Half-Life
by Victoria Ogunniyi
University of Illinois at Chicago
Victoria Ogunniyi is a graduating senior at the University of Illinois at Chicago who majored in Neuroscience and minored in Professional Writing. Victoria has always had a love for storytelling and hopes to continue exploring this passion while attending medical school and onward into her journey to becoming a physician. Her poetry has previously been published in a creative writing magazine at her university, and she looks forward to starting many more writing projects in the future. You can see some of her other scholarly and creative work at her website: https://victoriaogunniyi.wordpress.com/.
The television, though unattended by the slumbering woman that lay snoring just a mere few feet from it, drones on, its volume lowered to a near whisper, the monotonous narrator of a nature documentary commenting: “At the end of the queen bee’s reproductive cycle, she is assassinated by the male drones in the colony. It is time for a new queen to replace her.” On the screen, a buzzing cluster of bees piles on top of one another, their restless, yellow-and-black bodies uniting into a violent mass.
Waking
The thing rises, slowly, as if any sudden movement might cause its body to fall to pieces, from a worn futon covered in crumbs and sweat stains, wiping its forehead with trembling fingers. This morning, as they did last morning and in every single passing millisecond thereafter, the cells of its body do as they were born to do, carrying out their obligatory perfection. Like a melting candle, its flesh sags ever so slightly at one place or another: the breasts, the stomach, the chin. It reaches out an arm to silence the blaring alarm sitting on the nearby coffee table, a dusty antique on which also rests a digital mirror that endlessly cycles through an entire history of uploaded reflections, millions of faces superimposed on top of one another, all vying to reach the surface — some smiling pained grins, some frowning, some crying, some silently staring back with unblinking doll eyes, all a jumble of now spoiled features, of bygone yellow curls and unwrinkled skin, of abandoned fantasies merging into something unrecognizable, a time-lapse of destruction.
It ignores the nagging feeling that rises up in its chest and instead picks through the pile of slightly dirty clothes hanging from the TV stand from the past few days. It is eight in the morning, the time when it goes to work, when the body is put to use. A uniform shirt covered in black-and-white stripes — vertical to avoid widening the waist — is slipped on. The stitched label on the breast pocket reads “Jane.” It runs its fingers over the letters, which are etched onto the fabric with pink thread, its mind somewhere unknown and its body awaiting its regulating signals.
The stomach rumbles exactly fifteen minutes after the waking alarm. Thirty minutes later, one hand cups three white pills of various sizes in its palm — all discretely stolen from the laboratory last week — and another holds a glass of water. The pills are placed on the tongue and, with a small gulp of water, released down the throat, some of which slide smoothly within their gel capsules and others of which cause brief coughing fits from the moistened chalk. Though it did not fully remember what was contained in each of the unlabeled pill bottles stashed in its work locker, it smiles to itself, recalling those enticing late-night advertisements — Impress With That Chest, Quell Those Smells, Improve That Attitude — imagining, impatiently waiting to know what would be on the other side of the mirror the day they finally take effect.
Though it initially found it difficult to learn to enjoy its new job, easy access to these medications made the whole thing more bearable; besides, it didn’t have much say in the matter, what with it being one of the only reliable ways to make money nowadays. Regardless, it did not have many complaints; it was not its first time working in a lab — though it was quite different being on the other side — and the role was simple: swallow whatever drug they pass along in those tiny paper cups and keep a continuous mental log of thoughts, which are to be extracted from their scalp devices and collected at the end of each week — the latter a way to record any side effects of the former. It knew that others were much worse off, those unable to leave after the “Full Life” act passed and too proud to give in and adapt. Only now — three months into the year, 2032 — have the suicide rates stabilized, or so says the news special that it watched last night. It had never paid a great deal of attention to politics before, finding the constant debating and “tail chasing” uninteresting; in fact, it had welcomed the idea of the act when it first learned about the central aim: To promote a greater sense of family values, economic equality, and a “full life” for those living in our state. The aftermath could have never been predicted — the undone workplace protections, the layoffs, the “males only need apply” signs, the late-night search teams, the demolished clinics, everyone sniffing around for someone to rat on — all the dominos crashing down too quickly to notice but felt all the same. It is reminded of the good friend it lost during that time — an old college roommate, Cynthia, whose big mouth had always gotten her in trouble — though the expected welling of tears never arrives, the pain underlying the memory long gone.
