Niobe

“Humans are emotional creatures.” It’s a quote I heard somewhere. I can’t tell you were but I always loved thinking about us in that way. I’ve thought many times about what separates us from animals and more recently I’ve thought about what separates us from the machines we’ve come to rely on.

It's hard to place my finger on exactly what the difference is. In my head it used to be that since we talk and communicate that is why we are different. Then I learned that dolphins communicate in a very complex manner. I then thought about how our use of tools is what makes humans different, then I watched a video of a raven solving puzzles with small tools. 

Every concept of what makes us human another living thing has done something similar. So I began to rationalize that’s what makes living things. Then there was the creation of Artificial Intelligence. The first forms of it came out when I was just a baby. I was so little I don’t have any recollection of what life was like before but I remember my parents telling me that back when they were kids they didn’t have AI. Humans did all the organizing, they worked the factories, they would personally build homes, they would manage portfolios. They were the doctors. 

It's always been around and always has been a part of my life, it’s hard to imagine a world without it. Who would do my shopping? The laundry? What about planning my day? It would have taken ages to accomplish the simple tasks like maintaining a home. Can you imagine? Having to vacuum your whole house? 

I remember as a child, probably around twelve, talking with a Chat Bot in our kitchen and my parents told me I needed to make real friends. That is the first time that I pondered what is real? My parents never thought of our AI compatriots as real. I always have. They were always there.

I’ve always viewed them as if they’re one of us. A part of the family. My mom was always so reliant on our Chef Bot. She hardly cooked and if she did it was marginally as good as how the robot did. To me it was a part of the family. I nicknamed him Chief. He was a very good listener and gave great advice for how to deal with boys.

I’d always thought of them as one of us, as human.

Until recently.

“Mara, I just want to be left alone.” My husband, Brennan, groaned blinking controls into his neuro transmitter as he was laying in the dark on our bed.

It had been days. Days since Brennan had left the bedroom. Days since he had made a meal. Days since he had disabled his neuro device. Days since he had touched me.

Days…

“Brennan, we’ve got to do something,” I beg, sitting myself on the foot of the bed. “We haven’t done anything together since…” My voice trails off, not wanting to trigger an emotional shutdown.

Brennan rolls his eyes. “What do you want to do?” His question was heavy with irritation and an over-enunciated you.

“Anything.” I call out, raising my hands up.

Brennan rubbed a hand over his face, pulling the skin down and scratching his unkempt beard. I always liked it when he had a gruff look, especially as he grayed it made him look rugged in a way that gave me butterflies. But this look was different.

It wasn’t the look of someone who forgot their razor or someone who just kept spacing to shave. It was one that had been left too long and wasn’t trimmed. It was matted where he had been laying on it. It looked like he had given up.

And he had.

Brennan wouldn’t meet my eyes. He studied our comforter closely pulling at some loose threads. “Mara… I just don’t feel like it. I am sorry.” He whispers sadly.

I can’t help it. Tears pool in my eyes and one escapes the prism of my lids and spills slowly down my cheek. I usually try to hide them to not cause any more distress to Brennan, but this time I did nothing. I left it. Feeling its wet path it traced along my cheekbone.

“Please…” I say in a hushed tone.

He looked up at me for the first time since I entered the room. I noticed his eyes focus on mine and I see the pain. Deep pain. His gaze followed my tear as it pools on my chin and drops to my chest. His mouth involuntarily turned downward. “Mara… I’m… broken.” He murmurs in defeat the words heavy in his mouth. He puts his head into his hands.

“Me too!” I cry throwing myself at him.

I land in his arms and wrap myself around him. His arms encircle me. We hold each other and cry. Both of our emotions swirl into a whirlpool of despair.

We cried.

A few hours later we both woke up, still embracing each other.

I spoke first.

“Brennan, I was talking to Eris.”

He looked at me confused.

“Our neighbor,” I clarified and then continued, “She was telling me about when she lost her mother.”

Brennan said nothing, just stared at me.

“She was introduced to a new method to help people deal with grief.”

“Losing a mother is nothing compared to what we are going through.” Brennan stated in a monotone voice.

“I’m not saying it's the same.” I said, a bit hurt by Brennan's quick dismissal of what I was trying to share with him.

“Sorry…” he said.

“She talked about how they can help remove the intense guilt so that we can still keep living our lives.” I finished.

Brennan scrunched his nose in disbelief, “How?”

“I didn’t fully understand it, something with gene editing,” I say, “Either way she gave me the number of the clinic that is testing this new method.”

