Positron: Episodes 1–3 by Atwood Margaret

Author:Atwood, Margaret [Atwood, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Byliner Inc.
Published: 2019-07-08T00:00:00+00:00

Episode 3

Erase Me

Stan enters consciousness as if coming up from a deep well. A well with nothing in it, because he didn’t have any dreams. The last thing he can recall is being in the car, the black car with darkened windows the Security spooks always use, with Jocelyn sitting beside him in the backseat and her treacherous dipstick of a husband, Phil, doing the driving.

He has an image of the back of Phil’s head—a head he wouldn’t mind perforating with a broken bottle—and then another of Jocelyn putting her sturdy but manicured hand out to pat his knee in the patronizing way she had, as if he was a pet dog. Good legs, gray stockings, the black sleeve of her suit. That was his last snapshot.

Then the prick of the needle. He was gone before he knew it.

But look, she didn’t kill him! He’s still in his body, he can hear his heart beating. As for his mind, it’s clear as ice water. He doesn’t feel drugged; he feels refreshed and hyper-alert, as if he’s just chugged a couple of double espressos.

He opens his eyes. Fuck. Nothing. Maybe he’s been sent to the stratosphere after all. No, wait, it’s a ceiling. A white ceiling, with light reflecting down from it.

He turns his head to see where the light’s coming from. No, he doesn’t turn his head, because his head won’t turn that far. Something’s restraining it, and his arms, and, yes, his legs too. Triple fuck. They’ve got him strapped down.

“Fuck!” he says out loud. But no, he doesn’t say that. The only sound that comes out of his mouth is a slobbering zombie sound. But urgent, like a car in a snowbank spinning its wheels. Unhuhuh. Unhuhuh.

This is horrible. He can think, but he can’t move and he can’t speak. Shit.

* * *

Charmaine hardly slept a wink all night. Maybe it was the screams; or they might have been laughs—that would be nicer; though if they were laughs, they were loud, high, and hysterical. She’d like to ask some of the other women if they heard anything too, but now that she thinks about it, that’s probably not a good idea.

Or maybe her sleeplessness came from overexcitement, because really, she’s super-excited. She’s so excited she can only peck at her lunch, because this afternoon she gets to resume her real job. After putting in her morning session of Towel Folding, she got to throw away the shameful laundry room name tag and replace it with her rightful one: chief medications administrator. It feels blissful, as if that name tag has been lost and now it’s been found; like when you misplace your scooter keys and then they turn up and you get a rush of luckiness, as if the stars or fate or something has singled you out for a win. That’s how happy her rightful name tag makes her feel.

The other women in her section have noticed that name tag: they’re treating her with new respect. They’re

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