An hour later, the thing walks out of its townhome, one of several identical structures located within the large cul-de-sac. A typical August morning, the rays from the unrelenting Texas sun radiate through the cloudless sky; an infrequent breeze gently shakes the tree branches overhead, scattering a few loosely-bound leaves and leaving them shivering. Bird songs with shrill echoes whistle through the air. Everything about the area is uniform: the house exteriors all painted in a greyish blue hue with white trimming; the length of the well-maintained lawn; the tall arched windows that peak into everyone’s living rooms. Traveling around the circular sidewalk, the thing takes in the familiar sense of sameness washing over the neighborhood and finds comfort in it —despite having lived in the house for the past year, after its father, the last family member to go, passed, it never felt that it truly belonged there, right in the middle of that bubble of all-American families, nuclear, normal — dismissing the somewhat absurd suspicion that it has merely taken an infinite number of steps in the same spot.
With its eyes trained on its dirtied tennis shoes, it shuffles along to the bus stop at the end of the curved block. An unfamiliar man, who has been subtly trailing behind on the sidewalk, picks up speed. Unsettled, it involuntarily quickens its pace, first galloping and then breaking into a sprint, trying to outrun the quiet rustle of the approaching footsteps.
Report From the Nervous System
Tense the shoulders. Swallow the deep pit forming in the stomach. Remember all that you have lost. Feel the heaviness in your bones. Ask if it will happen again.
Let the warm blood course, transporting nanoscopic packets of sentience, memories flooding in with them: hands clumsily grabbing at flesh like arcade pincers; a yellowed grin; the lingering smell of coffee.
Bus Stop
The thing makes its best effort to flee from the man, fearful of what might happen if it proves unsuccessful. From the peripheral view, he appears to be over six feet tall. His towering figure approaches closer, almost seeming to reach out for its wrist. It hurries faster.
Whether in actuality or just in its imagination, it hears a quiet laugh. Somewhere in its head, or possibly spoken aloud, it also lets out a laugh — a mechanical one— convincing itself that everything would be okay; the bus would come soon enough.
Though it walks nearest the street, it feels boxed in, unable to maintain a comfortable amount of distance between the two of them. It takes several large leaps forward, but the man continues to gain on it, following it around the concrete maze. Struggling to stay level-headed, it balls up its fists and says to itself, “I will be fine. Today is a day like every day.”
In the middle of repeating this mantra, it freezes on the pavement, feeling the light graze of fingers on its lower back. Reluctantly, it turns to face the man, who wears a blank expression on his face; though his skin is considerably wrinkled, his eyes are strangely vibrant, strangling it with his piercing glare. Out of instinct, it jerks backward, nearly stumbling over its feet.
The man grins.
Report From the Nervous System
Allow the sympathetic system to seize control. Feel the overactive lungs wheezing in the chest. Taste the bitter sputum filling the mouth. The nerves in the arms and legs buzz like static.
Clock In
As the man’s beady gaze wanders down to its chest, he runs his thick tongue across his lips. It can feel him taking it apart with his eyes, piece by piece. After a few seconds of uncomfortable stillness, as expected, the bus arrives on schedule. It enters and greets the driver, before taking its usual seat in the front row. The man, who also enters, sits in the neighboring row and hunches over, pulling out a phone from his coat pocket.
With a sigh of relief, it swipes at the tears beading up at the corner of its eyes. The trip to headquarters passes rapidly; the bulk of it is spent counting the number of unwaxed hairs on the forearms. Once it grows weary of the mental exertion, it rests its sweaty head on the nearby window, watching the scenery outside become increasingly gloomy, the neighborhoods less polished, the women less pretty.
