Serum

You pressed the button to stay alive. You pressed it once every minute or so. Stopped everything you were doing and pressed it. The tube goes from the serum vial to your bloodstream. Only when you feel like you need it. If you did it too much it kills you faster. You get used to it. This kind of life.

Jen has to hit the button every forty seconds. She’s older than me. You see, you build an immunity. Like a drug. You also get addicted. You can’t stop. Because you’re addicted. And because you pressed the button to stay alive.

It was the air. No longer breathable. Some radicals say we did it to ourselves. But the gov says it was happening anyway.

“Hey Lynn.”

“Hi Jen.”

“Howsit?”

“Fine, how’re you?”

“Good, ready f’school?”

“Yeah, lesgo.”

Our parents chastise us. Talking so fast. We have to though. They didn’t talk as fast. They were the first button-gen. Sometimes, they say words. Big words. We don’t use those. We have to fit it all in. Don’t do as much. With all the pressing. We only don’t when we sleep. We hook up to a machine. It regulates the serum for us. But only at night. There isn’t one that small. Not one portable.

Press.

I got mine on my 13th birthday. It’s a rite of passage. Like earrings. 12 is when the body starts to go. So they say. The serum keeps you alive longer. But they tell you to wait. Wait as long as possible. I remember my birthday party. Around the table. Some girls already had serum. Most didn’t. Adults around the room. Chatting. They all had it. The serum tanks. Now it was my turn.

My parents brought out the cake. One of those instant mixes. Food was all like this. Fast to prepare, simple. Had to be.

Everyone sang for me.

Happybirthday toyou. Happybirthday toyou. Lynn. Happybirthday toyou.

It was a choppy tune. Rushed. The gift was immediately presented. Not wrapped. It was a brown cardboard box. Sporting the symbol for poison. The government’s seal stamped on the side. Underneath was the country’s motto. “For the Future.” I opened it. I revealed my serum holster. Sleek metal. Skeletal and hollow. A plastic tube attached. Next came the vials. Full of life elongating poison. A handful of green cylinders.

Press.

After the party I asked, “Mom, why do I have to use it?”

She was fitting me. Securing the serum to my body. Clipped the tube holder to my belt. Needle into arm. Tube taped to skin. Her own skin a tint of green. Years of serum dying it.

“Of course Lynette. We all have to use it. It keeps us alive. Think of it as your passage into womanhood.”

But I didn’t want it in me. The green. I didn’t want it in my veins. Killing me slowly. An alternative to the inevitable.

“Are you ready?”

She had given me “the talk.” How I had responsibilities now. Had to remember to press. It would be hard at first. I would feel sick. Sometimes I would forget. I would feel sicker. I had to get the rhythm.

I nodded. I had to. I couldn’t say no.

Press.

My stomach dropped. The green slid down the tube. It reached the needle. I felt it enter my body. Or thought I did. Might be in my head. It felt like hot ice. My muscles tensed. My throat clenched. I wanted it out. Willed it not to go further. I wanted to scream. It was creeping. It went up my arm. Into my heart. Then everywhere. My mother smiled as I began to die.

Press.

You got used to it. The routine. Change the serum once in the morning. Once in the afternoon. Once in the evening. Hook up to the auto-presser at night. Reconnect in the morning. No time to do hair. But that’s not bad. No one else does either. Clothes the same style. Short sleeves. Or a slit sleeve in the winter. So the serum can get in.

Jen and I walked to school. We talked between presses. There was homework. Math. Problem 2. Page 18. Halfway through the hexmester. I finished mine. Jen didn’t. She’ll still pass though. Failing takes too much time.

“Doyou see Dan?”

Jen pointed to a boy. He was across the street. Walking to school.

“He’sSOgreen.”

It’s true. He was. His skin swampy. A mark of beauty. The tabloids, TV, all say greener is better. More serum in the body. Shows resistance. Strength. Some girls try. Take more serum. Go green. Take too much. Heard many die this way. Beautiful, but dead.

Jen was pretty green. Not as green as Dan. Boys liked her. She sometimes double presses. That’s why she’s so green. I’ve never doubled. Jen asks why not. It frightens me. The green.

