The Blue Tablets

Dr. Abigail pulled out a container of bright, pale-blue oval pills, from the cabinet beneath the needles and equipment. As she handed it to him, he recognized these tablets as the ones he had been given as part of his treatment, during his first appointment. But in his early stages of illness, pills with far more potence were implemented. Their role was also more complex, assisting with brain and liver function, hydration and oxygenation. As always, they presently originated from powdered chemicals, and each tablet contained a microchip fueled by the same energy as the bases.

“Since your sickness is down to the very mild stages, and it’s almost gone, I figured that these would be the most suitable,” she said. “These will help with the residual nausea you get at night. Other than that, I think we’re finished for today.” Dmitri got out bed and put on his coat, thanking her for the sanity she provided. He said goodbye and departed. When he opened the door and entered the hot sunshine, his gait lost the stiffness of inquiry and anticipation. His dismal expectations had been countered by her reassurance.

Meanwhile, Daniel was still in a separate room, speaking to Monica about his poor health. Even nowadays, he had to take the very potent pills, and though they induced the same feeling that Dmitri experienced several years ago, his emotions were not sensual. Rather, they were a mix of thrill and discomfort, as he felt himself stumbling at the threshold of metamorphosis. He wished to believe she might change his ways, through some spontaneous flight of wisdom and kinship, and yet was faced with the impersonal nature of her pursuits. Vapid somberness shone in his mouth, which hung somewhat ajar before the doctor as she spoke. He was sitting at the side of his bed, relentlessly tapping the small round table with his finger while he looked down with callow churlishness. She tried to hide her annoyance, as she said in a refined voice, “Based on what our scans have indicated, your brain is still affected by the hallucinogenic, even though the hallucinations are gone—”

“Well, I can’t say they’re gone entirely,” he said feebly. “I’ve still been hearing Peter Rawson’s voice—it’s always that monotone, you know the one he gets occasionally? The voice says, ‘Is this the path you’ve chosen?’ I think he was the one in that cell with me, the day I was given the dehydrant. He may have been the one who administered it.”

“Have you been experiencing any other symptoms?”

“I threw up a couple times this year, which has been the pattern.”

“That’s odd. Your liver wasn’t nearly as damaged as Dmitri’s, but you’re taking much longer to recover. . . Your lifestyle is the only explanation for this. It can’t be anything else.”

Daniel sighed and said, “What should we do about the toxin now? Is there something else that might make it go away faster?”

“Yes,” she said with unintentional sharpness, as she jotted down notes in her small book. She then got up and told him to follow her, at which he rose reluctantly. They went through a hallway, and took an elevator down to the subterranean passageways. Various wine cellars, and electrical and medical storage rooms were scattered throughout the hallway. They then arrived at a room he recognized from his hospitalization, which occurred right after his incarceration. His sentence ended when he was fourteen, at which his cynicism gained more depth and fourth dimension, as a devilish impulse that transcended him forward, feeling no queries about what he left behind.

Daniel was presently told to remove all his clothes, including his underwear, and stand in the stall at the end of the room. He felt that familiar pang of mortification, a sense of grotesque loneliness in the command of her voice. The sound of the metal door closing, still percolated in his consciousness as a nervous, sophomoric smile appeared on his face, which became stranger when he swallowed one of the blue pills she gave him. His expression tranquilized, while humiliation still dug into the seat of his instincts, struggling blindly to perceive the numinous. The stall’s griminess was compensated by an ambrosial scent that filled the room, as his mind saw people in the gray texture of the bricks: elderly figures in the foggy roughness. He recalled this whole procedure, from when he was here last. At that time, his doctor was Jane Marlowe, a woman who looked nineteen while her actual age was unknown. Her pointed face looked grim and exhausted, as her vermillion nail polish was dry and patchy.

Dr. Hallworth took a few clear, transparent sheets from the cabinet on their left, and put one on his forehead, one on his stomach, and one on each shoulder. She then pushed a yellow button on the wall to their right, and a quiet, high-pitched noise came from the ceiling. On the sheets, scans of his entrails looked just as real as they would if seen by a surgeon, except that the software made them silvery and iridescent. These kinds of scans detected and healed, using vibrational frequencies that altered and fluctuated. The other kinds were used annually, mostly with disappointing results.

Ten minutes into Dr. Hallworth’s search, Daniel began perspiring from detoxification, his knees quaking.

“Are you alright? Do you need a glass of water?” she asked.

“No, I feel great,” he said. “I feel much better than I have for a while.”