Driving into the center of the town, it reaches the workplace: a multi-story building that employs most of the bodies in town. The Department of Experimentation — its task force — is situated on the second floor, right atop the first level, which is primarily where the janitorial staff linger between shifts, away from the workers on the other floors, who usually make a point of avoiding them. Stepping out of the bus and onto the street, the feet hurry to the revolving door at the front of the building. Several women, all rushing to their respective departments, follow behind. It shoves itself into a crowded elevator that smells of flowers — daffodils, lilacs, lavenders — watching on as the first-floor employees shuffle past, their gray jumpsuits caked in layers of dried dirt. The elevator closes shut.
Once on the second floor, the workers file into the right-hand corridor and take a seat at their lab benches, which are lined along each of the four walls of the large room. The manager’s office is positioned in the right corner, his door slightly ajar.
The thing sits nearest the office door; its desk is cluttered with stacks of annotated research papers. The pill for slimming the waist gets a check mark; the one for developing a hypertrophied pelvic floor gets a thickly-drawn “X.” Burying itself in its work, it shuffles through the documents, its face hovering closely over the printed papers. It reaches the third line of an abstract — “Women are known to be particularly volatile” — before it is interrupted by a gust of hot air felt on the back of its neck. It spins around in its seat; Mr. Manson, the manager, looks down on it, flashing his intimidating set of yellow teeth.
“Would you mind joining me in my office for a chat?”
He gestures to the opened office door. It places a sticky note on the article to save its place and follows him in. Closing the door behind it, it takes a seat in front of his desk. To its surprise, he lowers his plump body into the adjacent seat, smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit jacket.
“Jane, why do you think I called you in today?”
A brief chill overtakes its body as it recalls the night the two of them spent together months ago, long after the other girls had exited the building. It ignores the feeling.
“Well, I overheard some of the girls gossiping in the breakroom about a possible new floor, a marketing division. I mean, I’ve got some experience with advertising.”
“Yes, it’s very exciting, isn’t it? And, if you play your cards right, you may be one of the first handful to get promoted. But there’s a more pressing matter at hand.”
Mr. Manson takes a long sip from his coffee mug, staring at it from over the rim.
“People are starting to talk.”
It presses a hand against its abdomen, staring ahead, refusing to look again in his direction.
“You know Jane, you’re one of the best workers we got. Quite a fine specimen,” he says, drawing out each of the syllables with his threatening tongue.
A lump of bile snakes its way up its throat, tasting of formaldehyde.
He places a hand on its leg, relaxing its trembling knee. “That’s why I’d hate for you to get dismissed. I think you’ll go pretty far here. And I’m not saying you should do anything too drastic or anything. We just need to do a better job of being …” He pauses to rub his chin. “Careful.”
Mr. Manson reaches into his suit and pulls out a leather wallet; thumbing through the dividers, he pulls out a wad of cash, handing the money to it, who hesitantly shoves the roll into its breast pocket. Biting its bottom lip, it gives an uncertain nod and stands.
Mr. Manson does the same, getting up from his seat and opening the door for it to exit.
“By the way, I heard what happened with you and your fiancé. It’s a shame, really. Just know that I’m here if you ever need to talk. I’ve been listening to your mental feed lately. This should all be very temporary, you know, the detachment. It’s a very common side effect. Shouldn’t last more than a few more weeks at most.”
On its way out, he gently rubs its back. It returns to its cubicle.
From behind, it hears: “Phyllis, would you mind joining me in my office for a chat?”
Report From the Nervous System
Listen to the amygdala; something is amiss. The heart is beating like a damaged washing machine, the thuds smacking louder and faster by the minute. Something familiar follows: a chemically-traced painting that has yet to dry. Honey-sweet vibrations rush into the ear and fields of hair cells dance to the seductive tune: a voice, air rushing in and out of the trachea, coordinated movements of the tongue, frantically bumping against the roof of the mouth, the words coming from somewhere far away. The cortex scans the surface to search for the significance but gets stuck in an escapable loop of the meaning of the meaning.
The voice repeats, “You are buried alive.” It comes from somewhere inside the skull, deep within the tissue.
Report From the Reproductive System
One becomes two. Two becomes four. Four becomes eight. Eight becomes sixteen. Sixteen becomes thirty-two.
