Bound to Pass

Unbound.

The only word engraved on my wife’s heart-shaped locket. Or rather, I should say, the locket made from the earthly remains of my wife. While I’m being honest, it really wasn’t a locket at all—it was just a solid hunk of metal that didn’t open or have any secret storage component. And it was upside down.

The death artist I contacted after my wife’s tragic, fatal accident had transcribed my order verbatim. Or so I thought.

My wife’s ashes, mixed with a hypoallergenic metal alloy to be formed into a small, heart-shaped locket, with the word “Unbound” (my wife’s last word) engraved on it.

What I received in return was a 1kg, highly polished, upside down, three dimensional heart the size of a grapefruit with Unbound engraved in 24 pt font in a lettering style normally seen on wedding invitations. At least Unbound wasn’t spelled incorrectly.

Oh, and the tip of the heart was pierced front to back and an anemic metal chain snaked through this hole, passive aggressively warning the bearer not to even attempt wearing this monstrosity around the neck. I did it anyway.

The result was a twisting, rotund form that resembled a woman’s tattooed bottom that undulated and swung side to side as I walked. Needless to say, this was not the effect I had hoped for in remembering my dead wife.

Well, dead, in the physical world sense. She had been digitally transferred shortly before the expiration of her physical body. Her consciousness was digitized and uploaded into a database program that contained other digitized souls, dogs and cats not excluded. In essence, a computerized heaven of sorts.

Touted as the single most important technological advance of the late 21st century, digital transfer of organic existence broke all barriers of life and death. It was the bridge that extended life beyond natural constraints, yet transformed the participant completely. The dead could go on living, albeit in a separate world. The dead could interact with other dead folks, contingent upon all parties being digitized.

I still remember my last conversation with my wife as she lay dying in that hospital bed. Her last words to me were:

“…the little chickens (did she mean ducklings?)…duck pond… (something, something)…living…unbound.”

Or maybe her last word was bedbound. She was slurring quite heavily at this point, probably from the heavy narcotics she was on, so it was hard to tell. But I’m pretty sure it was unbound. I think.

Unbound, coincidentally, is the name of the digital transfer program. Feeling windfall, I took this as consent to upload her existence into digital immortality.

“So, do you have any questions?” the young doctor asked me.

My mind had been wandering again. Even during what could possibly be my last physical human interaction.

“Uh, no, doctor.”

I realized that the whole time the doctor was describing to me the process of my own digital transfer, I had been looking at him and nodding my head from time to time without really paying much attention to what he was saying. I couldn’t concentrate, not even in this protected setting.

The truth is I miss my wife dearly. Life without her has been unbearable. As great as the Unbound technology is, it still doesn’t provide a clear line a communication between the living and the dead. It is an all or nothing type thing. You have to be physically dead in order to communicate with others in the same situation.

But thankfully, I live in America, where freedom of choice trumps logic, reason, and ethics. I can simply choose to die in the physical sense and be digitally uploaded into the Unbound database, where I can see my wife again.

The young doctor let loose an undisguised sigh of relief as he glanced at the time and quickly checked off all remaining boxes on his list. His smile was barely suppressed. I can imagine that most people about to leave the physical world for the digital one would spend the remainder of their 30-minute visit asking all sorts of questions that would try a doctor’s patience. But not me. All I wanted was to see my wife again.

At 38 years of age, I was of average American health. That is to say, I was prediabetic and overweight. But 95% of the American population is currently in these “medical categories.” I can’t touch my toes, I get tired after walking 3 sets of stairs, and am in need of a mental health day every Friday. But these sorts of things are the new standard. So much so that the American Board of Internal Medicine reclassified prediabetes and being overweight as medical categories rather than medical diseases or disorders, the potentially offensive language of the early 21st century.

I guess it was more acceptable to drop the bar than to admit that everyone in America had a “medical disease/disorder.” In many ways, the much feared post-apocalyptic dystopian society that everyone dreaded was less of a cataclysmic event like those seen in old sci-fi movies than it was an insidious and a self-beguiling process. We didn’t have to fear the apocalypse because it was already here.

As I sat there fondling my wife’s highly polished metal derriere with my left hand, in my left pants pocket (I began to keep the “locket” in my left pocket because of the weight…well, really due to the embarrassment, but I tell people it’s because of how heavy it is around my neck), I wondered if I would spend the remaining 21 minutes uncomfortably staring at the pop-star-faced, young doctor’s impeccably white coat. As luck would have it, he abruptly left the room and I was left to stare comfortably at the not-as-white walls of the small examination room.

