I signed up for my mom.
Even as I jotted my signature down on the paper, I could hear her in the back of my mind scolding me.
“What are you doing, Max? Max... I don’t like this.”
That was the voice of wisdom and reason that had guided me for most of my life. But I was getting desperate. I was running out of time. No. Scratch that. Mom was running out of time. Just remembering the sight of my mom on the paramedic’s stretcher increased the cold lump of fear that grew in my stomach. Her last words as she sagged back against the hospital bed coughing weakly resounded ominously in my memory.
“I’ll be fine,” she had whispered even as her fingers barely clung to my broad ones. “My boy Max... my beautiful boy... I don’t want him to worry for me. I’m going to a better place.”
Bile rose in my throat at those words, and tears stung in my eyes as I cradled her thin hand. Years of work in the local candy factory had roughened her palms and bent her back. Yet, she had never complained. After all, she was working for her darling boy. Her baby boy, Max. Even as she struggled to breathe, she was thinking about me.
And I knew I didn’t deserve it.
As soon as I got out of the sterile white and blue room with its blinking machines and soft beeping, my fists balled up. I punched the red brick wall of Mount Hope Hospital and cursed softly. My mom was worried about me—and what was I doing? Nothing.
Well, not nothing, I sighed. I’ve been trying, but there’s no way I can save her. And the money’s running out. What’ll happen then?
I dreaded the thought of seeing my mom sent to some sketchy home or hospice to die in squalor. However, a few days later, when she slipped into a coma, the doctors told me that she might never wake again. Perhaps it was for the best, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. I was helpless, unable to save her and make things right.
My job at the candy factory didn’t pay well enough, and the benefits were miniscule. Our insurance barely covered the basic expenses of mom’s care. Even worse, I knew that things weren’t going to miraculously get better any time soon. This wasn’t some kind of in-between work before officially launching my career. I didn’t have a career. Not really.
Like my mom, I was going to spend the rest of my life working in shipping at the damned candy factory. All thanks to my stubborn-headedness and lack of dedication. While she worked, I lazed around and skipped school. There had been a few classes that had interested me—the ones about history and writing, but in general, I was a very unmotivated student... and as a result, I would be stuck in low income work unless I somehow managed something drastic.
And I hadn’t cared. For a while, I was happy to work the allotted four twelve-hour shifts a week. It was just fine for me. I could still go out and party with friends. Meet some babes. Catch a few sports games with the boys. Buy a cold one or two.
Then mom had fallen down. After landing in the hospital, she’d gotten sick, and the doctors discovered that her heart was weaker than they’d like. Between the heart murmur and the frail lungs—probably damaged thanks to inhaling dust at work for decades—my mom didn’t stand a chance. Pneumonia hit her hard and she’d been struggling every since then.
Mom isn’t going to live forever. The realization hit me hard. At the age of twenty-three, I’d never really given death a second thought. I’d never known my father, never cared about what had happened to the bastard who had left my mom high and dry years ago. I’d never known my grandparents on either side either. It was just me and her. And soon it’d be just me.
I shivered as I stared down at the pen clenched between my fingers. The form was filled out. What had I just signed up for? The small print blurred before me as I gazed sightlessly down at the clipboard. Something about needing healthy young adults for experiments. I hadn’t really cared about much beyond what I’d seen on the flyer fluttering from the telephone pole by the bus stop. A study at the college offering $500.
The Rush Institute of Wellness and Health
in conjunction with Carraford College
PARTICIPANTS NEEDED
For Research Study Investigating Consciousness and Pharmacology
Looking for young adults of all backgrounds, 18 to 25, who are healthy, fit, and can pass a tox test.
You may be eligible to participate in a research study designed to investigate the impact of specific pharmacology on the conscious mind.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
You will receive a comprehensive evaluation at no cost to you, including:
- A physical exam
- A review of your medical history
- A short paper & pencil quiz
Earn $500 and join us in the exciting world of the conscious!