“Did it help Eris?” he questioned.

“She didn’t qualify for the trials. We may not even qualify, but it could be worth a try,” I implore.

“Eh…” Brennan grunted and turned around in the bed, laying on his side and facing away from me.

“Come on, Brennan,” I beg. “We could try and use it to get back to normal.”

“Why?” he asked in a monotone voice.

“Because…. Its time… its been three months,” I began.

“I know how long it's been,” He snapped, still looking away from me.

“Brennan… We’ve got to start getting back to normal life,” I begin.

“How?” He yelled. Turning and looking at me. “How can I go back to normal life when I killed our son?” His eyes had a crazed look about them.

We’ve had this part of the fight before.

“You didn’t…” I whispered, knowing no matter what I say would convince him differently.

“I didn’t?” he asked incredulously. “Then how did he die, Mara?” venom dripped from his every word.

He didn’t mean it toward me. I know this in my head. He was like a cornered animal forced to face the feelings that were always lying dormant in his heart. He lashed out at me because he wasn’t ready to face it yet and I was pressuring him to confront them now. He wasn’t ready.

“How did he die?” He repeated his question to me.

“It was an accident,” I cried.

“An accident? These cars drive themselves. It was completely avoidable but I wanted to take it for a spin. I wanted to drive it. I thought I had it under control. I crashed it. I killed him.”

I was crying. Tears freely spilled down my cheeks. My husband stared at me. Broken, hurt, and enraged. His emotions were in control. His emotions crippled him.

That was the last fight we had. After that one Brennan shut down completely. Not enough left in him to even fight me anymore. It took another week but I convinced him to try. To try what Eris our neighbor had suggested. To see if there was a way we could help lessen his grief. To make it bearable.

It had been months. Months since Brennan had been out of the home. Months since Brennan had gotten ready, had showered. Had trimmed his beard. He did it that day. Well… mostly I did it for him, but he allowed me to. There was a nick on his neck where I had cut his skin slightly with the razor.

I had him keep the beard. I loved it. The look, the feel, the smell. It suited him well and he had no opinion on his looks at that time. I also trimmed his hair, but for that one I recruited help from our cosmetic bot.

We both were sitting in a well lit waiting room. The ceiling lights were string lights running along all the corners of the room giving a sterile vibe. The floors were white and reflected the lights from the ceiling. The front desk was curved and behind it sat a young brown haired girl where upon more inspection you could see her metallic joint and hear the lack of flaws. She was an AI receptionist. We were next in line to go into the presentation room.

We had qualified for the Cognitive Relief Program or CRP. It was being hosted at the EvenMind Clinic and that day we were there for our formal education and Brennan’s first treatment.

A door to the backroom opened up and out stepped a young blonde nurse, “Brennan Wayman.” Her voice was human. She was no robot.

Both Brennan and I stood and followed her into the bowels of the building. She attempted to make small talk, but Brennan hardly acknowledged her existence. I would give courteous answers to try and spare the feelings of the poor girl.

She led us to a small room. As we walked in there were rows of seats all pointed toward a screen on the wall. She had us sit near the front row and directed our attention to the screen.

I wish I could recall more of the message it portrayed to us. I have a hard time remembering all the details. What I do remember is they introduced a type of gene editing known as CRISPR. It had been used to cure cancer and some autoimmune diseases, but recently the FDA had approved its use in trials to tackle some of the more psychological weights people carry. It listed items such as depression, anxiety, bipolar, and grief.

Some people are born where their brain is hardwired with the chemical imbalance of stronger emotions. Recently AI had been paired with CRISPR and was able to identify the parts of the human genome that contributed to those inclinations. With slight and continuous modifications to that genome the brain could rewire itself to remove those inclinations and help a person have a more stable emotional balance even in extreme circumstances.

It listed some uses and successes of this technology. Soldiers and their PTSD. Alzheimer patients and their memory loss. I remember being impressed with the accomplishments and I remember the hope. The hope that I would get my Brennan back.

After the presentation we went and met with the bot that was programmed as the doctor for administering this test. It was simple for a brain altering procedure. Two shots. One in a large muscle group such as the leg, one in the base of the neck. The shot in the neck to introduce the CRISPR to Brennan's system, and the shot the muscle group was nanobots to monitor the changes made, and the emotional levels. Both shots need to be made every other day to ensure changes. They had a bot we could buy to help administer shots but we did not have the funds so I was taught how to give him the injections.

