Final RIP Project

The Little Grim Voice

“Why are you writing this down? It’s not like anyone is going to see it.” The grim voice in the back of my mind denotes. With the bathroom door locked, I hide into the bathtub with my journal clenched in my hands.

“This needs to be told, and I don’t have much time!” I fired back to the scolding voice. I reach for my pen buried in the pocket of my lab coat, and for a moment, I sit calmly and reminisce of my old uncomplicated existence.

“Where do I start?”

A few weeks ago life was superficially perfect in my unassuming eyes. My fiance, Ben, and I were at the height of our careers, synthesizing drugs nationwide, meanwhile creating our own little love story. “How pathetic,” I think looking back.

Before Ben and I were established pharmacologists, we had enjoyed living a much simpler life. Both graduating medical school at NYU in 2050, we were penniless, binging on ramen noodles, and crashing on the futon in my parent’s basement. Strangely, however, we had the time of our lives because we were always by each other’s side. We knew things would turn around someday, and a few years of struggling, Ben thankfully got the job working in the pharmacology department at John Hopkins Medical Center. Once he got his foot into the door, Ben pulled a few strings for me to get the job working alongside him, and not long after, we finally were a team. A  team researching the best drugs for the prosperity of the nation’s health. A team that worked hard together. A team that fell more in love with one another each and every day.

But now as a I write this, it’s crystal clear in my naive eyes that it was too good to be true. No one’s life is that perfect. Nothing in this world can ever be so absolute.

The memory of the night Ben introduces his latest idea sprints through my memory.

Sitting by the island in our small flat, Ben rushes through the door with an embellished bouquet of white and pink roses-my favorite, of course.

“Hmm, what’s the occasion?” I wink at him. “Or a more fitting question would be, what did you do wrong?” I jokingly tease.

“Charlise, I have the most amazing news to tell you. But before you interrogate me and rip my idea to shreds, please listen to all the facts, my darling.” His eyes looked as though they were going to pop out the sockets because of his uncontrollable excitement.

“Geez, okay. Let’s hear it. I’m all ears.” I smile as I facetiously pull my hair back and cuff my ears to mock his enthusiasm.

“I-we- have been offered an amazing offer by the government. I spent four hours in a meeting with head of legislation of John Hopkins as well as the board of Health of New York. They see potential in us. They want us to create the holy grail of vaccines, Charlise. Charlise we can create the cure for disease. Do you know how much we could change?”

“What are you talking-” Unable to speak, he proceeds.

“Think about it. They want us to design a drug that targets the immune system all together. A drug that basically puts an end to suppressed immune systems, and do you know what that could do? Decrease in colds, immunity to fight off diseases. We’re basically reversing the effects aging, imagine the possibilities! But this all revolves around you, and I know you can do it. You’re the brains. I need you. I need you, honey.”

He spent that entire evening ingraining the idea of a better mankind into my mind.  We concluded the night on an agreement: I would create the drug to strengthen the body’s overall health, but I would not focus on finding a permanent cure because it would pose serious risks. Though Ben did not seem pleased with my one condition, he later agreed. He made me optimistic, and I thought this was the break I needed to jumpstart my career. I was sold.

And so it began, the beginning of the end. I dedicated two years of my life to creation of the stimulant, which I later named Euphoria. But getting there was absolute hell.  Insomnia was unavoidable. The stress was overbearing. The weight loss was imminent. However, Ben was there through my ups and downs, persisting that this drug will be the solution: the solution to the public’s health, the solution to our debts, and the solution to any problem we could ever face. Though I knew it was far-fetched, I still kept working because I wanted to make him happy. When he saw my anxiety growing, he would always insist to take me out.

“Hey, you’ve done a lot today. Why don’t we walk to your favorite bistro on 5th street? I know the designs the baristas make in the milk make your day.” Ben would persist.

We sat in the bistro often, indulging in the cappuccinos, letting the coffee aroma encapsulate my depleted  mind, and Ben kissing my forehead more times than I could count. And when I was with him, I got lost. In those small four walls of a shop, never a word about the opiate reached our lips. Reality was a few blocks away . The bistro became my utopia.