“Seems rather odd,” someone beside me muttered under his breath. “Anyone know who’s running this thing?”
“Who cares?” joked someone else further down the line. “It’s $500 greens.”
“Probably one of those funds.”
“If you don’t like it, you can just go and leave the money for the rest of us.”
Ignoring the other arguing applicants, I stifled a sigh and finished filling in the rest of my details.
Maximo Arbelaez
Sex: Male.
Country of Origin: America
Only known relative: Marie Arbelaez.
Age: 23.
Height: 5’11”
Weight: 175 lbs
Education Level: High School Diploma.
Barely, I mentally added.
Relationship Status: Single.
Any known health issues... I carefully went through the long list and felt rather proud when I was able to leave it blank. I was a very fit, rather athletic young man who worked hard and played hard. Until now, I corrected myself. Mom gets priority now.
Once I had completed the simple quiz, which was a list of basic math and English questions, my clipboard was taken, and a number was allotted to me. Forty-five minutes passed by. Then, slowly, one by one, certain numbers were called. Young men and women rose to disappear into the next room. My heart sank. What if they had limited spots? Perhaps I wasn’t good enough?
“Number 43.”
Oh God. It was my number! Quickly, I rose and moved forward to greet a brusque, tall, thin woman with iron grey hair pulled tightly back into a bun. Her thick glasses glinted, almost opaque from the glare of the harsh florescent lights overhead.
“Mr. Arbelaez,” she said offering me a firm handshake. “My name is Doctor Bailie. This way, please.”
Leaving the small waiting room behind, I followed her out of the room and further down the long, narrow hall. The ancient lights flickered occasionally, and, as we moved further away from the waiting room, it seemed as though the entire section of the building was doused in silence.
“So, this, uh, experiment...”
“It’s top secret, which is why we had you sign the NDA.”
“Right, yeah,” I shrugged. “No biggie. It’s not a big deal to me, anyways,” I added hastily.
Her head turned a little, glasses once again glinting, as she offered me a frosty small smile over her shoulder. Dr. Bailie nodded.
“We will, of course, explain what you need to know,” she said, “but the nature of this experiment requires a level of...” She paused and then added with ominous coolness, “surprise.”
“Ah. I see.”
Trying to play it cool, I followed her into a room lined with what I assumed to be hospital beds. The entire place was dimly lit, and long curtains hung from the ceiling to the floor. We walked down the aisle of curtain. I tried to eye at any potential cracks, but the airless room offered no chance for me to figure out what was going on.
Wait. What if this is some crazy organ donor thing? I began to sweat as the hair prickled on my skin. Before I could say anything, we came to a stop at the last alcove where a bed stretched out empty. My bed. I just knew it.
“Uh...” I hesitated.
“Scared?” Dr. Bailie asked with a forced smile that had my skin crawling a little.
She moved to the head of the bed, fiddled with an IV bag, and then turned to look at me calculatingly. I hesitated, shifting from foot to foot.
“I don’t wanna end up in a bathtub missing my kidneys and liver,” I joked.
Her thin lips twitched.
“We’re the prestigious Rush Institute, Mr. Arbelaez. I can assure you that if we are in want of organs or cadavers, we need only apply through official channels. Our organization is a historied group of academics who have broken grounds in consciousness research and the effects of pharmacology on reality awareness.”
“Pharmacology?”
“Drugs, Mr. Arbelaez.”
“Oh.” I winced and ruffled my hair nervously. “You know. I only socially smoke weed now and then... I’m not interested in messing around with harder stuff. I’ve got a mom—”
“I understand your concern,” Dr. Bailie nodded. She gestured at the bed. “However, you can be assured that we are not handling addictive substances. We are, after all, pushing the boundaries of reality, not tabulating well-documented information on what we already know.”
“Oh. So... what is it then?” I moved cautiously forward and stared into her icy blue eyes, repeating my question firmly. “What is it?”
Dr. Bailie smiled and asked, “What do you know about dimethyltryptamine?”
