Lovesickness

An alternate society where love is regarded as a disease.

The doctor approached the anxious pair. He adjusted his new face. The gift of a new bonus. The masks of the pair gazed steadily into the doctor’s; an unwavering trust than an organic one could never convey. He sat directly in front of them, placing a hand squarely on each thigh with a back that didn’t betray even the slightest curve. The fluorescent lights pressed down on the scene with a scorn that could only be matched by the government.

“Yes.” The doctor’s voice was clipped, but it was difficult to discern whether or not it was unkind.

“Okay.” One of the pair breathed.

“Will a quarantine be initiated?” The other of the pair placed the heavy question upon the doctor.

“Yes.” A light answer shrugged the weight nonchalantly.

As the pair deflated, the doctor seemed to float away on their hollowed responsibility. What would the government think? The medical role had been fulfilled, all action had been taken. The solemn pair had nothing to do for their dependent had been failed. They were not bonded by grief, or strengthened by the pain as a unit. The pair divided into two singles, never to interact again. Despite their lack of interconnectedness, the same thoughts sifted through their minds. What had gone wrong? Dependent was fed, watered, sheltered, clothed... what else? What had led to my failure? Such an arrangement typically works. A pair is assigned a minor to care for, referred to as a dependent. The assignment is given as casually as jury duty. It was an obligation to the government, to society, as a form of repayment for the protection they provided. The caring for a dependent was a mark of success, and affectionately referred to the with the slogan “Creating our future, in the present.”

The infected dependent remained in the examination room, gripping a chart of symptoms. At the top in a dramatic font that foretold doom was ‘Lovesickness’. The symptoms read:

1. Indulging in irrational behavior in the name of disease, or L-Word.

2. Imbalance of hormones. Resulting in destabilizing thought and chattering. Crying is up to 63% more likely.

3. Proclamations of said L-Word for ‘associate’. ‘Associate’ is likely to be infected.

4. Irrational behavior when the ‘associate’ is in danger, or discomfort.

5. A flush of red or pink has been noted on the skin of some infected. The infected deceitfully hides this flush of color behind their mask.

6. Indulging in frivolous contact between infected and ‘associate’. Sometimes going as far as indulging in the forbidden act of mask removal in the presence of others.

The dependent promptly unlatched their mask and balanced it on rocking knees. On the inside of the mask was the ruby mark of lips. The dependent bitterly laughed while slowly tracing the imprint. I’m a certified lunatic now, lucky me. You must be so jealous.

In a room of a two story suburban home, a dependent was called downstairs for dinner. The kitchen was a pearly white with ruby accents on the handles, cupboard linings, and appliances. The beta of the pair presented their minor with the meal. The alpha was at work. A typical arrangement. The dependent had a slant figure, and took every step as if they were falling through air. The delicate patterning matched their resigned voice.

“Thank you.”

“No problem, it is my pleasure.” The beta handed over the enclosed meal. As the dependent reached for the wrapped box, the beta snapped to attention.

“Wait. What is that?” The dependent’s hand rose instinctively to their lips, despite the mask dutifully concealing them.

“Your mask is unlatched on one side! That eager to eat now are we?” The beta chirped, giving a brief shoulder pat, and then off on their merry way. The dependent let their hand fall, mortified to see that the raised hand had caused their sleeve to wilt, revealing their HART. The other dependents had grown suspicious of the incessant speech of this minor. The constant, typically provocative conversations were an attempt to mine some sort of connection; of which had failed, and the dependent was marked accordingly for their behavior. Scissors were taken to the wrist of those that needed to have a reminder to not make a certain type of nice. It was a quick process, one pinched a bit of skin by the wrist, and squeezed the blades around it. A V-shaped incision was left. The affair was finished by presenting three needles to the markee. The suspect was to take them and prick two points above the slit, forming a vague heart. The third needle was the crucial part, it was to be threaded under the skin between the two points; forming a finished product of a heart split in two. Those who resisted the process were duly noted and reported to authorities. Individuals that bore a HART were regarded with a sort of hesitation mixed with admiration. It was clear nod to the government, as the government originated the ritual. The title HART was an acronym for “Healing A Reckless Trouble”. The ‘trouble’ that was referred to was the fiercely avoided L-Word. This affair was causal, though infrequent. The dependent traced their HART and took temporary sanctuary in a bank of carefully preserved memories. Their door was respectfully closed, their meal opened, their mask reasonably removed, and their memories unraveled. A scene spilled across the back of their eyelids. A time before separation and guilt, a time of indulgence and trust.

The Rise

A pair of academics. Always lost in a book to relish in the interconnectedness of a fictional world. Though the characters and their feelings did not grace reality, both took refuge in the slips of paper bounded together. The odd quality of the pair was easily recognized, and they could not help but take notice of one another. Conversation begun. Stories were written. For living as a character in a world that was cruelly fictional was almost like reality, right?

The Peak

“Carefully, but with deliberate hands, the mask was unlatched-” the dependent read aloud.

“No, this is just too far. You can’t write something so. . . scandalous. . . impossible.” The other pressed in a reserved voice. The storyteller had a defense prepared.

“No, that is just too far. Using the word ‘impossible’. Avoiding death, that’s impossible. Unlatching a few metal clasps? That’s. . . mediocre!”

“Don’t talk like this. If they see us, or hear-”

“Why? Isn’t that why we left the library? So we wouldn’t have to worry? No one can see this place. Our place... So no one will see this.”

A mask fell. And then, another.

The Fall

“I’ve caught it.” Tears dripped. A hand interlaced with theirs. To think that something that fit together like a perfect biotic puzzle was wrong!

“I have it.” they repeated. Silence creaked.

“I have it too, and when they quarantine us from everyone, you should know that-” silence pressed them together as the dependent gathered their thoughts.

“You should know that I am not sorry. For feeling. And I hope that you aren’t either. Because this, I know, has to matter. I mean, some pretty crafty stories were written because of it. That’s... cool. Right? I don’t know. It made sense in my head just a moment ago.” The tears of the other splashed into catched laughter.

“We are diseased, lunatics, and I couldn’t be happier.” The dependent giggled.

“Right back at you blue eyes.”

“You know how weird that makes me feel that you know... about my face? I really just don’t have a way with words today. Whatever, I’ll catch you later, freckles.”

There wasn’t a later, or a next time, but that doesn’t matter. What mattered was that there was a beginning, a middle. What mattered was that is happened. So let it happen.

Author's Note

Should this become Chapter One rather than a stand-alone piece?