Amnesia

She awoke suddenly, as if startled by a shriek or howl, but the room was still. Her fingers were clenching the crib’s bars and her torso was draped over one side, leaning awkwardly toward the mess of blankets in the middle. As she unwound backward, the recirculating blood set off tingling pins in her upper half and her head swept with dizziness. She grabbed the top rail for support, but her fingers were numb, not her own. Disconnected, in vertigo, the room swam horizontally for a few revolutions until she collapsed. She closed her eyes to stop the movements, but the black mass behind her eyes whirled dimly. Warm hands cupped her cheeks, stroked her forehead.

“Srenda, dear, are you all right?” She recognized her husband’s hushed voice and spoke back to him across the dark void.

“Troy? Our baby’s gone! Where is he? Did someone take my baby boy?” She heard a sharp intake of breath, a vacuum sucking her attention toward it. The fingers loosened their grip momentarily, then molded around the base of her skull.

“Oh, Srenda, don’t you remember? Our boy was so sick...too sick, in fact. Our good doctors, they took him away while we were in the hospital. Sent him to a good place to make him feel better, to end his pain.” Srenda released a sigh. She felt the corners of her mouth draw upward slightly, her mind relaxing.

Troy’s voice softened further in response. “We couldn't have given him a proper life, understand? Not in our home nor anywhere in our community. And the world outside this tight-knit haven is toxic, unlivable for the sick. We did the right thing. I work so hard to make our home safe for you and our beautiful daughter.”

“Zenobia?”

“Yes. Don’t forget her, darling. We can always make another little boy. We still have one vacant spot in our family. In fact, our leaders are encouraging it. Two for every household. Two healthy babies to continue the bloodline. So don’t worry yourself, dear. The doctors took care of him. He’s not our problem, anymore. We’ll make a new little boy soon. A perfect boy. You’ll see.”

“Oh, thank heavens, Troy! The doctors are keeping him safe. Can I visit him once he’s better? I’d so like that...”

“NO! Wait...” Troy’s voice faded away and his embraced evaporated. She was once again floating blind in the murky ether, but this time severed from her physical self.

…

More Human than Human: A Binary Life

“Folks, now that you have heard my story, Say, boy, hand me another shot of that booze; If anyone should ask you, Tell 'em I've got those St. James Infirmary blues”.

A mint gramophone played softly and squarely, humming the blues for Brian who, crouched beneath table light, attended to polishing his leather loafers with great care. Hands sweeping back and forth, mechanically rubbing the oil into every groove, he stole a glance at the Rolex gleaming on his wrist.

"Almost time for the evening news." He placed his loafers on the Oriental rug, next to his eccentric collection of nine irons, their necks ascending gracefully from their bag, falling in crooked shadows across his kept bed. Brian stretched, glowing with a sense of achievement, oblivious to the entrance of a portly, pink woman striding into his chamber with intent to disturb his blissful solitude.

"Dinner's in five minutes. Better finish up." Her monumental nametag reflected in the lamplight: Bethany, Orderly.

She pursed her peach lips, trying to stifle the slight grin forming around her plump cheeks, but even in her most beguiling of moments she rarely concealed the devious spark of wit in her eyes. She knew how much he loathed intrusion while ritually tending to his possessions, but it gave her a delightfully powerful feeling to hinder this one. Aching with annoyance, Brian grumbled into his lap, ignoring her ample, looming figure. Satisfied, she pivoted quickly, rubber soles squeaking on the linoleum. Glancing up, he caught her sashaying into the corridor, her well-endowed figure jiggling away.