The clumps tirelessly split and bubble.
Report From the Lacrimal Glands
Cry.
Midday
The body holds up as it was born to do. The first half of the day is spent working and beating away creeping thoughts. The mind is flooded with infographics of different flavors of surgeries— rhinoplasties, abdominoplasties, mastopexies. A persistent gurgling sounds from its stomach. Across the room, faces rise up from their benches and away from their workstations, still somewhat groggy from downing their pharmaceutical cocktails. They crane their necks to secretly gaze at the thing, who twitches in its chair. With somewhat knowing — suspecting — glances, they look on at the vessel ripping open: the contaminated petri dish. It stumbles away from its station, gripping its stomach to keep from doubling over, and runs to the lady’s room at the end of the left-hand corridor.
It spends the rest of the day in the bathroom stall, fighting the urge to vomit. The wig, an itchy quilt of bleached acrylic fibers, resting on its head blankets the patchy scalp underneath. The body breaks down as it was born to do. It reaches a veiny hand into the purse at its feet, rummaging around for its lunch.
Report From the Nervous System
The trigeminal nerve sets the jaw into motion: retract the top row of teeth from the bottom. Create a passage for the incoming fistful of food. A plastic wrapper covered with dust and wiry hair strands rests on the dirty tile of the bathroom floor. The body endures through the nausea. The facial nerve forces a nervous smile.
From inside the skull comes a question: “How many calories was that?” The cortex scans itself for an answer but only comes up with the faint trace of a jingle: Incisions and cuts, sutures, and seams, just two snips away from the body of your dreams.
Report From the Lacrimal Glands
Sob.
Report From the Digestive System
Feel the pool of hydrochloric acid sloshes over the mucous-lined walls of the stomach. Inside, boluses wet with saliva are torn apart and disintegrated into basic particulates: proteins from a day-old peeled egg; carbohydrates from a flask filled with ginger ale; fat from a forgotten French fry.
Clock Out
At the end of the workday, it hurries away from its work locker and towards the elevator with its head down, pretending not to see Mr. Manson’s attempts to get its attention. However, its coworkers, who crowd around the breakroom table and mingle among themselves, catch its attention, their chatter more animated than usual. It notices Phyllis eyeing it from across the room, a snarl forming on her tight face. Though it rushes to press the descending button, it is prevented from entering by Phyllis, who wedges her thin frame in front of the elevator door.
“Looking good, Jane! I mean, the extra weight really suits you. You must be eating real good lately.”
It nods, saying nothing.
“You and Mr. Manson seem to really be getting along well lately. Since when did the two of you get so close? You’re quite the ambitious gal, huh?”
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. With a wave, it pushes past her.
“I don’t like you, Jane,” Phyllis says, staring it down. “And if you keep trying to get in my way, I’ll make you regret it.”
Phyllis pokes the thing in the stomach — which somehow protrudes further out than earlier in the day — before strutting away, taking her place again in the crowd of workers who roar even louder upon her return. On the elevator, it is joined by an employee from the first floor, who hurries in cradling a box of cleaning supplies in their arms. The two scan one another’s name tags; the other employee, Norma, slips their thick eyeglasses higher up on the nose. They briefly exchange friendly smiles and look in opposite directions; it pinches its nose to avoid taking in her musky smell. As they descend to the first floor, the employee slips something into its back pocket, rushing away before it can say anything to her.
Though it waits until it is at the bus stop to investigate, it does its best to be discreet, unfolding the gum wrapper with small movements of the hand. Tiny words are scribbled on the inside surface in black crayon: This woman can help you with your problem. She’s the best in town. Very gentle and quick. In the same crooked handwriting, a number is written below the message; its eyes start to water, swelling the numbers into an indiscernible blur. It contemplates tearing the thing up and tossing it at its feet.
Two men stand near a gas pump on the other side of the street, whistling at the women who sprint past them. They speak loudly to one another.
“You heard about what happened with Larry’s wife?” one says, dusting off his jeans.
“Stacy?”
“Yeah, Stacy. They caught her visiting one of ‘em herbal ladies from out of town. Some saying Larry turned her in himself. It’s a damn shame. That ain’t the way God intended.”
