Estudyante Blues

"...when it realizes that you've let go of whatever it is that makes your heart heavy, that makes it beat out of rhythm, when it once again beats with the purpose to live."

I lean against my chair and cross my arms. "Seriously?"

The PsychScanner 3010's round, flat surface glows like a full moon a hand's length from my face. We're alone in my messy room, which is dark save for the desk lamp on my table. The only other thing in my room that's brighter than my future is this silly psycho-diagnostic device that the university's Guidance Counseling Office assigned to me. Its dull glow turned everything in my room into a grayscale replica of my hectic college life.

"Yes," it chirps. It sounds like Siri but it's too mechanical to lend poetry to the answer it recited. "I will disengage after your serotonin levels elevate organically."

"After I become happy again, you mean?"

It hovers in the air, thrumming like a car engine. "'The PsychScanner will assess your emotional stability. It will separate from you when it realizes that you've let go of whatever it is that makes your heart heavy—'"

I wave a hand to dismiss it. It obeys me with a beep, and the blue light on its white, plate-like surface turns red to indicate that it's done answering and is ready to record my next question.
The PsychScanner controller grows warm around my wrist. Just this morning, one counselor locked the metal bracelet on my hand. "You've changed your usual activities lately and your grades are dropping fast," she said. "Both are advanced indicators of depression."

"But I'm not depressed, ma'am."

Her smile was rehearsed, bland like lukewarm cafeteria coffee. "It's just a precaution. College suicide rate is rising. The scanner will tether wirelessly to this bracelet and follow you to keep track of your emotional state. Consider it a close friend. Try talking to it. It will be therapeutic, you'll see."

I glare at the PsychScanner's two blinking eyes: one red, one blue. They think I'm a suicide risk? They think this thing will prevent suicide? Tss.

"So you'll follow me literally everywhere?"

It hovers closer to my face, red eye blinking. "Detecting: irritation. You are: irritated. Yes, that is the condition of your therapy for depression."

The word 'depression' set my teeth on edge. "I'm not depressed. Can't a person be entitled to sadness?"

"Detecting: denial. You are--"

"I said I'm not depressed!"

"Detecting: anger. You are: angry. The DSM-XI classifies this as: atypical depression. Your symptoms are--"

"Okay, yes, my grades are failing! And I'm avoiding everyone!" I stop and shake my head; I'm talking to a fucking plate! Its red eye blinks to the rhythm of its electric hum. Crazy as it is, there was no one else to talk to who wouldn't judge, pity, or get sick of me and my difficult life. I myself am sick of my life's melodrama.

But the PsychScanner listens. It has no face. It's not plastik.

"I might not graduate this year. My allowance is always late. I've already borrowed money from ALL of my friends. Mom seemed sick last time we Skype'd and it looks serious but she's hiding it. So I applied for a part-time job. That shit turns out to be a scam. This is my last fucking semester! I'm fucking running for cum laude until all this shit happened! So I'm sad! BUT I'M NOT FUCKING DEPRESSED!"

My throat hurts and my face flushes hot with anger.

Beep. "Detecting: crying."

I wipe my tears with my sleeves. "I'm not crying."

Beep. "You are: sad."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Beep. "It's okay to ask for help and to let yourself be helped when life overwhelms you."

"If you can solve all my problems, then please, PLEASE, help me."

Beep. "Detecting: sarcasm. You are--"

My blood boiled. "That - wasn't - sarcasm!"

In my outburst, I accidentally hit the PsychScanner. I reach out to catch it but it's beyond my grasp and I'm too late – it smashes on my desk lamp with a deafening crash.

It sizzles.

Blinks.

Dies.

My room is swallowed in darkness.

Suddenly, my mobile rings. I answer with trembling fingers.

"Miss Luna Ramos, student ID 3015-10098."

It was another Siri-voice on the line.

"Miss Ramos, we've detected serious damage to a university device issued under your name. The PsychScanner costs Ph$86,000. Please pay the damages immediately at the Registrar's Office."

The weight of it all fell like rocks over my head, crushing me. I terminate the call. Tears overwhelm me again. 'Tang-amang 'yan! I told them over and over that I'm not depressed! I wasn't depressed when all these started! But now...now I think I'm better off dead. No more. They just fucking killed me.