Insert Coins to Continue
30 Mar 2016TheDarkLord
Leesti. August 3296.
I have continued to struggle with my life situation. The doctors and nurses come and go, and there have been more and more visits from physiotherapists. I’m starting to feel physically better – I’ve walked around in my room a little bit. But whenever I overdo it, I become dizzy and have to stop immediately. If I carry on, I tend to pass out, and then the nightmares come back.
After that first time I read Ashley’s letter, I re-read it again and again. I tried to make sense of everything in it. Unfortunately, it contained little in the way of usable information, and I’m still not really any the wiser. What little time I’ve been able to have with access to datapads has confirmed that my identity as John Jameson is no more. There is every likelihood that it was never my real name. My citizenship status is shown as “A Ward of Pollux Medical,” and my name is shown as “TBC.”
My mind remains resolutely blank regarding events before March 3296. I’ve been essentially offline for 24 years, but I can’t remember anything before that, save for fragments of images of things that may or may not have been my life. Ashley’s letter released some deep-seated emotions, but no memories. I guess we’d been in a relationship, and it was probably fairly serious. But attempts to query that part of my memory lead to complete non-response.
I am receiving quite a lot of medical attention. Physically, I seem to be doing well, so long as I don’t over-exert myself. Mentally, I pass all the basic capability tests, but I don’t know why, or how.
There’s a knock at the door. A short man enters, his suit marking him out as different from the normal medical staff. He's more rotund too, with a pronounced double chin. In fact, his whole face is somewhat bulbous, as if a larger head has been smooshed onto an undersized skull. He has a rather ridiculous moustache, the hairs of which, because of the shape of his mouth, are growing horizontally.
“Hello,” he says. I get the feeling that he’s uncomfortable that there isn’t a name at the end of that sentence.
“Hi.”
“My name is Anthony Mack. I’m a personal service manager for Pollux Medical. I need to speak to you about your ongoing treatment.
“As you may know, your treatment to-date has been funded by the sale of assets that were in your possession at the time of your assault.
“Our modelling suggests that the rate at which you are consuming those funds is greater than the rate of your recovery. We need to look at an action plan that will see you re-integrating into society before you enter financial illiquidity.”
He seems relieved to have got all of that off his chest. It’s probably a message he has to give to all sorts of hapless fools who get themselves into more trouble than they can afford, but it probably doesn’t make the delivery of that message any easier.
“I need to get off my arse before I run out of money and you throw me out, is what you’re saying.” The tone of my reaction surprises me. However, it does appear that I have accurately summarised and translated the faux-sympathy-speak.
“Well, yes.”
“How long do I have?”
“Thirty seven days. Give or take.” It’s not news that I wanted to hear, but I can understand it. “We have detailed accounts and can substantiate all monies that have been spent on your behalf. And the 37 day cutoff will give you enough money to organise an identity and cover living costs while you find a job.”
So this is it. I’ve got to get out of this slump before I get thrown out of an airlock.
“OK. I’ll need some help. I don’t know what I need.”
“Of course. Here are some leaflets to have a read through. They’ll get you started. I picked the ones most appropriate to you.” With this, Mack gets up and leaves the room.
I look down at the papers he has left. They have inspiring titles like “How to become a citizen again”, “So you lost your mind”, and “This way to avoid slavery”.
Caring universe, this.