I hear the radio play Fray’s anniversary message, as I lay in bed—slowly being brought back to consciousness.
I, Omar Fray, congratulate you on the 30th anniversary of the implant action. This change has marked a new stage in the history of our nation. This stage brought more meaning to us, which was not clear to all of you back then. It inspired innovation, productivity, growth. It has brought change to the government, change that had not been seen in our history. What was the purpose of the implant? Control. Control over our animalistic nature. Control over disorder. The implant allows us to control our emotions. The controller saved us from disruption. Twenty-three hours a day, OFF. The hour of feeling is a gift to you, a gift to take in small increments. The implant has made our nation richer, increasing production of resources. The results are undoubtedly clear. Forward to a better future, a better world.
Finally opening my eyes, a stinging sensation. The sun has risen and sneaks through the window covering the entirety of my bedroom. I sit by the edge of the bed, rubbing my hands on my face. The satisfying pull of the muscles on my face tensing up and then releasing. My body still weak, trying to come back to its senses. Exhaustion not allowing my legs to push my body up. As I feel the warmth of the light and notice the birds chirping, there’s a sense of weightlessness. An unrestrained smile lingers on my face as I look out the window. I enjoy it for as long as I can before I force myself to make my way to the bathroom.
I come face to face with the man in the mirror. Nothing abnormal from what I see every morning. Bed head, dark, semi-long, a funny image. Caterpillars laying on top of my eyes, and dark circles under them, I could swear I had gotten a good night sleep. There is a frustration as I stare. My muscles tense, heart beat a bit agitated. Insecurity is never left out of my routine. There’s no doubt that I appreciate myself, but there are several things I could do without. For starters my nose, the amount of hair on my face, or the fact that my lips make my whole face look like a – okay, it is time.
I calmly make my way to the nightstand located on the right side of my bed. On top, lays a controller. Only two buttons, ON and OFF. A timer at the top at 00:52:00. Without hesitation, I press the OFF button.
The emptiness sets in.
The switch feels like a slight shock, nothing too severe, a tickle. Frozen still, I feel a removal of warmth. The absence of comfort. A numbness travelling from the top of my head all the way to the soles of my feet. My gaze relaxes and a grey mist covers my sight. I approach the mirror one more time and I see the same man. My nose and mouth seem complimentary to the rest of my features. My hair just needs fixing and my eyebrows do not appear as bushy. My face is just right, like my entire being.
Without it being mentioned there would be no reason to even acknowledge it. It is part of our routine, and my hour of feeling is divided between the morning, lunch, and night. In moments of judgement, or when insecurity arises, I make the exception to cut it short as to avoid confronting it.
The use of any stimulation that would be pleasing to any of our senses has been removed. These stimulations were seen to lack purpose, and it was done to help transition seamlessly into the time of feeling. All buildings are lined up one after another, no distinguishing between them except for the numbers at the front. The metropolitan area is structured so that every unpainted, plain establishment is reachable in a quarter of an hour. This was done to ensure that commuting would not cause any absences or delays at work or school. The environment intentionally dulled down, the colors surrounding the space had been replaced by shades of grey. My father spoke of the tones once seen in streetlights—before the three shades of gray took turns flashing as traffic flows.
Every 6 months there’s an implant checkup. Each time it comes around, the whole city is reminded of the reality that was set in place by Omar Fray. The history behind this change can be found in his book No Feeling, Better Living, which is placed inside every building, accessible to everyone at any time. A best-seller amongst the people. Do not resort to your animalistic nature, we are better than that, one of Fray’s most used anthems.
The checkup makes sure the implant is working accordingly. There was an incident recorded years back of an individual who was not able to get his implant ON. When looked over, the man had been diagnosed with a type of cerebral impairment and was not able to function as he once did. These became protocol as to avoid any severe side effects a malfunction could cause.
There is no anticipation before going into the room for the checkup.
During the inspection, the technician directs me towards a chair, which is illuminated by a single light, in the middle of a room with dark walls. She reminds me that the implant must remain ON as to test for any abnormalities. She says it is a gifted 15 minutes of feeling.
Awaiting the procedure, my body allows the fright to creep in through my veins. My muscles tensing, hands relentlessly trying to hold themselves together to our sides while I am prompted on a chair. Sweat forming on my palms, heart knocking against my ribcage. The air is forcedly trying to make its way to my lungs and back out. My failure to remain still results in straps holding every inch of my bodies immobile. Then the sound of the saw echoes behind me. It meets my skull, the quick but endless intense brushing against it and then, it cracks. Allowing the technicians a view of my brain. Fine dust sprinkled in the air.
The rush of my body as the implant is scrutinized, having the switch between ON and OFF happen within seconds, and continues like that for the remaining 5 minutes. The cool hollow sensation, followed by the overwhelming horror of realizing the procedure taking place. A back-and-forth abyss. Back-and-forth. Back-and-forth. Until nothing.
I wake up in the same chair, still tied down, with three masked individuals looking down at me. This is the crucial part of the checkup: the slap. Each of them takes a hit, gloveless, warm, open hand. Each harder than the next. Testing for emotion. Testing for a reaction. My dead eyes fixated on the three of them, breath steady, cheeks burning. Absence of anger and irritation, my body serene. With that, they remove the restraints and guide me to the front of the building.
It is lunch. The closest place to eat, a coffee shop, is around the corner from the clinic. The inside décor rests unadorned. A few chairs and tables, no ambient music. The menu hangs on top of the counter. Brewed Coffee, Bread with Butter, Lettuce with Vegetables, Meat and Cheese. The specials of the day.
I take out the controller from my back pocket, timer still at 00:52:00. Feeling time remaining. I press the ON button. No shock. I press the ON button again. No shock. I look down at the controller, the timer now at 00:00:00. Probably another malfunction.
“I will get a Brewed Coffee,” I say, placing the controller back in my pocket.