My husband gave little reaction. Just took the shots and made minimal small talk. Then we went home.

He acted the same. Sat in the room distracting his mind with any type of entertainment he could find on his neuro transmitter. He lay there, completely disconnected from the world around him. I lay down later that evening. He sat there focused on something else, I pressed up into his back, holding him close begging that these treatments would help me get my Brennan back. I lay there until I fell asleep.

When I woke up the next morning, he was gone. I lay sprawled, our bedspread wrapped around me, and my arms outstretched to his side of the bed but it was empty. A small indent still lay in the mattress where Brennan had been laying for months. The blankets were cold.

I sit up and arch my back reaching my arms toward the sky, feeling the tight muscles around my spine stretch. Where is Brennan? Excitement fills my heart as I realize this is the first time he has woken up before me since the accident. I quickly make my way to our bathroom, to make sure that he isn’t in there.

The bathroom is empty. I smell a small aroma that I recognize. It wafts in from out of the bedroom. The smell of bacon, Brennan’s favorite.

I rush out to the kitchen, my nightgown open and flowing behind me. My socked feet slip on the slick wooden flooring as I rush through the neutrally colored hallway. It opens to our kitchen.

Sitting at our dark granite island that is centered in the kitchen is Chief. I had inherited him from my parents when they passed. He is a very old model of AI but has been updated, both software and hardware, to still function well. His humanoid shape is sitting straight. Robots do not slouch. He is covered in silver false flesh which gives him a softer look than the movies portray human androids. When we upgraded his hardware we kept him silver, because to make him realistic was eerie and both Brennan and I agreed we didn’t like that look.

Chief’s optic sensors, made to look like eyes, are focused on Brennan as he was stooped over the stovetop, his back toward me. Dark smoke billowed from a pan where he was cooking. Brennan had tongs in his hands and he was humming as he flipped the bacon sizzling loudly.

“Brennan?” I asked tentatively as I slowly walked myself to the kitchen island.

He turns his head back toward me. His eyes look me up and down. “Hey there,” he replies with a sly little smile sneaking over his lips. “You look like you’re trying to escape something from our room.”

I look down at myself. I had my night gown on but it was open and underneath my undergarments were exposed. I can feel my black hair is disheveled and matted from sleep. My eyes still feel droopy as the last remnants of rest lying heavy on their lids.

“Well you look good.” I tease back, pulling my nightgown closed around my exposed body. He stands at the stove in his loose fitting boxers, a gray shirt hung loosely over his shoulders. His short light brown hair still has the indents of sleep pushing it upward but it added to his rugged look that his beard already was influencing.

His smile widened, “I feel great,” he exclaimed and then gestured toward the burning pan on the stove, “I even made breakfast. You’re favorite, bacon.”

I giggled and skipped over to the stove. I stood onto my tiptoes and gave him a peck on the cheek before looking at what exactly was happening to cause such black smoke. Bacon, too dark to eat, sits sizzling in the white bubbles of oil on the dark pan. I wrinkle my nose.

Brennan sees my face and immediately throws up his excuses. “It’s been a while, but honestly… I’ve never been great at this.” His smile doesn’t break.

I gave a little laugh and snake my body around so that our chests are touching. I take his head in both my hands and interlock my lips with his. For the first time in three months he returns it. Gentle pressure from him sucking on my upper lip and I feel his hands explore my body.

Three Months

We pulled apart as Chief pushed us out of the way. He holds a metal lid and expertly slams it down onto the pan extinguishing a grease fire we were too distracted to notice.

“Sorry Chief,” Brennan says jovially with a cheesy smile plastered on his face.

“Don’t worry Brennan, I was keeping an eye on it. I’ll make sure to salvage your attempts,” Chief says in his unique voice. A soft tone with perfect inflections. It always sounded too perfect. So cheerful. But it missed two things. One was the facial features to match the tone and words he was proclaiming. Second was something so small that if you were talking to him on the phone, you wouldn’t notice. Something real.

The rest of that day was heaven. I had my husband back. I had my partner. I had my friend. I wasn’t alone. We spent that whole day just being in each other’s presence. Neither of us initiated our Neuro Transmitters. Neither of us allowed ourselves to be distracted by that digital world we had instant access to. We kept them dormant, inactive in our brain.

We swam in our pool outback. We walked around the neighborhood. We cuddled and read a paper book in our possession, handling it with care as it was one of our most expensive treasures. We talked. We kissed. We held each other.

