5:42am. The sun struggled to pierce through the smog-filled gloom of the morning, head hardly raised above the edge of the horizon. Its redness eroded away the darkness, oozing out from the incandescent polka-dot patchwork of the streetlights, to gradually wake the sleeping city.
George locked his bike against one of the streetlamps. Traffic was scant, but building. The words ‘Lifestone Personal Health’ were illuminated, flashing invitingly above the entrance to the building. However, the front door refused to activate, neither automatically nor in response to George’s attempts to engage it manually. The lettering printed on the glass to the left of the doors indicate that the building would not be open for business until 9am on a Saturday, by which time George would already be 3 hours late for his appointment. He put a hand up to the glass to shade his reflection and peer inside. All he could see was an empty lobby. An un-manned reception presided over an audience on unoccupied waiting room chairs. A clock ticked mechanically on the wall above the desk, though somehow it seemed as though time was frozen within the silent scene, refusing to move forwards with the ticking of the clock. There must be something else. George backed away from the glass doors and began searching the surrounds; sweeping around the block the building sat in, searching for some other way in, looking for that something else. Another entrance. An alleyway cut in from a side-street, cutting into the heart of the block. Dark but suspiciously well maintained. Only a superficial dirtiness, almost dirty with intent. No sign of homeless occupation, and at a prime location as well. George checked his watch as he entered the alleyway. 5:44am. Nearly time. It had to be here. He walked up, past the neatly overflowing skip bin. No flies. A smell, nearly a stench, but not quite putrid enough. No liquid seeped out. A regulated disarray of garbage bins sprawled artistically out from the wall beside it. He made it halfway up the alley, stepped gingerly around the overflow from the bins, before he noticed the surveillance camera peeping out from the corner of a fork in the way. The fork headed further into the alley, towards a brick wall, or down to the left to a ramp and back door. George headed towards the door. It looked heavily secured; swipe access, heavy bolts, security camera discreetly embedded in the wall over the door frame. The handle refused to budge. The door remained unyielding. George could find no other options for entry. No buzzer, no bell, no phone. He knocked on the door, a feeble last ditch effort, and, as he is about to turn away, the light flicked from red to green over the swipe-card reader. The bolts clunked back and the door hissed open. He pulled it the rest of the way. It’s heavy. The door is a half-foot thick. It slid slowly behind him, hissing to a closing thunk. Ahead is a long concrete hallway with lights shining down along a narrow strip on the ceiling. He glanced back. The door is sealed seamlessly against the walls of the corridor. There is a green push-button to open the door from the inside. His shadow struggled to take form, only a sliver surviving out of sight of the down lights. It danced along with his steps, dodging the light, as he made his way down to the door at the other end of the corridor. It opened into a stairwell. A fire escape that only went down, underground. He started trodding down. After 6 flights it stopped, a door opened into a waiting room. “Name?” There was a man sitting in the midst of an array of seats, arranged like a theatre. His back was to George. The theatres seating faced another door, but the man faced the floor, shoulders hunched over, elbows on knees. He played with his watch to pass the time. There was a bathroom door off to the right. “Name?” The girl at reception had a condescendingly apathetic face that yearned to be chewing gum in an aggressively dismissive manner. Frustration battered at the gates of her patience, which appeared woefully under fortified; crumbling beneath the incessant blows. “Oh, sorry,” George said, as he shuffled quickly over to the receptionists desk. “Yes?” She prodded, aching with disbelief at the depths of stupidity that this present representative of humanity dared inflict upon her. “Your. Name?” “George.” She fixed him with a loath-laced glare. His ineptitude was a personal affront. “Ah, right. Agramson. I’m George Agramson.” He said, adding, “I should have a 6:00am appointment.” She glanced up at the clock on the side wall. 6:09. She met his eye, but made it clear that he was not permitted to meet hers, shook her head and returned to her computer. “Take a seat.” George took a seat in the theatre, a space between him and the watch watching man. He watched the door and waited. The door cracked open, half-revealing a suited man with a face that matched. “George?” George smiled, nodded and rose. “George!” Deja vu. “Come on in,” the suit said cheerfully, “sorry about the wait.” George glanced back. The Watching Man would have to continue his wait in solitude. George closed the door behind him, risking a final look at the receptionists desk. Her