Jen must have looked particularly green today. Dan’s murky eyes saw her. He waved. She crossed the street. I would hear about it later. I continued to talk and

press.

“We pressed together!”

Jen was thrilled.

The two of us sat in the caf. We were switching our serums. Waiting for our food to cool. We had gotten here before the line. A line always forms fast. First at the serum dispenser. Swipe a card to get your serum. Another line at the microwave.

“Where?”

I recited it.

“Bleachers!”

Her cheeks were red. Under the green.

“How wasit?”

I asked out of habit. This was a weekly thing. People move fast. Shorter lives. I haven’t. Tried once. I didn’t like the idea. Someone else pressing. I like being in control. Pressing the least amount possible. I didn’t trust someone else.

Press.

“Great! It was Dan! SOgreen.”

I prodded at my food. Still steaming. Crap. I wanted a distraction. Hoped to find one in evapped mac and cheese.

“H’knew when t’press. He was good-"

Pressing. When people trade buttons. They kiss and touch. Sometimes-usually-more. But the allure is in pressing. Putting someone else in control. Of your serum. Of your life. Press too much, poisoned. Press too little, withdrawal. Not worth it.

“-And his body. He plays ball.”

Ball. What a stupid game. Twenty second rounds. Thirty on a team. Ten in per round. People get tired fast. Or have to press. That’s why the rounds are short. I’ve seen pictures from my dad. Years ago they played different sports. They looked different too. The boys had arms that were thick. Their shirts were tight to their torsos.

“Great,” I said.

Jen took a sip of soda. Lime green. I hated soda. Just didn’t taste right. But the water tastes chalky. It didn’t used to. Might be me. Maybe pollution after all. Who knows.

Every day after school I go to the library. On the way I pass the book store. What used to be a book store. Boarded up now. Books are obsolete. Not enough time. We have the library now. It’s a large building. Contains compacts. You can read summaries of books there. Just swipe your card.
I push open the big double doors. The building itself is nice. Not many like this anymore. The stone, the arches. Most buildings are just concrete blocks. Faster to put up. Faster to take down.

Press.

My favorite building had colorful windows. A big bell. Before they tore it down. I would walk past. Try to peer in. glass pieces fitted into pictures. Men and women in strange clothes. They didn’t have serum holsters. They weren’t tinted green. Probably why it was torn down. Inaccurate. Things were different now. The gov liked to look ahead. “For the Future.”

The library was sleek. The inside not like the out. White walls. Rows of computers. A serum dispenser at each end. A handful of people were here. Most older. 30s. The pre-serum gen liked to read. Not so much people my age.

I sat at one of the computers. Took out my card. Slide it to open the catalog. I scrolled through. Not sure what I wanted to read. I came across a book titled “1984.” Seemed interesting. A year so far ago. It was difficult to find history. I liked history. I clicked it. Thinking it would be about the year.
The screen turned black. The suddenness startled me. I clicked around. Nothing. I looked at the tower. Green power light is still on.

“It’s a restricted book,” someone said behind me.

Press.

“What?”

This had never happened before. A librarian was standing behind me. Frowning at my screen. Old, forty or so. Very green. Didn’t look happy.

“Restricted,” he said, “you’re not allowed to view restricted materials.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s restricted- you know what that means, don’t you?”

“The definition? Yes. Not allowed.”

“Then why did you click on the title of the book?”

I titled my head. Confused.

“It should have said next to the title you clicked if it was restricted in large red font,” he grunted.
The librarian leaned. Struck the keyboard. The screen returned to the catalogue.

“Where can I read it?” I asked. Still curious.

“Nowhere,” the librarian said curtly, “the government has restricted it in every library.”

I frowned.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Read more carefully please. I swear, you ids never pay attention to the things right in front of you.”
I apologized. Not sure why. I didn’t think I did wrong. I wanted to read the book. Why is it restricted? What happened in the year 1984?

There’s a dispenser on the way home. I get serum here after the library. Today a man was in front of it. Angry. He kicked it a few times.

“Come on!” He shouted. He kicked again.