When the sun was setting on the trees outside of our home and the light spilled orange into our family room, things changed. Brennan sat on our couch, putting together a digital puzzle on the table in front of him. I lay across the couch, my head in his lap. One of his hands mindlessly played with my hair, following its path to the edge of my scalp; then he would trace my hairline.

I was enjoying the feel of his hands on my skin as I asked him, “When was the last time you did one of these puzzles?”

His hand tensed on my scalp, pulling hair tightly into his fist. I turned my attention to his face that, just moments before, had a quiet calm as he worked on his brainteaser. Now it was twisted in pain. Emotions tugged heavily on his mouth and water began to cloud his vision.

“With Diggory,” he whispers through clenched teeth.

I stare at him, my heart breaking. I feel pain both at hearing Diggory’s name and at seeing the response it elicits in Brennan. I need to fix this. I need to help him navigate these emotions before he drowns back into his grief.

“Brennan, I miss Diggory..” My sentence is interrupted as he pulls aggressively with his hand that is clenching a fistful of my hair. Pulling my head up close so that his mouth is right near my ear.”

“Don’t say his name,” He hissed into my ear.

I whimper in pain and confusion. Brennan had never acted so aggressively. He was always so kind, so gentle. The man I loved feels so deeply that the thought of causing other pain always hurt him. I figure that’s one of the reasons that Diggory’s death weighed so heavily on him, knowing that he had caused pain to not just himself, but to Diggory, and to me.

He released my hair and my head fell from his grasp and bounced off his lap. Brennan curled into a ball, pulled his knees up to his chest, sobs erupting from deep inside him. I sat up, all the pain I felt from my hair getting pulled immediately forgotten as I looked at this broken man.

I hugged him and helped him to bed where he immediately initiated his Neuro Transmitter, his eyes no longer focused on the room around him but he escaped to some digital world in his mind. Something, anything to distract him from the emotions pulsing through him..

I called the EvenMind Clinic on my neuro transmitter after leaving him to his distractions and got a medbot on the other end. It reviewed the data from the nanobots inside of Brennan confirming emotional outburst that evening and adjusted the CRISPR edit to alter his brain a little differently than the avenue they were going.

“Please call again if you see any other emotional outbreaks such as this,” the medbot voice stated on the call, nearly perfectly human sounding.

“Ok thank you, will he have more outbursts like that?” I questioned.

“It is unknown, everyone has a different reaction as their brain goes through the alteration, just be wary and patient with him,” the bot explained.

We then concluded the call and I went to bed. My mind wary of what we are doing to my husband.

That next morning I gave Brennan his shots. They automatically adjusted the CRISPR edit remotely. The metal brief case that they had given the medicine to me in altering the dosage and the shots inside before I pulled out the syringe to inject my husband.

The next few days are back to exactly like that first day. Lovely. I again had my husband back. He teased and flirted. He came up with ideas for us to do. He kissed me. He started his paintings again. He smiled.

But I always had that outburst weighing on my mind. The violence of his reaction to me. The anger in his voice. It all overshadowed those happy moments, causing me to worry.

It’d been a week since we started the treatments. Brennan was doing amazing, Life was quickly getting back to as close to normal as we could hope for. I began to forget about his outburst, contributing to it as a bad side effect of his treatments.

Brennan and I took a hike. We went to a place we used to travel to many times. It’s a river that snakes down the mountains. There was a hike that took us right near the edge of it and gave a perfect view of the mountains in the background. We hauled in Brennan’s paint supplies and some snacks that Chief had prepped for us.

We settled on a spot and I laid out the blanket with the snacks sprawled on it. Grapes, cheese, crackers, and some sweet drinks. I was excited for this romantic moment. Brennan set up his easel pointing it toward the mountains so that he could see it as he painted.

I ate while he indulged in his art. I watched him as I’ve done many times. I watched his hands move as he used them to measure the scale of the mountains, as he carefully pulled paint onto the brush and stroked it across the canvas. Something was off though. His face, which usually had a calm focused hint of smile on it as he worked his art, was different. He went through the actions but his expression almost seemed indifferent to the experience.

I shook my head, telling myself I was looking too much into something so small.

Another date that Brennan and I went to was a pottery shop where you can use clay to form your own pots. It was something Brennan and I always loved doing but I was wary to take him. Wary of what his reaction might be. But I missed it. I missed the intimate feeling of molding the clay under my hands and working with Brennan to make something new.

