December 7th, 2174
I don’t remember the process of the implantation. I’ve never thought much of it; I suppose I took the anesthesia for granted. I met a girl today, a senior, whose parents were unable to afford anesthetic when her implant was put in. I met her at the first meeting for a new club, WIRE. Women for Implant Removal and Equity. I’m not sure if the acronym was meant to be as ironic as it sounds. WIRE. We’re all wired to this little clock that determines our usefulness and, ultimately, our deaths.
We went around introducing ourselves. We were asked to talk about one way in which our implants have impacted us, negatively or positively, if we were comfortable with it. Everyone’s experiences were, to say the least, rather negative. This girl introduced herself as Maple, like the trees that aren’t around so much anymore, the trees you only hear about. And then she talked about her implantation process.
“They started with the ovary probes. I’m not going to go into the gruesome details of the surgery. You’d think the first motions of the blade would be the worst. But it’s not really the pain that’s the worst, it’s the feeling of coldness. Once your body’s open like that, it’s like all of the winds of the world are rushing into you at once, trying to fill you up and dry you out. You’re also just so vulnerable. There are several unfamiliar men surrounding you. Even if you did know them, you wouldn’t be able to tell. Their faces are almost completely covered by their masks. They’re expressionless, faceless. Like they’re trying to hide their identities because if they are discernibly an individual they have to take responsibility for cutting open a conscious thirteen year old.”
At that point several people had gotten up to leave. I suddenly recalled something my mother had once said to my father in passing, something about how she had never been under anesthesia. I felt compelled to stay, as if I had to know what it must have been like for my mother. I don’t know why, really. I’ve never totally understood that mindset, but here I was, listening to this anecdote that made my bowels churn because I felt like it brought me closer to my mother, or something.
“The probes were colder still. I didn’t see them; I have no idea what they looked like, but it felt like they stuck little, electrically charged metal rods into me. I don’t have a better way of describing it. Then they closed me and moved on to my wrist. One of the nurses—a man—held my right hand. It was like this weird impersonal procedure was suddenly between two close friends, or father and daughter. Well, I think that’s how he wanted it to seem. I don’t remember feeling particularly comforted by that. It felt to me more like he was trying to restrain me, to prevent me from flinching and pulling away and ruining their surgery. It didn’t even feel like my surgery, like I was watching, only from extremely close up. But anyway, this nurse was holding my hand because suddenly that sharp pain had moved into my wrist. They were cutting open the space for my implant. It nestled in and, weirdly—this is the part I hate. It felt like I was filled, like I was complete. It was probably because I’d been open for a long time, at this point. But when this little piece of clockwork slid into that open wound, I thought I was done. I thought I was a whole woman. Complete. Like everyone else.
“But at the time, I didn’t know about the brain implant. The part that kills you, the part that drives you crazy when your implant tells your body it’s time to stop working. They actually numbed my scalp a little bit for this. I’m not sure if that was the procedure or if it was because I was a little too, um, resistant. I won’t flatter myself, actually. It was probably just part of the procedure. I’m sure every other girl was as loud and unstable as me. Anyway, you used to have to be awake for brain surgeries, so they can talk to you, make sure they haven’t hit the wrong part of the brain or something. I kind of wish that was still the case, so other people would at least understand part of it. The brain doesn’t have any nerve endings, so it doesn’t hurt when they’re prodding around in your skull like that. The knowledge that another human is literally sticking little tools and machines in your head is the worst part of that. They planted that probe, the killing probe, into me and put me back together. They sewed my scalp back together and rolled me out to my parents again. I didn’t sleep for a week or so after.”
By the time Maple had finished speaking, most of the meeting’s attendees had left. She stood up, looked around, hand on her implant. Then she left.