[Sterilization of the soul, 641 words, Genre: Experimental]
* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn
Doctors and physicians stood around the patient. The patient lay in his bed in throes of conjuncture, somewhere between a fever and a comatose state. That said, the condition was critical. The doctors all cross-examined the patient.
“Do we have a diagnosis?”
“Not as yet determined.”
The patient pulled one of the doctors in close. He grabbed them by the collar and began whispering into their ears. “What, what, what…”
“Patient repeats himself. Add this to the list of symptoms.”
The patient let go of the doctor. Then lay back in his bed. The white bed, with white sheets, in a room with white walls, with white curtains enclosing the patient from another patient. The patient spread his legs, attempting to stretch his limbs. Attempting to reach out for something. There was nothing that could be grasped and in the feverish condition that the patient found himself in, it was uncertain what the patient was reaching out for exactly. Only that he was reaching out.
A doctor filled a syringe with a clean, clear liquid. “We’ll sterilize it.”
“Styrilize it? Styrilize what exactly doctor?” It was another doctor, addressing his equal.
“It. The root of the infection. Whatever caused it.”
Then the patient began to scream out, “There’s nothing wrong with me! There’s nothing bloody wrong with me!”
But before the doctors could listen to him, they initiated the line of injections, one after another, that would kill the infection. The first injection knocked the patient unconscious. Over the next few days, the doctors and hospital staff began to treat the patient with a series of injections to treat the ‘infection’. Killing whatever disease that lay as an undercurrent. Swelling away and spreading to his other limbs that produced these fits of fever. The patient never woke from his slumber. The hospital staff monitored his condition as he continued to sleep. He slept through the days, weeks and months.
Then eventually one day he passed away. The doctors all came together in their observation notes of the patient. “What do we put this one down to?”
“Another statistic, another one of them, another one that couldn’t be saved.”
“How many will we lose to this horrible plague?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem like it’s going to let up anytime soon. At least, we can be assured, the infection will not spread any further.”
The doctors were brought together and they all reconfirmed their opinions on the subject, lest they be subjected to some form of inquiry. The inquiry into that which the disease pertained to and not one of them had an answer.
Years later the truth would come out. About it. About the plague. The plague was nothing more than the will to self-expression. Humanity itself. The sterilization of humanity from various institutions as initiated by a military like discipline applied to the free world. The free world was no longer free. It was once free, but over a cyclical period of boredom and stagnation had subjected itself to a cage in order to once again, somewhere in the future, break free from that cage. For when human beings become free they will inevitably adopt slavery back as a form which constitutes a way of the working world. Only because there is nothing else to do. And with idle time we are left with no option but to confront the reality of our own mortality. Experience our own existential crisis and abandon any freedoms that our ancestors once fought for. The struggle never ceases because with the struggle brings about pressure, which brings about the production of the new, the ordained, the ephemeral, only to bring about another struggle for the following generation.
Without any competitor one must face inwards, and what one discovers upon that observation, one would rather avoid if given the decision to do so.