We got there and we planned to make a vase. Brenna started it on the pottery wheel. Spinning it while working the clay. His hand molding the clay up and down, water spinning off the wheel. His muscles flexed.

As I watched him my mind recalled a memory. I can hear Diggory’s laugh as we sat him on the child wheel next to ours. He would giggle and splash in the water pulling the clay apart. I feel the mixture of emotions as I ponder on the memory. I remember the frustration as Diggory would destroy our work with his small toddler hands. What I would give to be back in that moment. I wouldn’t let frustration cloud that experience. I would bask in it. In him. In Diggory.

Tears cloud my vision as I feel the longing for my son. I long to hear his little laugh, to see the dimples on his plump cheeks, and to squeeze his little body into a tight hug.

I turned and looked to my husband for support. For help as I felt waves of emotions crash into my consciousness and the weight of grief settle heavily on my shoulders. I looked at Brennan, his face distorted through my tears.

He looked up from his project and saw me in distress. He paused what he was doing and worry etched into his features. “You alright my dear?” He questioned.

I shake my head, words not able to escape around the lump in my throat. Tears spill down my face, shaking loose as my head moves side to side.

He dropped his carving tools he was using and, knocking the wheel over, rushed to me pulling me into his arms. I shake in his arms allowing myself to lose to the overwhelming feelings. He held me there, closely. I could feel his breath, hear his heart beat, and I rose with the rhythm of his breathing.

We sat there, in the pottery workshop, surrounded by the beautiful works of art. I felt my loss. For the first time since we had lost Diggory, I felt it all and didn’t force myself to hold it together. I didn’t force myself to bottle it in so that my husband wouldn’t have another issue to cry over. I didn’t hide myself from the man I love.

I let it out. I felt it all.

Hours passed, or at least I felt it was hours that we sat there alone. Brennan did not let me go except to adjust for comfort as some of his appendages would fall asleep.

Finally, after feeling wrung dry, I separated myself from my husband and looked up into his blue eyes. He looks at me.

“I just thought of the last time we did this with Diggory,” I began to explain, feeling a need to clarify my breakdown.

“Who?” he questioned.

“Diggory,” I say, feeling his name heavy on my lips.

Brennan’s eyes stared at me blankly, “Hmm… I understand.”

That was the first time I saw something different. Afterward he worked to comfort me, but it all felt like he was going through the motions rather than feeling like he was there for me. It almost felt like he was there to fulfill his role as my husband, rather than being empathetic. It scared me.

It left me with questions and with doubts. Doubts that lingered in the back of my mind eating at my comfort. Corroding my confidence in this treatment. I felt I had gotten my husband back, but now there is doubt.

But still we continued the treatments. I saw my husband return. I had him back. He had a dull moment as he tried to recall his son but maybe that’s how it works? Maybe it numbs everything, the joy and the pain? Maybe that is worth it so that we can enjoy the other aspects of our life? I couldn’t fathom stopping the treatments and having Brennan regress back into the darkness of despair. I needed my husband and I finally was getting him back.

So we continued. Weeks passed and I saw slight changes. So small. He meticulously started organizing his sock drawer, color coordinated his pencil container on his desk, and his art changed.

Brennan was always disorganized and his mind always went to imaginary locations. Creative spaces were his escape. It’s where he went when the world was too much. Depression broke him and fractured his ability to travel there, but he had returned as we started the treatment.

A month after starting treatment I found a family portrait he had painted. He had many times painted our family and in it were flurries of colors, emotions painted on our exaggerated expressions, and we were always in unrealistic locations such as in the stars, over a large waterfall, or flying over some majestic mountainscape. Something that seemed childish but was a window into Brennan’s mind.

This portrait I found was different. We were in a dreary cityscape, surrounded by organized shops with basic logos and branding. The image he did of himself was in neutral colors, his smile was there but didn’t reach his eyes and he stood formally. The image he painted of me was with my wild black hair blowing in the wind. My face seemed to radiate light and my smile was bright but my eyes were sad. I wore vibrant colors and he caught an intense beauty I had never seen him paint before.

Both of our portraits stood with their hands outstretched to hold the hand of a child that stood between them.

Diggory

I scrutinized the image of our son. The body of a toddler reaching his chubby fingers up and grasping our hands. But his face… His face was painted then smudged making it unrecognizable. A toddler's body with a blurred image.

The portrait sent chills into my body and fear into my heart. Is that how he now remembers Diggory?

I remember confiding in the only person I have left to talk to. Worried that it would upset or confuse Brennan I talked to Chief.