“Excuse me,” I needed more serum. I wanted to go home. It was almost dinnertime.

“Hey, kid, do me a favor?”

The man was green. Sweaty

“What?”

“I’m locked out, I need serum.”

Press.

Locked out. Or “LO’ed.” A punishment for crime. No jails anymore. If you are judge guilty, no more serum. Gov deactivates your card. Or limits number of serums per day. Depends on the crime. Withdrawal ensues. Painful. Torturous. People commit more. To get serum. Counterproductive I think. They go crazy for more. But gov stays strong. Says it shows other to behave. Keeping withdrawn people among us. “For the future.”

“Sorry, no. Against rules.”

Must get serum from own card. Need special request for more than one. Must be gov approved.
I said it coldly. I swiped my card. Keeping my eye on him. The machine produced a vial. He went to grab it. As I assumed. I struck out at him. I wasn’t in withdrawal. I was stronger. He fell to the ground. I grabbed my vial. I left him on the street.

This vial was different. Hadn’t noticed until I was home. I went to change it before dinner. I noticed it was a different green. It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t harsh on my eyes. IT was a shade I had never seen. I didn’t question it though. I just put it in my holster.

Press.

Let it flow into me. And sat down for dinner.

By the time dinner was over, I was feeling lighter. Something was strange in my head and in my body. When I walked from our dinner table to the television with my parents, I felt better. Which is a strange thing to think-better than what? I couldn’t explain it. I just felt better.

Every night around 8 it is required that all persons watch The Broadcast. It tells of what is happening in the country. The government broadcasts it directly. Although the gov broadcasts other programs, this is the only thing worth watching . Everything else is green people selling green products. None of which interest me.

We all sat on the couch, prepared to endure fifteen minutes of informational onslaught (with constant pressing breaks, of course). But a jarring image of the word “ATTENTION!” flashing across the screen in red letters was not part of the routine. Next to me, my mother gasped, my father leaned in closer. The red lights playing off their skin, blending their green complexion into a muddy grey.

The newscaster began chattering at a superhuman pace, warning the masses about a new threat:
“Citizens reported serum tampering. Ineffective placebo placed in dispensers. Especially those near libraries. If you have a placebo serum give to official immediately. Do not use this serum. It is highly dangerous. If you have injected the serum please report to an official. Immediately. Thank you.”
Immediately after, the nightly obituaries aired, a long list of green faced people scrolled down the screen. I sat in awe. Was I poisoned? I couldn’t be, I don’t feel ill. Something prevented me from telling my parents then and there what had happened. I liked feeling like this. Defogged. Clear.
“Who would do such a thing?” My mother asked rhetorically.

“Terrorists,” my father said, “a bunch of sick freaks.”

“I’m going to go to bed,” I said, rising. I shuffled out of the room after my parents smiled their goodnights. As I walked away, I could hear my father beginning to denounce the hooligans who had tampered with our supply of precious serum. I had to keep myself from snorting in protest.

Instead of attaching the serum to the auto-press machine I sat in bed, my holster still attached. I experimented. I just sat with no intention of pressing the button. A full minute rolled by and I didn’t feel myself withdrawing. I looked down at the miracle vile. Exposed now, was the letter “T”- the same green as the liquid. As the liquid drained, the letter became more visible.

Curiosity took me over.

Press.

I mean I hadn’t died yet, right? I watched the deep green slide into my vein. But this time, I didn’t tense up as I watched.

Press.

Clarity, I was experiencing clarity, a fog was lifting as this green was sent from my heart to my entire body.

Press. Press.

I could feel it, it wasn’t like ice though, it was smooth and light and clean. I could feel it in my arms, my legs, I could feel this good green glow in my fingertips and in my toes.

Press. Press. Press.

My breathing was unrestricted and refreshing, so refreshing that I was finding happiness in simply inhaling an exhaling. I lost track of time just how I lost track of presses, it was not until my serum holster beeped to signify an empty vial did I finally snap out of my meditative state.

