MTD

MTD

What has life become?

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. These days, screaming is such a normal thing, the thought of the silence of space sounds deafening... I looked at the time on my phone-time for my methoturbid, or MTD.

Because it had become a requirement of survival, people eventually accepted taking time out of every day to have something pumped into their body, as if this was a required activity of daily life, like breathing, or, perhaps, throwing up when you ingest apparent poison... But people no longer questioned whether or not MTD was a poison... When everyone not succumbing to this task of a drug labeled as the only solution quickly dies, questioning the validity of it being good for us seems to escape our thought...

I rubbed my swollen temple, aware that the swelling was actually from me working the muscles, in a neurotic sort of belief it relieved the pain. My side effects were considered a bit more severe than the norm, but considering the severity of different kinds, a severe, blinding headache, isn't so bad compared to, say, a mild case of patches of skin dying and falling off, or mild spats of bloody ejected vomiting. I’ll take the headaches any day.

I walked up to the row of booths, similar to the forgotten phone booth, something I once saw in an old cartoon, and didn't understand until I had done some research as to what the structure was. I couldn't believe anyone, even an idiotic, ancient, cartoon character could appear joyous, anything that wasn't negative, stepping into a booth. What a thought it was, to learn similar styled booths were used for something like communication. Booths, now, are only used for administering MTD, and there is absolutely nothing positive about it. Even when they started handing out the nausea bags for free, I just couldn't see the positive... I stepped in, turned on the optional massage that was really just vibrating, pulled up my sleeve, unscrewed my port, and plugged in.

I pulled myself up from the cold sweat and half-digested lunch I had earlier, and unplugged my no longer receiving port. One downside to coming at night was you didn't have the aids to help you when treatment was occasionally harder to handle and makes you temporarily lose consciousness. I believe I less often became nauseous when I'm not seeing a bunch of other people throwing up, but that's just me.

I wiped myself off as best I could, and started my walk home. I preferred the night air to a car ride. Most car rides for me had become an instigator of a more delicate stomach anyways. Once upon a time, my favorite thing to do was drive... Thinking about this, I realized I had wandered down another road I didn't know. As often as this happened, you would think I had learned them all by now. This street had all the characteristics I tend to be attracted to-wealthy owners who tend to like privacy, and so give you yours, with houses tucked out of sight, often behind big gates. They seemed confident in their walls, and so paid no mind to the sick and wandering outside. These are the places I feel I am given the most peace. The street was dark, with only the dim occasional lights privately paid for, along some of the walls or at the entrance gates. The city’s screaming even seemed somehow quieter. And then I realized it was too quiet. This street was too clean. I couldn’t see one other sick, lost soul wandering through the night. I began to panic. How far had I wandered down this road? When was the last time I saw any other life? And then I saw a light growing, heading right towards me. I opened my mouth to scream, and blacked out again instead.