“Why didn’t I see that happiness couldn’t be medically prescribed?” I questioned the voice in my head while sitting in the dark, cold bathroom. “How did I not see the manipulation behind Ben’s soft spoken lips?”

“Oh please, wake up. Do you still believe he loved you? Enlighten me then.  Why are you hiding in your bathroom?” The voice challenged me back.

The insensitive remarks drags me back to realism.

After all unbearable stress, it was finally completed. The third and final year, Ben took over the final stages of completely the medicine and finishing the required testing. In no time, Euphoria was distributed to centers all across the U.S. I felt like a hero, alongside my companion. Euphoria used to be a symphony in my ears, but now I’d rather be deaf just to never hear that word once more.

Soon after the drug was administered to a portion of the population, many strange symptoms were being reported by the patients. Almost all were recording not only signs of an increase in overall health, but also a drastic decrease of wrinkles and signs of aging. People were professing their gray hair was vanishing, varicose veins were becoming less noticeable, and cellulite was disappearing by day. The most peculiar symptoms were popping up one by one, and had absolutely no relevance to the structure Euphoria was designed for.

And then, a few months after, disarray burned our population to shreds.  Cases all over the U.S. were reporting a drastic increase in deaths due to brain aneurysms. Thousands of cases. Thousands of deaths in such a short period of time. I directed the medical board at John Hopkins to investigate, but no one seemed to blink an eye.

“Charlise, don’t worry about it, “ the board of doctors would persist. “It’s nothing to concern ourselves with. I’m sure Public Health is dealing with it. It’s nothing of importance to us.”

“Nothing of importance to us?” The statement pierces through my memory, sending me back to the reality of the bathroom. I take a break and quietly step out of the tub, placing my ear on the door, praying I don’t hear Ben’s razor sharp voice circulate the room.

“How does this happen?” I ask myself, unable to hold back my tears. “Who was once the man I planned to be the father of my kids, is now searching for me, planning my demise.”

“All because of this plan?” I continue rambling questions to myself. “All because of the request of the government?”

“Charlise, you need to finish. Finish writing.” The voice in my head changes its callous tone, making me realize I don’t have much time.

My hands begin shaking as I return to the bathtub and open the journal.

“Finish, Charlise.” The voice persists.

I researched. I studied. I questioned. I investigated. I searched high and dry, until I read every patient file of brain aneurysm deaths the past six months. The consensus? All known to have taken Euphoria. Dumbfounded, I stealthily refer back to the files linking to the drug’s database. Twenty minutes into reading, my heart drops when I reach the drug’s chemical description- an entire change in the pill’s molecular formula. The entire structure of Euphoria had been altered, a part that I had no position is, yet my name is signed at the bottom, right above Ben’s. I hurriedly jump to the section discussing testing. My body begins to perspire with the upsurge of anxiety. Nearing the last page,  I find Ben’s concluding acknowledgement.  In the outline, he states:

“Euphoria,  the most profound breakthrough in history. With instruction and funding from the government, this drug becomes a cure, not only to a patient’s sufferings, but a profound success of  universal human beauty. Designed to cure the negative symptoms warning of aging, the drug revolutionizes the theory of anti-aging. As simple as getting a flu shot, patients who are 25 years and older are offered the drug to maximize their health. Almost immediately, wrinkles begin to diminish, immune systems become unyielding, metabolisms quicken, and gray hair becomes out of site. With this, an overall state of happiness increases; No one worries about weight, getting old, or looks dying. A peerless society of ideal beauty and reversed aging, all in credit to myself, Dr. Charlise Ren, and the government of the United States. Together, there is no need to worry about the future.”

“Oh, my God.” I stand immobile. “Ben entirely recreated the drug for-for what? Why? What purpose?” I ask myself.

Almost simultaneously, Ben rushes through the door, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be in here. Come on, let’s go.” Ben grabs my arm, pushing me to the door while he attempts to pick up the drug’s file.

I cut loose of his embrace and hastily walk backwards, away from his grasp.