The second spits on the ground in front of him. “Sure ain’t.”
From across the street, it frowns and crosses its arms over its chest. The note burns a hole into its palm.
“Why don’t you try smiling a bit, sweetheart?”
“Yeah! You too beautiful to be cryin’!”
The bus swoops in, and it makes its escape back home, licking at the stream of tears that drip into the inner corner of its mouth. The familiar place called “home” is reached, though, on the inside, everything appears more foreign than usual. It retreats to the closet, sinking to the ground on its knees.
Report From the Nervous System
Surrender to the molecular storms clouding the mind. Acetylcholine says to smile. Epinephrine says to run. Dopamine says to like it. Oxytocin says to squeeze your arms tighter around yourself. A billion voices conversing at once; they converge into a silent scream.
A consensus is reached amid the chaos: call the number.
Nightfall
The pattern of the lung’s breathing becomes more apparent: inflate, pause, deflate. The aggregate being is shaking; it is scared. In its erratic rhythm, the tethered chest balloon stretches taut, threatening to collapse entirely. A cold breeze rushes through the cluttered house, biting at its bare thighs. In the dimly-lit living room, two greasy little boys dressed in fuzzy pajamas violently shove each other into everything in sight — a tattered, wine-colored couch; the mustard-stained window curtains; a glass vase full of murky water and a wilted bouquet of flowers. Their mother, a sturdy woman with an ice-cold glare, shouts at them to be quiet. She returns her attention to the tray of tools on the counter: an ice pack; a hammer capped with a hollowed-out rubber cork; a metal coat hanger; rubbing alcohol.
It lays prone on a kitchen table held up by three legs. The thick layer of saran wrap hugging the back preserves the sweaty outline of its body. The woman wastes no time, pressing the ice pack to the bare stomach and then the thighs, swabbing the stinging alcohol around and within the groin. Closing its eyes, it tries to slow its breathing to a regular pace — in, out, in, out, in, out. On the fourth inhale, the wind is knocked out of its lungs by a solid smack to the stomach; the restraints tightened around the wrists and ankles keep it from curling up. Another smack follows slightly off from the original spot. Then another. Its eyes stretch wide open, watching, paralyzed, as the woman pounds the hammer on the stomach like a xylophone. Animalistic moans and screeches escape the contorted mouth. Without breaking her rhythm, the woman grabs the hanger and inserts it into the crudely-sterilized site. What follows next is unclear; it immediately loses consciousness from the first stab inside.
Some moments later, the darkness is replaced with a grainy vision of what can only be described as a particularly brutal crime scene. Every part of the body buzzes with a burning sensation.
“You’ll be in pain for quite some time,” the woman says, hurriedly guiding it out the door, her hand on its lower back. “But it’s done now. Drink the clove and turmeric tonic every night before bed.”
Once it fully crosses over the threshold, the woman’s hand retreats to her side, and she shuts the door behind her. The legs, still weak from the stress of the operation, carry the body home. Overcome by a sudden fit of dizziness, it collapses on the sofa and turns on the television.
Report From the Immune System
Workers pass each other on their journeys along the sanguineous highway: lymphocytes; macrophages; B-cells, daggered with their antibodies; platelets.
A lone cytotoxic T-cell lazily pokes at an infected cell, watching the gooey cytoplasm leak from the holes inflicted to the membrane, roaming for the next thing to destroy. Its objective was clear: eliminate all threats. It was a demand that it had wholly internalized, its organizing principle. It cleans for what feels like an eternity, filling the surrounding cavity with pulpy corpses, before an alarm blares, stopping all cells in their tracks: this is a novel emergency.
The lone T-cell pauses and changes direction, floating through the blood with determination, bumping, pushing, and forcing its way to the scene. Its fellow immune cells do the same, readying their weapons. Up ahead, the problem becomes glaringly apparent; the cells of the uterus bloat and regurgitate their blackened contents into the vast extracellular space.
Report From the Nervous System
From somewhere inside the living room, echoing from an unseen source, a voice tirelessly repeats, “You are buried alive.”