A few minutes passed and an equally young-looking nurse appeared and led me to a second room, larger, but also not-as-white. It contained a sterile appearing horizontal exam table next to what I presumed was the machinery and tech stuff needed to siphon my consciousness into the world of 1s and 0s. This is where I gave my final digital signature, recorded verbal consent and performed a brainwave scan indicating positive consent without coercion and acknowledgement of my full mental faculties. I was told to undress and place my clothing and personal effects in the 30 cm x 30 cm x 10 cm container provided. (Measurements in America are now standardized in the metric system, finally abolishing the archaic and nonsensical Imperial system—an action which I deem to be the single most progressive thing Americans have done in the past 100 years.)

Standing there naked, holding my shiny, dead-wife not-a-locket, I felt a mixture of freedom, relief, anxiety, and uncertainty all at once. Not really wanting to part with my wife’s earthly remains, especially at the verge of our being reunited in the digital realm, I put the metal he(art) around my neck and let it rest heavy on my chest. I lay supine on the medical table.

It was at this time that the weight of my decision to give up my physical body for an existence entirely within the digital realm began to manifest itself. I suddenly had a lot of questions. And concerns.

Absurd and crazy ideas jumped into my head. Am I going to suddenly appear in the digital world naked, kind of like Arnold Schwarzenegger in those old Terminator movies (but instead of a buff Hollywood bod, it would be me and my middle-age, prediabetic, overweight gut hanging loose)?

Damn it, I should have worked out and gotten toned for this. This issue didn’t even cross my mind before.

Or will I be able to change my appearance once in digital form? The program description did say digital reality is moldable based on our needs and desires. Whatever that really means. Does this mean we can reprogram things and improve them? But will she recognize me if I try to change myself too much? And how does the passage of time work in a digital world? Perhaps this is a big hoax created by big tech and multi-billion dollar corporations to solve the problems of overpopulation and dwindling resources. Or maybe our digital versions are going to be slave labor for activities like mining cryptocurrency.

But the biggest question of all lingered. Does she still love me? Enough to last an eternity?

When people say they will love each other for eternity, it’s completely untrue. A total falsehood. When people die in the physical world, that’s it. Kaput. The end. It’s over. The relationship ends. But in this new, digital realm, the relationship would go on forever. I mulled this over for a bit. For some strange reason, I hadn’t thought about this perspective until now. I decided I really didn’t want to think about this—it didn’t really matter because I had just signed away my physical existence anyway. So instead I thought about how I met my wife.

It had started with a kiss. An accidental one, but nonetheless, a kiss. That’s how our relationship began, honestly. We were both in a small, cramped antique store on a nondescript side street near Union Square in NYC, browsing for old physical media from the 20th century. She had just eaten a salmon cream cheese bagel and when she had turned, she stumbled into me and our lips met.

Unfortunately, I have an allergy to salmon and all seafood. I immediately went into anaphylaxis and was taken to the hospital to be resuscitated. After a few rounds of epinephrine, steroids, antihistamines and some good old IV fluids, I awoke seeing her. In the middle of her profuse apologies, I noticed she was holding an antiquated DVD copy of GATTACA, ironically the item I had been searching for. We promptly bonded over vintage sci-fi movies of the 20th century, foods that didn’t give me allergic reactions, our general reluctance to vote for anything, and our dislike for augmentation like implanted tech. It was a good match.

We were a mix of contradictions. Our perfect imperfections as she would call them. We would proclaim ourselves as progressive, yet be wary of new advances in any field. Our comments and actions had the habit of biting ourselves later as we whimsically reversed our viewpoints. It was a constant source of drama. The crazy kind, not the fun, entertaining soap-opera version.

I started to have second thoughts. I’m not sure if it was because I was laying naked in an empty medical room with a heavy, solid piece of death art crushing my chest, but I started to panic.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. No, this will be good. I’m going to see my wife again.

The time after my wife’s death had been incredibly trying. I remembered how hard it had been. I had seen two different psychiatrists, moved to a new apartment, spent time with my friends, and even started dating again. But none of it had helped. I am still thinking about my wife.

It’s been a miserable 8 days since her death.

“I’m ready for this. I’m ready to see my wife again.” I said aloud, even though my only audience was an empty, not-so-white room.

“I’m ready for Unbound.”

I think.