Betta Fish
A Shepard tone reverberated in my brainstem as the simulation purred online. I clenched the armrests of the glorified dental armchair upon which I had been plopped. The ceiling lights faded from white to a deep maroon. Air molecules in the room decelerated. “Five seconds,” a voice announced, but the ceaseless crescendo in my head had so monopolized my consciousness that I barely registered the words. Like a ruptured dam, the tone burst into my nervous system, inundating my synapses and culminating in a raucous deluge until finally, it subsided.
My eyelids hurt. I hadn’t realized how hard I was pinching them. I released the pressure, giving my facial muscles time to relax while my olfactory ingested the putrid stench of burning tallow candles. Smooth cobblestones constituted the floor, walls, and ceiling. Pots and bowls stacked on crates; barrels, benches; dried meat and garlic hung from wooden support beams; sacks of grains and potatoes stuffed into a corner; candles lined the walls. And across the room stood someone familiar.
Tussled raven hair and a villainous jawline offset by a neat posture clad in light denim, a faded vintage shirt and a pair of Converse. It was a striking replica. Its kind eyes bore into me, triggering a fury in my chest. Suddenly and unnervingly apoplectic, I took a deep breath like I had been instructed, but the hate intensified. Those pathetic eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I found myself snarling. It took a hesitant step closer, posture growing defensive. A pang of pleasure fluttered in my breast.
“I just wanted...”
“You think this,” I gestured to our surroundings. “Will elicit some profound insight?” It pursed its lips.
“What choice do I have?” An impetuous smile crept into the corner of my lips and my mindful breathing capitulated to the venomous hatred now seeping into my veins.
“None.”
In an instant we were on the floor, an avalanche of appendages and fingernails. After a lifetime of sharing the same body, the sensation of flesh against flesh was invigorating. I secured a grip and it writhed, kicking a metal bucket across the cobblestones. The harsh clang of metal against stone sent me into the recesses of my memory. The farm. How many times had we spent hours, hunched over, milking one goat after the next by rote only to accidentally knock it over. The goat would bleat indifferently before going on its important duties while I sulked in fury, stewing over my ineptitude.
I stood. Stretched my arms. Retrieved the empty bucket. I carefully placed it on one of the wooden barrels, taking in its cold metal handle, when a sudden tonal blare pierced my eardrums. Resplendent lights engulfed the space and my stomach lurched from the whiplash of being pulled out of the simulation. The simulation. “...returning consciousness.” The voice was an anchor. I clung onto it lest I end up back in that pantry.
When the tone faded, an all-white medical room materialized around me. I felt relief from the cold armrests of the procedural chair below my shaking arms, a relief teeming with absolute horror, shame, and desolation. The room was uncomfortably silent except for a research assistant systematically poking a computer keyboard beside me. I wanted to reach out. I desperately needed to feel, but the motor functions required to do so escaped me. Instead, I stared blankly at the wall, where someone had hung an impressionistic oil painting depicting two wispy clouds above a still body of water.
The door to the room hissed open and a cat-like woman in a cardigan holding a notepad approached. “Welcome back. When you are ready, we can begin.”