“What the hell have you done, Ben?” I demand, still shuddering in disbelief. “You purposely manipulated the drug’s capabilities to end aging? You killed thousands! Thousands of deaths in two weeks already! Because of you!”

“Charlise!” Ben fires back. “ Shut up! People will hear you. Calm down and get yourself together. Let me explain. I-”

I cut him off immediately, unwilling to let him get the chance of manipulating me once more.

“You said everything I needed to hear in your outline. You’re despicable, Ben. It disgusts me to even look at you. You know you have killed thousands because of Euphoria, tell me you know that.”

“It’s not entirely such a negative outcome, Charlise. The government knows about the malfunction of the drug, but they have agreed to keep it on the market for a little longer. The economy has suffered detrimentally because of the overpopulation for decades, think about it. Now Euphoria has become a catalyst for the population regulation. They plan to allow the drug to be distributed in order to sufficiently regulate the state. But think about it. It also gives a great ending to a person’s life-they die flawless.”

“Oh my god, you are a monster. And the government knows this?

“Yes, but not publically. No one can know what Euphoria inevitably does, okay? I mean no one. Under no circumstances may you share this with anyone. Need I remind you, your name is under the revisions as well? Technically, you are the creator. If you bring the government down, you’re going down even further.” Ben says this so casually, articulating his words as if he just asked what I wanted for dinner.

“N-no. No. God no” I stutter. “I’m not silencing. This needs to be revealed. I don’t care what happens to me. Hundreds of thousands of people will die if Euphoria continues to be injected. This is wrong, this is so morbidly wrong. You can’t stop me, Ben. I will do everything in my power until I’m heard.”

With this, he begins to approach me slowly, reaching for something in his pocket. “Honey, let’s just think this through. We’ll figure it out, together, like always. Relax. Come here, please.” He reaches for my hand and grasps firmly.

“Ben, let go of me,” I begged. “That hurts!”

I look down at his pocket and notice the top of the syringe cuffed between his hand. Without hesitation, I quickly kick him in the groin, releasing his grip, and I dash for the exit. After a moment of sprinting, I relax thinking I was in the clear.

Suddenly, I hear an urgent scream. “Guards, get her! She has gun!” It was Ben.

Unphased, I keep running. Surprisingly, I make it through the lab of John Hopkins unscaved. I see the security dispatching through his handset, most likely for more help, so I keep running. In the hustle of New York insanity, I get lost in the crowds of people and safely make it back to my apartment.

I’m not sure why I went to my apartment. I didn’t think much about where to go, I just went until they couldn’t find me. As I phased back into reality, I knew I didn’t have much time until Ben found me.  Soon after,  I begin crying endlessly, remembering I had given Ben the spare keys to my apartment just last week. In this moment, I realized it wasn’t about my fate, but the fate of humanity. I locked the front and back door, and I made my way to the bathroom.

Thirty minutes have passed since then, I know it’s only moments before he comes searching. I sign my name at the bottom of my last entry, including my birthday and today’s date. I know what’s coming. I close my journal and walk to the vanity. Underneath, I place the journal behind the shampoos so it is out of sight.

Without warning, I hear the crack of the door opening to my home. The same crack I hear every morning and night when I return home, but this time, the crack brings me fear.

Shakingly, I quietly reach for my phone and search for my mom’s phone number in the contacts. Wiping away the tears that fall on the screen, I send her a text telling her I love her more than anything, and to come to my apartment tomorrow and look in the vanity’s drawer for my journal that will explain everything. I also mention to tell this to no one and to not reply to this text by any means, but ending the message once more telling her how much I love her.

“Bing!” The sent ringtone on my phone chirped loudly, completely forgetting it wasn’t on silent. My tears start coming in bursts, my hands shaking as though I was having a seizure, but managing to struggling delete the sent text.

Suddenly, I notice the handle of the bathroom door being jerked. After a brief moment of struggle, Ben breaks through the door with his body, syringe in hand.

“There you are,” he says effortlessly. “We have some talking to do.”

My attention goes to his other hand, realizing it holds a gun.

“Goodbye,” I tell the grim voice in my mind that has accompanied me through it all.

“Goodbye, Charlise.”