Mute

[5] The Receiver

          "Cor?" Dr. Feirhr addresses me through the built in speakers. He taps the microphone several times which causes an irritating popping sound that slices through the fuzzy white noise. "Cor, can you hear me?"

      I don't make an attempt to respond, he won't be able to hear me. 

     "I'll have to interrupt your session for a moment. I have a group of prestigious students from the University of Biomedical Science and Technology that would appreciate experiencing the inner workings of the Incubator. We will be initiating Standard Procedure 318 and then resuming Standard Procedure 1."

     It's the first time in a long time that someone has informed me about what will happen next. I squirm in the Incubator, a sudden claustrophobic feeling draping over me as Feirhr proceeds to lecture his audience about the mechanics of the Incubator.

     "When I press this," he says over the fascinated comments from the students, "the lights with eliminate any lethal pathogens that may cause serious damages to our subjects. It also takes care of our subjects' daily hygiene routine."

     Green jets of light spout from every corner. Collectively, they begin to rake up and down my body. 

     "This light will help rejuvenate dying cells."

      Next is purple, then green and finally white. 

      "And now Cor will demonstrate for us the effects of this machinery."

     My muscles tense at the very words; what will I get this time? A ballad from the sixties, a reggae song or perhaps a mix tape from the birthplace of hip hop? 

      You thought you could escape. 

     It's not the ringing synthetic voice that lies in the Incubator. It's the voice of my father rising high above the resonating consonance of a fully conducted orchestra all mixed with the sound of a feeble connection. His affirmative tenor rattles throughout my brain and for a second, I believe he's outside of the Incubator, speaking to me in person. 

     But I know better. 

     He's utilizing the magnificence behind the Incubator; he's exploiting the pyschological bond between the machine and my conscious. 

     I try to lift my arms to pound against the glass casing, but the tentacles tighten and keep them rigid by my sides. "Feirhr!" I cry, hysterical tears streaming down my face. Whatever is to come will not be good. "Feirhr!"

     You can't escape my rules, Cor. You can't escape my order.

      Father is talking about the speech; deep down in my bones I can feel it. I want to tell him that it wasn't an act of rebellion, that it wasn't an act of treason but something unconsciously done, yet I fail to form a coherent sentence. "FEIRHR!"

      My last hope lies in the man outside that has the power to end it all. 

     We have a plan Cor, a plan that you and I created. Every step, every motion, and every action we have predicted. 

     The truth courses through my body like a flame. Along with his escalating tone, the fuzzy, dismembered music in the background shrieks and violently transitions into a heavy metal song.

     We have dreams, don't you remember? Dreams to eradicate disobedience against authority within teenagers to mold the perfect citizens? Citizens with grace, honor, respect and discipline; you have not forgotten, have you?