Wick in the Rot

Wick in the Rot

The burn on my wrist isn’t bleeding anymore, but it still secretes a watery, golden fluid, the color of honeysuckle nectar. The color of sunlight on a winter morning. The color of codeine cough syrup before the most exquisite sleep. 

No stench. That’s a good sign.

I redress the wound, carefully keeping the bandage beneath my gray sweater cuff.

I don’t want questions or pity.

There’s no story to tell, anyway.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. I have 20 minutes before bus N8 arrives. Just enough time for a coffee and toast. 

My wool socks silently cross the parquet. I take the loaf of sourdough from the breadbox, cutting two slices, as large as I can possibly fit into the toaster’s slots. That leaves us with just a quarter loaf; I’ll need to make another when I get home tonight. 

Ever the optimist, assuming I’ll be home tonight.

I mix instant coffee powder with water from the kettle, although, truth be told, I don’t taste the difference if I boil the water in the microwave. It’s still bitter and jittery, but the smell is a luxury.  

It smells like normal. Like an ordinary, groggy morning. 

I eat quickly—only seven minutes until the bus arrives, now—but I take time to rinse off my plate, knife, and mug. Sudsy water drips down my hands, stinging the burn underneath the bandage. Hurried now, I grab the drab green coat off the hook next to the front door and lock it quickly behind me.

I shove my hands into the deep pockets. It’s not quite cold enough for mittens, but the sharp wind could crack my damp hands. The boxy bus’ engine groans as it trundles uphill; its brakes hiss. I’m the only one at the stop; hopefully, it’s not too hard to board.

“Sorry, I damaged my chip,” I smile and roll down my sleeve, to reveal the top of my bandage. “Can you scan my REAL ID?” 

The N8 driver bot’s eyes are deep brown, like a teddy bear’s glassy eyes. Their design is human enough to elicit empathy; robotic enough to command respect. 

It nods, “Please place your ID in the rectangle above the scanner.”

“Thank you,” I say smiling, as my stomach drops. 

My face is the same shape as the woman’s face on the ID. We have the same olive skin, and the same green eyes. My smile is less symmetrical; I suppose she hadn’t had her jaw broken and reset twice. Still, without scanning my biometric chip, I know it's technologically impossible for the N8 bot to determine I’m not the woman on the card. And yet, I hold my breath until the green light blinks. I take back the ID.

“Thanks,” I say, and walk to the back of the bus. It's a habit, being polite to the bus drivers. And the waiters. Even faceless delivery and surveillance drones prompt a nod and a smile. Maybe a sign of their thoughtful design, or just my bleeding heart, searching for humanity.

I lean my head against the window, warm breath fogging it, obscuring the ruins of the Cathedral, the tangle of vines, brush, and tree trunks lining the roadway. Floods come with such frequency now, there’s no bother to do anything but push aside the wreckage and let it rot in a heap.

I remember digging through the trash piles when I first arrived. I wasn’t surprised by the decay; I had been warned the automation revolution had been botched here, where seeds of fear were deeply rooted. What did surprise me was finding new growth in the garbage. Sprouting from toxin-seeped soil, the green wick of a vine looped through debris. Its shiny leaves were striped, alternating between a dark emerald and bright spring green. I had to be careful not to cut my hands on its long thorns. 

I sigh. It will be at least an hour before we reach the hospital. I close my eyes, hoping I look like I’m attempting a cat nap, as I visualize the plan. Again.

It starts just as I saw it in my mind’s eye. 

I disembark at the hospital stop. A security drone waits for me; it immediately confiscates my REAL ID, and escorts me to the non-emergency waiting room, windowless, on the sixth floor. The waiting room is lit with sterile blue light, decorated with oversized photographs of nature; waterfalls, lakes, and oceans—scenes intended to calm the amygdala. 

But it’s not meant to be a comfortable place. The chairs are cold, hard, and plastic. A damaged biometric chip is one of the most common non-emergency events, but the vending machine only responds to a biometric scan—a punishment, not an oversight. 

My hollow stomach growls as I wait. I’ve fasted intermittently in preparation, practicing serenity, suppressing irritation provoked by hunger pangs. When I feel anxiety flare, I run my mantra through my head, like my fingers across a worry rock. 

Hope is a gentle flame. 

Bright enough to banish the darkness of the past.

Yet, too soft to fully illuminate the joy ahead.

Hope is a gentle flame. 

I’m not sure how many hours pass before I’m admitted to the operating room. It’s dark, lit dimly by wall sconces. A large security drone asks me to sit on the raised table. I’m asked to confirm the name, the birthday, and the address on the ID. The city and state that I was born in. My mother’s maiden name. I’m tired and hungry, but the fear of what will happen if I make a mistake keeps my mind sharp. 

When the security drone leaves, a medic bot rolls in. A female voice asks me to disrobe. It hands me a container for my personal belongings and warns me there is no guarantee they will be returned in the same condition. I wonder if I’m intended to wear the flimsy paper gown home, when bright lights turn on, interrupting my thoughts, temporarily blinding me. Before my eyes can adjust to the sudden switch from yin to yang, the medic bot asks me to recline, relax, and extend my right arm. It secures it to the table and injects a cocktail of twilight into my veins. I happily surrender to sleep.

I know that once I’m unconscious, an operating drone will attempt to dig out the remains of the biometric chip in my wrist, looking for any data to corroborate my identity. I’m confident it won’t find a digital ghost. I survived the burn.

And if you survive the burn, the chip is obliterated.

It has to be. Otherwise, no one would ever risk an identity switch.

The biometric chips are nanoscopic, inserted less than a centimeter away from the radial artery, so removal must be done precisely by a robot. That alone wouldn’t deter people from the black market. Worst case scenario, you bleed out. Not ideal (a dead person isn’t going to pay hush money, after all) but a body can easily get lost in the trash heaps; the streets already smell rancid and the vultures can pick a skeleton clean in less than five hours. 

Worse than death, though, is a biochip discovered on remains. This will trigger an automated elimination of connections linked to the cadaver. And despite the news feed rhetoric, no one wants to come here, unless they have a connection worth dying for.

It’s so much simpler to welcome refugees on the other side. 

But for those of us who have someone in here who can’t make it out, our chips must be completely destroyed, or there is no use entering the walled garden.

I wake up on a cot in the recovery ward. I never told my father, but I was secretly afraid of waking up alone at the hospital. I wasn’t worried about blowing my cover; at this point, after the anesthetic, anything I babbled would be considered unreliable. No, my fear was childish; I anticipated feeling lonely, waking up, and not having anyone here to greet me. To wrap my arms around in victory. Without a shoulder to cry sobs of relief into.

But as I blink my eyes open, I’m surprised to find myself welcoming the silence. I feel no twinge of hunger, and the persistent stinging from the burn on my wrist has ceased. 

The painkillers are strong.

Yet, I’m pleasantly clear-headed. I stretch my arms above my head and pull my legs into my stomach. I roll my ankles, popping the right one several times.

Under the cot, I find my box of clothing. As I button my jeans, I remember, we’re out of bread. I wonder how long I’ve been at the hospital. Will I be able to get back to the apartment before dark? It’d be nice to get a loaf baked before midnight. 

These mundane thoughts come so quickly, so much faster than the revelation that will continue in waves throughout the bus ride back to the apartment, throughout the night, throughout the week, throughout the month, and perhaps, throughout the rest of my life.

I belong here, now. 

I belong to the District.