The miracle vial was empty. I took the glass shell out of my holster and examined it in my fingers, fingers that were newly dexterous. The green lettering was not completely visible, the camouflage effect lost without the liquid inside. In messy green paint, apparently done by hand, was the words “The Cure.” Underneath it in the same scraggly writing was “For the Future.” A cure for the effects of the serum I assumed. I felt no withdrawal, no calling from my veins to fill them with the harsh green poison. Whatever was in this vial, it had cleansed me of my need of the serum. Who would do something like this ? Would it be possible to-

There was a knock at my door.

“Lynette, get up you’ll be late for school!”

I had stayed up all night. I turned now to my closet, where a box full of serum vials lay. I can’t walk around without serum in my holster, people will think I’m crazy. Could I make more of “The Cure”? How would I do that, I don’t even know what was in it. Frantically, I tried to find a way to avoid going back to the government’s serum. Maybe I was immune to it now? If this stuff really was the cure, maybe I will be able to stop. Maybe I can fake pressing? But then my vial would appear to be full. Someone might notice. No, I’ll visit the dispenser on my way home from school again. If I’m lucky, there will be more of “The Cure.”

I snapped a government vial into my holster.

Press.

Senses subdued. Feet heavy. I walked towards the dispenser. Limbs numb. How do we live like this? Brain foggy with electric green. This is poison. What they give us is poison. The feeling of The Cure is gone. I want it back. The harsh green has crept back into my system. I endured Jen’s musings. My classes. But my mind was elsewhere. I wanted more of the cure. But this wasn’t a bodily wanting. It wasn’t like the serum. No. My mind wanted it. Wanted to feel clear and strong again.

Press.

At the dispenser. I swiped my card. A vial came out. My heart sank. It was the sickeningly bright green. Not the cure.

What do I do now?

I looked at the vial. This was poison. Never had I been more convinced. My fingers loosened. Almost automatically. I let it fall. It shattered. A steaming green puddle. Acidic. I pulled out the serum from my holster. I let it fall. It shattered. No turning back now. I stood. Waiting for withdrawal.
The feeling crept over me. Started in the pit of my stomach. Nausea. Bubbling. Then the pain. A throbbing in my head. Like a drum. Slow at first. Steadily beating faster. The pain spread to my eyes. I began to stumble. My vision beginning to blur. I looked for a place to wait it out. But my balance was gone. The world was beginning to sway. Back and forth. I made it off the sidewalk. Going in no particular direction. The pain acted like blinders. Edges of my sight going black. I fell. Scraped my knee. Got back up. Head throbbing. I could feel sweat. Icy. My head hot. The throbbing faster. I wanted to throw up. My joints hurt. My knee was burning. Had I cut it? No time to check. Couldn’t even see. Bile came up suddenly. No time to control it. I bent in half. I stumbled again. My vision entirely black. I collapsed. The drum in my head so loud. My skull threatened to crack. My brain screaming for serum. The pain in my stomach. Drawing my limbs tight against my body. Gasping for breath. Shaking in pain. One phrase ran through my head before I lost consciousness. “For the Future.”

I felt better again, not exactly like when I had taken The Cure, but my mind felt sharp. My body though, my body felt exhausted, drained. I felt like everything inside me had been used up and my mouth tasted like bile. My knee was bleeding where I had fallen, leaving a dark muddied streak down my leg. My blood’s red color greyed out by the green in my veins. But the clarity was back, the dense, green fog had been lifted once more.

When I opened my eyes I winced, sunlight blinding me. I opened them again, more slowly this time. I had ended up on a patch of grass, underneath a tree. The grass felt cool and soft underneath me- the slight breeze refreshing and serene. The win made the leaves shake slightly, bringing a sound to my ears I had never taken the time to notice. I saw the brown of the trunk, the powder blue of the sky, and, interwoven with the golden threads of sunlight, the green of the leaves.

But this green was different- different from the harsh, unnatural green of the serum. It was even different from the green of the Cure. The green of the leaves was safe, clean, untainted.

I reached across my chest and grabbed the needle in my arm. I undid the strap holding it in place and pulled it out. I unclipped the belt holding my serum holster to my body and let it fall into the grass.

“For the Future,” I whispered, and let my tired body lay and watch the leaves.