Short Writing Week 9
“Shame”
Some context here.
“I think we’ve mastered the application of the more concrete abilities, skills, that kind of thing,” said Dr. Carney. “After a slow buildup, you’ve almost reached the level of a chess grandmaster without having to really practice very much. The languages have also been a big success, I believe you’ve mastered French and Spanish, have a good handle on Arabic, and for some reason decided to learn Finnish.”
“It was almost disappointing that they all speak English anyway,” I said.
“Nonetheless, it’s been remarkable, so I think we are ready for phase two, and a further step towards our ultimate goal.”
“Will it hurt? Spanish hurt.”
“This is a more complex procedure, so there will be some, well, discomfort. But I believe strongly that you’ll appreciate it in the long run.”
I nodded, acquiescing, there wasn’t really a way out at this point. Not after all the time I had put in now. We were close.
Over the subsequent weeks I had a broad range of injections, shocks, scans, tests, experiments, lunches, naps and operations. I spent three days immobile with a sizeable syringe in the base of my skull, exchanging spinal fluid for whatever it was they were putting in. I was shifted gradually by nurses to avoid bedsores, wiped with cloths, and when it was all finished it took me over an hour to regain the ability to stand up and walk around the room.
Dr. Carney arrived after this for a preliminary test.
He presented me three photographs of myself aged fourteen, sixteen and nineteen. I felt nothing, they were just standard photos, but Dr. Carney looked at me hopefully for a sign the treatment was taking effect. Not necessarily fully working, but he searched my face for some sign, some glimmer. He gathered up the photographs, shook his head and left.
The treatment continued. I was suspended in some gelatinous liquid for periods of six to seven hours, and I felt like I was absorbing it over time, emerging shocked to not be double or triple my original mass. The substance rinsed off in the shower, while Dr. Carney, two assistants, one reporter, eight randomly selected members of the public, and my mother-in-law observed through a clear glass partition. This, equally, I did not see the relevance of until later.
Another week into the process, I arrived at the laboratory to find a long train of glasses displayed on a table, each with a solid bottom and a small amount of some golden brownish substance.
“Whiskey,” said Dr. Carney. “We’re at the make or break stage now.”
I lost track of how many I drank. The assistants placed me in the back of a car, handed me a paper bag, and took off at high speed to a building I vaguely recognised through the spinning nausea that was consuming me. On arrival they each took me by one arm and escorted me into a large auditorium, discharged me, and left. There were, best I could tell, several hundred people in attendance. Every single one of them watched as I tried to step forward and fell over a bench filled with children. On hitting the ground, I rolled over onto my back, the scene swirling endlessly above me, worse when I closed my eyes, worse again when I opened them. In the moment before I projectile vomited towards the ceiling and lost consciousness, I realised I was making direct eye contact with my fifteen year old daughter, standing frozen at the lectern on the stage.
I don’t think I spoke to anyone for three days after that.
Dr. Carney entered my room and sat opposite me.
“We took measurements after the theatre incident,” he said. “There’s hope. Come with me.”
I followed him through the winding corridors I had come to know so well and we entered a room I had not yet been into. It was much more softly decorated than the rest of the building, it had a couch, plants, and none of the standard hospital green. It also had my wife and daughter, sitting, holding hands. They exchanged a look when I came in.
“Did it work?” asked my wife.
“We’re going to test it now,” said Dr. Carney. He turned to me. “You’ll have to focus for this, but after living the way that you have for forty seven years, I think we have finally provided you the ability to feel shame.”
My wife and daughter visibly squeezed each other’s hands.
“This is the final test, are you ready?”
I was not, but I nodded.
“Look at yourself,” said Dr. Carney. “You’re a disgrace. If nothing else can you please do the bare minimum and put on some pants.”
I looked down at my ragged underwear, while my wife closed her eyes and turmoil raged within me. I felt the higher level self control that we had worked on for weeks, months, but equally somewhere deep inside, my primordial, fundamental self forced its way up. I have never before or since had such a struggle, but the beast, that unrelenting will, Freud’s id, burst forth with a ringing clarity.
“No.”