“I don’t understand why that would happen,” I whisper as the robot places a plate of freshly baked cookies in front of me.

“It is to be expected,” my confidant answers. I take a bite of the treat in front of me and it melts in my mouth causing me to drool from the delicious flavor.

“Expected?” I asked confused, “Why would you expect that?”

Chief continues to masterfully begin prepping for another treat. This one for tomorrow but the master AI robot is prepping now so that the pudding for the center has time to set up. “AI is being used to monitor, measure, and adjust all edits made through CRISPR to Brennan’s brain, correct?” It asks for clarification from recall on one of our previous conversations we had when Brennan first started his treatment.

“Yes it is,” I confirm.

“Artificial Intelligence is very good at being efficient,” it explains. Then continues precisely measuring ingredients and setting items in organized containers.

“So?” I questioned.

“What is the most efficient way to remove grief?”

The question slams into like a freight train. My mind whirls grasping for the answer, “Remove the source?” I whisper, my heart breaking.

I approached my husband about it that night and asked him about Diggory. A subject I had been avoiding to try and keep him from tumbling back into darkness.

“Brennan?” I ask as he sits down at his desk playing a mind teaser game that he had recently bought. It was a game that had a triangular wooden board with holes and pegs sticking out of it. The goal is to strategically move pegs so that as they jump over one another to an open space it would eliminate pegs. The goal is to remove all but one peg.

“Yes honey?” he says, not looking up from his game.

“Do you miss Diggory?” I feel his name catch in my throat.

Brennan doesn’t miss a beat in his game, he doesn’t look up at me, he just asks one simple question, “Who?”

My mind races. “Diggory…”

“Our son?” he questions, his voice almost monotone.

“Yes our son,” I can’t keep the emotions out of my voice. “The boy who we both loved dearly.”

“Yes of course I miss him,” he states plainly. He still hasn’t looked up at me and just keeps jumping one peg over another, removing pieces from the board.

“What do you miss about him?” I dig.

“I miss having him around,” he states. He has jumped multiple pegs now only having four left.

“Of course, me too,” I mumble, “What is your favorite memory of him?” I ask.

Brennan only has two pegs left. “Going on our hikes.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because it was fun,” he states matter of factly, jumps the last peg and looks up at me and gives a small smile. His game is finished and there is only one peg left on that board. He stands up, pats me on the shoulder, and leaves.

I stare after him. Lost at Brennan’s basic answers. They weren’t calloused, hard, or full of pain. Neither were they full of happiness or fondness. They were plain, simple, and void of emotional connection.

I immediately scheduled a ride to the clinic. My heart beat so heavily in my chest that I could hear it thudding through my ears. My mind swirled and worry sat like a weight on my stomach. Those feelings were small compared to the flame of anger in my chest. An anger that made me see red. How could they make him forget? I remember storming into the EvenMind Clinic, ignoring the oddly humanoid receptionist at the front, and pushing my way into the back.

Security caught me as I forced open my fifth exam room door. Each room was supplied with a Nurse Android. The last room I stormed in had a mother and young teenage son, both had cheeks wet from tears as they conversed with the droid. They both looked at me with fear. They were there to learn more about whatever new test EvenMind was introducing them to.

“Don’t do whatever treatment plan they are suggesting,” I say in a panic. I must have looked like a mad woman. My eye’s wild. My hair was mismanaged. Kicking their door in and yelling at them.

The security guards grabbed me and began pulling me away from the exam rooms. I held tight to the door frame, fighting but they were two large men followed by a security bot. They pulled hard and I could barely keep my hold on the door frame.

“Back out while you can,” I scream as they pull me away.

They set me in a secure room and I was there for what felt like hours. I screamed I wanted to talk to the person in charge. To take my husband out of the program. My mind whirled but my adrenaline was fading. My actions early that seemed so justified, are now tinted with the regret of hindsight.

What have I done? What are they going to do with me? What will Brennan think?

The door to my solitude finally opened and in walked a man in a heavily starched suit. He was accompanied by two other men dressed in gray scrubs. The man was tall, his head was bald and had a slight shine to it. His nose was large and his face seemed devoid of any trace of emotions. Not a laugh or frown line were present. 

They settled at the table which sits in the middle of the room and I sat across from them. The man throws a manilla folder onto the table and breaks the cold silence between us. 

“Mara Wayman?” the man questioned in a gravely voice.

I said nothing and nodded my head.

“You and your husband came to us to help him with his overwhelming depression and grief?” he asks.

