“Once you’ve satisfied everything, it’s funny how you become unsatisfied.”
It’s about time you fed him again.
The morning sun shines in the corner of your eye as you stare blankly at the cracked drywall in front of you, almost forgetting the steaming pot underneath your hand before it caught on fire– the time of day escaped you again. The red static in your eyes begins to clear up the second the overwhelming scent of the burning slop underneath you punches you back to reality. You set the overcooked mix of meat, beans, and sauce onto the counter and walk up to the cabinet to pull out the cup they told you to use for him. You fill it up until it drips from the sides. You stand in silence and stare down the full contents, almost fading back out of reality again before sighing and shambling to your room.
Almost immediately, the musty air of the room makes you cough and hack before the petrol-like stench hits you for a second combo. The lightbulb blinks in instability as you take a step forward toward the apparatus; you’ve become numb to the sight of it after seeing it so many times. He lays in the center of it, mouth agape with cables stuck in his now-bald head, still sparking with electricity. His eyes remain wide, motionless as his pupils stare straight with a nervous furrow in his brow as if in a continuous state of panic. You pick up the tube leading into his mouth and stomach before you proceed to press the open funnel into the top of the cup, a latch opening up inside that sends it through as you tip it. You stare into his eyes; you used to tear up looking into them when there was more life in them. You miss the feeling of those tears.
***
It was hard to see what he used to be anymore. He was a young musician on his way to performing for an entire city. When you were younger, everyone at home would have to hear the racket that he made on the guitar your mother gave him on his 7th birthday. He was horrible, and you would tell him that he was, but the earaches were becoming less frequent over the years. Your father began to put him in front of a piano, and then a viola, and then a Clarinet. He would be playing every day, from when you left in the morning for elementary to the hour you came back home.
Everyone always knew that he was gifted, unlike you.
And yet, even if he was considered a “genius”, he was still the type of boy who would sign any deal someone gave him without even reading the fine print. The type who was responsible for everything and nothing. You couldn’t let him screw himself over, so you were his unofficial manager. In other words, You were the person who read all the deals for him. And for what in return? A smile, a thank you, and a promise that he would use the money for both of you for the things you both want. Yet you never saw a single cent yourself.
“Once I get this big gig done, you’re not gonna need to work a day in your life again, sis,” he once remarked. You both were driving down to the local Rodney’s, the last restaurant that hadn’t been snapped up by the Scope Group megacorporation.
“Yeah. You said this last week.” Your face remained blank when you said that, as per usual. It was hard for you to express emotion. Everything feels so predictable, and Clare is like a broken record.
“I’m serious, though! Ya don’t see those big musicians anymore. They were all over the place back in the day. Ya don’t have any stars like ya used to back in the 2010s.”
“Yes, I know that, Clare.” You say tiredly.
“Trust me. I’ve gotten this far. When it’s all said n’ done and hit it big with this next performance, we can finally leave here, and live it large! We won’t have to pay another dime to those corp bastards.”
You admitted silently that you feel guilty having him hang onto you like this, to rely on someone like you. Since High School, you had stuffed a different piece of metal in your head to fix all your problems. The first time, it was to pass a few classes. The way they advertised it, it was just meant to give your brain more of a boost; it was meant to help you concentrate without anyone even knowing the difference. Microlabs made it cheap for anyone to shoot themselves up with a bit of an enhancement, so you didn’t see a problem with it in the moment.
And now here you are, in such debt that an agent from the corporation came by your house last week to tell you to pay up soon. And what is there to show for it? Fancy eyeware? Chips in your head that make your brain bounce a mile a minute?! Some good that did. They don’t tell you on the contract that your brain would slow down randomly only to suddenly pick up speed again. They don’t tell you that you’ll be staying up for three days straight on some days, and sleep for equally as long on others.
But that’s what the pills after the procedures are for, right?
You clutched the wheel harder as these thoughts juggled around in your head, fresh as always. “Can’t wait for that one, Clare,” you say through slightly gritted teeth.
You could feel his gaze on you. When you glance at his face, his smile had fallen, and when you looked him in the eye, he just turned away and stares at the slick road in front of you. The two of you were silent for the rest of the trip.