attentions intently consumed in her phone. “Please take a seat.” Dr Suit eased himself into a seat as he extended an arm towards the available chair opposite his desk. George took it. The hand remained extended, expectant. George leaned out, reached out and grasped it. Shook. “Dr Richard Bradfield, but feel free to call me Rick,” said Rick, with an approachable, friendly smile. “George Agramson,” said George. “Of course, of course. Pleased to meet you, pleased to meet you,” said Rick in a fading echo. “Now, George, I’m not sure how much you know of the process, but today is commitment free. I’ll just be conducting a general communication here, some background and then you’ll go in for a complete body scan. Today will take a couple of hours, and you’ll be needing to come back at least twice more before your application can go forwards,” he cocked an eyebrow, “Do you understand?” George nodded, eyes locked onto the Doctor’s like a deer’s in the headlights. “Excellent.” Rick reached into a drawer. “Now, I’ll just need you to sign these forms before we can start.” He slid a few sheets of paper across the desk towards George with a practised casual air. George took the opportunity to start skimming over them. “Naturally the selection process is quite expensive - however, only if you are terminally unsuccessful, which, given your physical health, appears highly unlikely, will you incur any costs. Upon successful completion of the program all of these associated costs will be covered by the client. All of this,” he waved a hand generally around the paperwork, “is merely a legal requirement, a precaution for the extremely unlikely event of a premature dismissal from the program.” George nodded again, half-listening, half-continuing to skim the paperwork as Rick tried to rush him through. “You’ll find that everything is in order, however, if you need more time to read it over more thoroughly, a copy can be provided for your leisurely perusal at the end of this session, and if you are at all unhappy with the contract, there is a 48 hour cancellation window, details of which you’ll find on the last page of the document.” He reached over and found the page in question, pointing to the paragraph he referred to, “Here. But, for now I must insist that we begin the session. Time is precious.” His plastered pleasant smile seemed more forced now. The cracks forming in the practised performance. “Please?” George signed. He’d come this far already. There was only one way forwards. “Thank you,” Rick said, reaching out to pick up the signed papers, making a quick check of the signatures, “George. Now we can start. I’ll be recording our session for our records - once your program is complete all data will be de-identified. There will be no way to trace you once you are out. It is imperative that your answers be completely truthful, both for your safety and to enable us to give you a fair and accurate assessment of your value and costs. Is this understood?” “Yes.” “Okay we’ll start with your name.” “George Francis Agramson.” “Date of Birth?” “18th July, 20-32” “Family status.” “Unmarried, single. My father passed away a few years ago, my mother has been missing, presumed deceased, for a little longer.” Rick nods in sympathy, but it seems more mechanically observational rather than from a place of compassion. “Occupation?” “System Engineer.” “Smoker?” “No.” “Alcohol.” “No.” “Exercise?” “I cycle to and from work each day, totalling an hour each way. I take the stairs, and run 2-3 times per week for an hour each session.” “Allergies?” “None.” “Any family history of diabetes, heart attack, stroke, obesity, cancer, or any other heritable disease?” “No.” “None?” Dr. Rick was somewhat taken aback with disbelief. Everyone with a family history had a family history of some disease. People die. “None, as far as I am aware. All accidental deaths up to my grandparents. I was never told about my great-grandparents.” “Any major injuries? Broken bones, torn ligaments?” “No.” “Fractures?” “Nope.” “Alright. Now I’ll need to ask you some questions about your diet, and then we can begin the medical tests.”
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. . Self care - 26.01.2022 (Poem) Perceptions of reality - 2.02.2022 (Poem) Natural impunity - 9.02.2022 (Short Story) Lost in a Labyrinth - 2.03.2022 (Poem) Ministerial Standard - 23.03.2022 (Poem) Dungeons and Dating - 6.04.2022 (Short Story) Better Shared - 20.04.2022 (Poem) Touch to toilet - 27.04.2022 (Poem) Shooting Stars - 4.05.2022 (Short Story) Chop Shop - 18.05.2022 (Poem) Family Ties - 25.05.2022 (Short Story) Age of Consent - 8.06.2022 (Poem) Legacy - 24.08.2022 (Poem) Performative Enjoyment - 7.09.2022 (Poem) Bridge of Dreams - 7.12.2022 (Poem) Faultless - 22.12.2022 (Poem) Disconservative - 11.01.2023 (Poem) Single use - 1.03.2023 (Poem) Donor Cards - 6.04.2023 (Poem) Creative Art Say I - 13.04.2023 (Poem) Home-bound - 5.07.2023 (Short Story) Sand and Sea - 20.07.2023 (Short Story) Luminosity - 15.11.2023 (Short Story) About the AuthorA 33 year old medical intern who plays frisbee and likes long walks over mountains. Archives
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