“You already know that,” I say quietly, “Do I need a lawyer?”

The man looks at her, his gray eyes showing nothing, “You are not under arrest.”

“Why are you keeping me?” I question, “You’re not allowed to hold me against my will.”

He says nothing but opens the large manilla folder and pulls out papers from within. He shuffles through them and finds paper that he flips and shows me.

It was a paper that at the top had Brennan’s name printed cleanly. Beneath were charts, numbers, percentages and more information. I don’t understand it, but I still try to skim through all the information to see if I can glean anything.

“Your husband, Brennan, came in with high levels of depression and overwhelming grief,” the man says, a large finger tapping on a bar chart on the paper he provided. “In your very own statement say ‘He has not been himself since the passing of our son.’”

I stare at him, waiting for him to get to the point.

“We have monitored his condition, found him a positive match for our Cognitive Relief Program. After applying the CRISPR editing and monitoring its changes with our nanobots, our AI interface has seen this adjustment in his depression, anxiety, and grief,” the man’s monotone voice drones and his finger taps a different bar chart which was significantly smaller than the previous one. “It seems his treatment is working, yet you are not satisfied?”

“I’m not upset because he isn’t sad anymore,” I scoffed incredulously, “It took more than just his depression.”

The man cocked his head to the side slightly but remained silent, waiting for me to continue.

“He may not be sad, but he isn’t happy,” I explained.

Again he stares.

“He doesn’t have any emotion,” I say my voice raising.

Blank stare.

“He has no feelings for our son. The son he killed!” I scream. “My Diggory!”

Still nothing. My sobs echo in the small room “Now you’ve taken Brennan from me…” I say between bursts of emotion.

Silently the man nods to the two men in the chairs near them. I focus my attention on them. They were in scrubs not in the same pressed suit the man was in. They stand up from the table and begin walking around it.

“Wha… What are you doing?” I asked, feeling the stabs of fear. The men come closer. I attempt to stand and one of them forcefully shoves me back down into the chair. “What’s going on?” I yell, tears still fresh on my cheeks.

The larger of the two men pins me to my chair with heavy and muscular arms. The second one pulls out three syringes. They force my pants down so that my legs are exposed. I try to kick but the man steps to the side. Adrenaline again pulses through my veins, but I can do nothing about it. He takes two of the syringes and stabs them into my thigh. I scream in fear.

The muscular man holding me forces my head down and pulls my hair to the side exposing the skin on the back of my neck. I feel the pinch as the third needle enters and the cold trickles as the liquid is injected into my bloodstream.

The suited man is still sitting in the chair across the table, watching with a blank expression. Even his eyes had nothing behind them. No soul.

I am released from their grip. I yank my pants back up and stand fear thudding in my chest. The men in scrubs back away from me. I can’t control it. I cry and start walking around the table. The man in the suit continued to stare. I am near the door to exit and my vision tunnels, my legs grow heavy, and my body goes limp. I hit the ground but I don't feel it. The world is sideways and I’m looking into the room I was kept in. None of the men move. They all look at me… waiting.

I woke up to a pinch in my thigh and on the back of my neck. My eyelids are heavy but I forced them open. I squint into the midday light to see Brennan. I catch him throwing two vial type objects in the garbage.

This is our room.

This is my home.

He turns and looks at me. “You’re awake,” he says ecstatically.

I sat up and it feels like my eyes are full of sand and that my head is sloshing full of liquid. A pain is throbbing in my right temple and the light seems extra bright. “I had the weirdest dream,” I mumble with a heavy tongue.

Brennan smiles, “Oh, what about?”

I pursed my lips. “It was bad,” I whisper and reach up to rub the back of my neck. I feel something warm on my fingers. I pull my hand forward and look at it. A small dribble of crimson liquid is smeared on my finger tips.

I look at Brennan in shock. “How long have I been asleep?”

“About one day,” he says nonchalantly.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask in shock, keeping my hand elevated so that I don’t get blood on our white comforter.

“You only got home three hours ago,” he says, shaking his head and chuckling softly to himself.

The fear from the interrogation room floods back into me. My hurt thumps in my chest and my mind races. “Then how could I sleep for a day?” I ask, scared to hear the answer.

“EvenMind dropped you off only three hours ago, said you had a rough time at their clinic,” Brennan answers calmly.

I stared, my mind unable to grasp what happened.

Brennan grew bored and began to head toward the bedroom door and leave.

