless struggles in the canteen, the things that went on in the showers…no, he wouldn’t think of that right now. The violence would stay, and hopefully die, with him in this prison.

-“Yes mum, it seems to be helping. That and the meditations, as well as the prison therapist. I think it’s all pointing the right way. They even said I might be eligible soon for a special early release programme for taking the experimental meds…”.

-“That’s wonderful, we wouldn’t want a repeat of what happened with your brother now, would we?”.

A sudden feeling of floating, of lightness and detachment overcame JP. The memories of a young child, with bright, downcast eyes, a long fringe almost covering them…A child who’d hug himself, roll himself up in a ball when JP wanted to interact, to play. A child who was non-verbal. And how JP, one day, just snapped, tired of the attention his mother granted the other boy. A boy who was now in a wheelchair and needed assistance for everyday tasks. His brother. His broken, poor little brother. Tears were slowly streaming down JP’s cheeks, soundlessly.

-“No, mum, I’ll do good, I promise. I’ll get out of here. I’ll be a new person, I’ll be different, I swear.”

She smiled, leaning forwards, and the locket swung lightly.