The left eye’s lens angles the light rays emitted from the television screen into the retina; the right eye is blocked off, pressed into a couch cushion. Take in the glowing image, slowly: hordes of women marching in concentric circles in front of the town hall, which, to the thing’s confusion, is surrounded by a large glass dome. They thrust decorated cardboard signs into the air. A procession of bodies. Some of the faces are recognized from around the neighborhood, some from work, even Phyllis. Others are unfamiliar. Norma is spotted in the very center, a speck of gray drifting in a sea of pink.
The bodies forming the inner ring halt every few minutes to splash tiny vials of perfume underneath their armpits. On the margins, the gray-clad bodies walking along the outer ring attempt to squeeze themselves into the center of the group but are pushed back even further by the frenzied jostling. Their signs are painted with scribbled messages that the thing does not fully understand; however, the few words that it is able to make out leave a bitter taste in the mouth. They continue to spiral, hundreds of hands and feet moving in unison, merging into one freakish form.
Across the street, an opposing mob lines up along the edge of the sidewalk, looking on with scowling faces. The group chants in unison: “All life is life.” They hold up pictures of clustered balls of cells. Those furthest away from the middle leave their posts to rid the scene of any propaganda left by the rogue bunch of protestors — which has now grown a mind of its own — on the other side.
It watches on as the two forces work to undo the other, one side populated by small women who yell countless names into the air, their voices chipping at the glass encasing them. The other side is busy buffing away at the scratches; despite their efforts, the cracks continue to travel and deepen.
In unison, the women abruptly stop their marching and reach into their pockets — coats, purses, cloth grocery bags — and bring out various brands of hairspray. A rainbow of lighters follows. Norma cuts through the crowd with feverish haste, splashing gasoline in all directions, drenching everything in sight. Without saying another word, the women act as one. The thing briefly looks away from the screen, shielding its eyes.
On the bottom of the screen, the trailing headline reads: “Mass hysteria event wreaks havoc downtown. Several casualties. Town hall set ablaze.”
Report From the Immune System
The infection, still in its infant stages, begins to spread.
Report From the Nervous System
On comes an onslaught of realizations. It is a woman; it is 20-something years old and afraid. It feels the whole of itself at once: the pounding in its temples; its cold left hand with the barren indent on the ring finger; the unbearable ache in its lower abdomen; the bloody patches on its inner thighs.
It entertains a host of wild thoughts, of sneaking into the lab and destroying everything in sight — the computers, the pill bottles, the research journals, Mr. Manson’s office — of tearing and ripping and smashing, of torching the neighborhood into an ashen mass, of fracturing the world into tiny, little pieces.
Report From the Respiratory System
Still breathing.
Interview with the Poet
1. What was your inspiration for this piece?
I had two primary inspirations when I wrote this piece last fall: (1) "The Heat Death of the Universe" by Pamela Zoline and (2) Texas's recently passed abortion law, which empowered private citizens to legally come after women seeking abortions after six weeks of pregnancy. The former inspired me to navigate my feelings of the latter through a fragmented narrative centered on a female protagonist navigating a world that is both familiar and uncanny.
2. What is your creative process? (How do you go about writing or creating?)
I usually think and write in a fragmented way—often jumping from writing the first sections to the last, before doubling back to the middle—which was conducive to the storytelling in this piece. I also like to keep Stephen King's advice to "write with the door closed" and "rewrite with the door open" because it helps me make sure that I am not only writing something that others will enjoy reading but also something that I enjoy reading as well.
3. What are some influences on your artistic process?
As an aspiring psychiatrist, I am heavily influenced by the conventions of psychological thriller and horror (such as "The Shining" and "The Silence of the Lambs"). I like stories that give readers an intimate look inside a character's mind (almost to the point of discomfort. In all my pieces, I often find myself gravitating towards a character-driven narrative focused on nuanced protagonists.
4. Is there anything more you’d like our readers/viewers to know about you or your work?
"Half-Life" is the first short story that I finished that I am truly proud of. I hope to continue pushing my writing boundaries and finding new interesting ways to tell stories about the world we live in and the worlds I create.