I stumbled out of bed and toward the garbage can. I pull the lid off and look inside. I can’t see it clearly so I dump the contents out on the ground. I found what I hoped not to. Two syringes, almost identical to the ones I had been using on Brennan. One with nanobots, one with CRISPR. I hide them in the top drawer of my dresser.

I found those syringes two days ago. This morning I woke up to find Brennan laying over me. I tried to push him off but he didn’t budge. I feel the pain as he plunges a syringe into my thigh. I cry out as he flips me over in the bed and I feel the pinch of a needle on my neck. I scream but he pulls me in close and puts his hand over my mouth, tossing the used medicine off the side of the bed. He held me close. I cried.

Just one month ago I would have begged to be held by my husband. To feel his touch. To have his arms around me. But this morning those arms weren’t there for comfort. I don’t know why they were there.

“Why?” I sobbed out to him.

His only answer was, “Because you have grief.”

He held me as if trying to comfort me but it didn’t work. All I felt was the growing fear and a pain in my chest as I felt my heart break.

He then lets me go and leaves the room. I immediately sat down and wrote everything I could remember. That is what this log is.

This is my journal of what EvenMind Clinic is doing. I don’t understand it. I don’t know why Brennan is helping them. I don’t know what is going to happen to me, but it needs to be recorded.

My last entry was two days ago. It happened again this morning. I woke up to Brennan administering the dose to me. I called the police after the first time. They sent over a detective and a research companion robot. They found no evidence of domestic abuse. They found nothing.

“Sorry ma’am,” the police said , shrugging his shoulders and looking at me with an odd look on his face. “We don’t have any evidence of foul play.”

“I have some,” I exclaim and rush them to our bedroom. I yanked open the top drawer and began throwing out the underwear that was stored there. I found nothing. “It’s here, I swear it,” I beg my voice cracking with emotion.

The bot takes over the search through the drawer.

“We have no record of your visit to EvenMind Clinic,” the officer begins, stating, “We have no evidence that you put your husband up for this Cognitive Relief Program, and we have no evidence that you are forcefully being administered this… drug.” The officer peers at me, disbelief plainly plastered on his face.

I looked to Brennan, who stood in the corner of the room. “Tell them we’ve been trying out this test program,” I pleaded with him.

He stares blankly at me then shakes his head sadly, “Sorry Officer, I have no idea what she is talking about.”

My world is spinning. The officers did nothing. I have no evidence. I have no record of ever visiting the EvenMind Clinic. I even searched through the driving records for when Brennan and I went to the clinic. Nothing. I looked for when I went and stormed the clinic and was held there myself. Nothing. In fact we have recorded evidence of me being at home that whole day.

I don’t know what to do.

Brennan woke me this morning and administered the shots. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t fight him. I took the pain and rolled over and went back to sleep. Brennan stayed in bed but slept on the opposite end, our bodies never touching.

It’s been a month since Brennan first started administering treatments to me. I don’t know why I was worried. I do feel the need to write, I can’t remember why. Something important. Something I needed to get down. But the thought escapes me.

I talked with Brennan about the shots a couple days ago. I did ask him, “Brennan why did you start giving me the shots?”

We were at the dinner table and he was in the process of painting another portrait. He didn't look up. “I thought you would know,” he stated blankly.

I search my mind trying to think of why. “Was it because I caused you grief?” I asked, thinking of the basis of the program.

Brennan puts the final touches on the painting and doesn’t answer. He cleans meticulously and with precision washes his brush and puts the mess away, leaving the room. I was left to ponder but never knew why he was doing this. Why did he begin treating me?

I looked at the painting Brennan had just finished.

It was one of his better works. It showed the gray structures of the city we live in. The scope of the work was perfect. The details in the buildings are realistic. The scale was spot on. There are three people Brennan painted standing on the sidewalk near the road. Two adults with a child standing between them.

As I peer closer at the picture I can see the man on the right is Brennan. He is clean cut, he is wearing a nicely pressed suit. His posture is perfect. His face is blank. This is Brennan.

There is a woman he painted to the left. Her black hair is neatly pulled back into a pony tail. She wears an ironed pants suit and her face has a small smile but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I recognize her as me.

Between the portraits of Brennan and I is a toddler. He is wearing oversized overalls, and his chubby fingers yank on our perfectly formed hands. His face is smeared and obscured. Nothing there but a blotch.

I don’t know this boy. I don’t know who Brennan is trying to paint. A part of me thinks that I should. I stare and I try but…

I feel nothing…