She's pleading again
Begging me to fuck her
It’s agony
I can’t do this
I can’t let go
She needs me
I can’t
File name: Untold Stories
Passcode: 8675309
My fingers rested on the edge of The Art and Practice of Conception while I sat on a shiki cushion on the floor of my monastery bedroom.
I’d been working my way through the erotic exercises outlined in the book, and they’d been exceptionally sensory, but also mystical. The main focus of the book was a ceremonial preparation for working with the mystical force of erotica to conceive a child. It was a lovely idea, and I'd thought it couldn’t hurt to do the solo exercises.
But the last time—there had been. . . sadness. I'd thought it was my sadness at first, but there was a whiff of something else—someone else—sad, like perfume on the breeze.
My fingers curled into my palm.
I turned my attention to the document opened on my pad in front of me and started writing:
Anxiety—It Happens
I want to tell you a true story about anxiety, and how it’s been impacting me. I’m working with it now, and doing better. But I don’t have it all together, and I’m a work in progress. You see, for a long time, I anxiety was something I shoved away and kept myself busy.
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But one day, I was on a starliner and had a panic attack. If you don’t know what that is, well, it was like the walls were closing in on me, and I couldn’t breathe. I found a technique that helped, though. It’s called Tapping, and I want to tell you abo—
I broke off typing. Incoming transmit from Emergency.
Emergency? What was it? Placental abruption? Ovarian torsion? Was I prepping for surgery? I came alert in a flash.
“Dr. Ryst Nova. You are the Emergency Contact for Peydran Madrano. I am calling to inform you that Mr. Madrano is under sedation and is currently en route to Equi University Medical Hospital for emergency cybernetics augmentation.”
Peydran.
Amputation.
Peydran.
Cybernetics.
Peydran.
Left hand.
Peydran.
Surgery.
Peydran.
Suffering.
Peydran.
Pain.
Peydran.
Grief.
Peydran.
Left hand. Programmer. Coder. Keyboards. Typing. No more. His left hand. Augment.
I opened eyes I didn’t know were closed, my left hand stretched out in front of me. I marveled at it.
I had two hands. Did I know how much they did for me? Always; everyday. Chopping. Grasping. Holding. Touching. Sensing. Reaching.
My left hand reached out, reaching for something unseen.
Peydran would reach out. I would reach back.
Two hands reached in front of me. Patting the air. There was something there. Just beyond reach. I sensed it, but didn't. I couldn't quite feel it, but I knew it was there. There was something I needed.
An airship and Peydran’s parents.
I was a medica. They'd need help.
"I’m coming, Peydran; I won’t leave you alone. When you wake up, I’ll be there. Even if you have no hand to hold.”
I’d stopped pacing. I’d given up on sleeping. Two days had passed; one more to go. I leaned back in my chair with my head against the wall next to Peydran’s mother.
His parents had asked me their questions. I’d had answers. I'd helped them through the counseling meetings for family of cybernetics patients.
They were grieved, but they were relieved—their son was alive. That was all that mattered. They didn’t quite grasp that he wasn’t the son they knew anymore.
My eyes closed, remembering the feeling of being on call as an obgyneca—irregular sleep, weird hours. Not healthy. I needed to rest, but it was hard to relax.
Anxiety. Of course I was anxious beyond the stars. Peydran had been in surgery for days, and he would wake up a different person.
I knew what it was like to wake up in the hospital, traumatized. It hadn’t been that long ago for me, but It felt like lifetimes.
It would be worse for Peydran. Worse physical pain. It would last longer than mine. Worse emotional pain. My body had not been permanently altered.
With mechanics.
And pain.