When you parked in front of Rodney’s, a small restaurant in a sea of glass skyscrapers, chrome apartment complexes, and trainways above you, he spoke up.
“I’ll pay for the food, ‘kay?”
“You don’t need to.”
“But I want to.”
“But I don’t want you to.”
“Why not?”
There was silence for a brief moment. Your frustration bubbles up.
“Because I want to be the one to pay for it.”
***
The day before it was time was the hardest. You take a drive through the city to calm yourself down. Charlotte was ugly for a beautiful city; The tall glass skyscrapers that gleamed in the evening sun were as stunning as they were overbearing, and the bright screens, scattered across all the buildings of the countless manufacturing plants and shallow corporate offices and grandiose apartment complexes that had more and more grime on them the closer you drove towards them. The air stinks of yesterday’s parts that couldn’t make the cut, the endless smog that pumped out of the plants, and an amalgamation of voices telling you how much you want the new surgical procedure that would make you look like your favorite artist, the next hologram computer that could fit in the palm of your hand, or the next smart chip that would simulate any and all pleasures if you could afford to have you and your children fall into debt. And before you know it, they’ll come to your door with a group of suited men to simply urge you to pay off your loans just a tad earlier. Or you’ll be caught in the streets when a nethead decides to find some excitement in his life and simply can’t take it anymore.
Everyone looked for the next thrill. Because of all those chips in your brain and so many others in Charlotte, experiences of pain and pleasure were close by. They simulated everything, tricking your brain into thinking you were sitting on a warm beach with a light breeze or on a date with the most beautiful man or woman you had ever seen in your lifetime. They made you think that you were seen. But the second the illusion had worn off, like withdrawal, you craved for more. Something more real. Something that didn’t twitch from a glitch every so often and wouldn’t simply agree with what you said or what your body wanted. Life had become boring for so many… because everyone was scrambling to find a solution to satisfy everything. And yet, once you’ve satisfied everything, it’s funny how you suddenly become unsatisfied.
***
You stop by the gas station to pick up some food. People from the past may have envisioned some kind of minimalist, sleek look for stores in the future, but no. They’ve stayed the same for the past several decades. Maybe even a little bit grungier, even. The only real change, as you know, has come from the corporations that have made the chips and other big tech companies. Their headquarters span acres upon acres, compared to the small-time businesses that have been given even less space than before. And they always come and go.
Once you get inside, you notice that the cashier isn’t the one that you saw a few days ago. Typical. You never see the same bot twice. You walk to the other side and grab two slices of pizza, one for you and Clarence back home. When you get to the front, you and the cashier don’t even say a word to each other. Their dead eyes move back and forth for a brief moment. They look Human, but they aren’t. They keep a glassy smile on their face as their eyes stare at you briefly until you lean forward and look into the scanner; if looks could kill, you’d be dead ten times over through their uncanny gaze. Your eyes buzz for a brief moment before a jingle plays and you’re allowed to return to reality. The recent prints but you don’t take it, and the cashier looks away again.
You start to walk away, looking back one last time. There are a few Humans, but they’re all plugged in, stuck with their own thoughts, ideals, but most of all, distrust and fear. It’s been ages since you and anyone else in that store have talked to a real person.
You don’t even know if a real person exists anymore….
When you come home, you sit beside Clarence as you eat, putting that same feeding tube down your throat as you feed him bits of the greasy mess in the form of a blended slop. You pause in-between.
“Hey, Clare. I got a gig at the arthouse. Just like the one that you tried a while ago to try to boost your career.”
He exhales, but he has no response, still stuck in that frozen pose.
“We don’t have much time, you know… I can’t afford to keep doing this forever. And I already paid so much to get you back, instead of some rich guru’s art display.”
You put your hand on top of his. His hand is still warm despite everything.
“We’ll get out of here. But I can be stronger. I won’t end up like you did. And I’ll make sure you can move again. I promise….”
You could have sworn, for the briefest of moments, he looked over at you. However, when you look up, you still see the same position he was in. Eyes unmoving. Turned into yesterday’s art project.