Imagine
By L. K. Clark
Amanda Mandryk clutched the edge of the waist-high wall on the concrete roof and looked down. Twenty-six stories below, she could see the blues, reds, blacks, and whites of people's clothing.
No one down there could see her red hair, whipping across her freckled face, batting across her green eyes. That hair, reaching down to slender hips, was her glory. But that no longer mattered.
"Amanda," a calm baritone voice said from behind her.
Her hands tensed, turning her knuckles white as she swiveled her neck to see the intruder. He was holding her purse and had the wallet pulled out, opened to her driver's license.
"Pu...put that down," she managed to say. "It's not yours."
"No, it's not. It's yours. Why don't you come and get it?"
She turned her head away from him and leaned forward to swing her right knee up onto the top of the wall; six inches between her and oblivion. Her black jeans clung to her legs. Her loose beige coat fluttered, wanting, waiting to fly.
"Amanda! Stop! Let me help you." The man's voice was closer now, much closer.
Who was he? She needed to know. She pivoted once again. He was little more than an arm's length away. "Stop," she commanded, but dully, as though saying it drained energy from her. "Who are you? Why are you here?"
"Amanda-"
"Stop," she used more force now. "Stop saying my name!" she bit out. "I don't know you. Leave me alone!"
"All right. Okay. You're right. You don't know me. I'm here because an alarm sounded when you opened the rooftop door. You're not supposed to be out here. The building manager was concerned, so he called me. I'm Dr. Buckley. I have an office in this building."
"Phuff. Leave me alone." As she lifted her other knee to climb the wall, Dr. Buckley lunged forward and grabbed her coat. One of Amanda's arms pulled out of its sleeve.
She wasn't thinking when she tried to pull back from the edge. Her body's will and instinct to survive was, for a moment, stronger than her desire to end the abysmal sinkhole her life had become. The black cloud that seemed to grow around her after the car accident only expanded. Five weeks' time had turned it darker, deeper, deadlier. She was a widow, deprived of her two small children, because she had taken a foolish chance when passing on a curve.
She lost the balance her body sought to gain and began the forward lean that would lead to forever. Or nothing. She didn't know. She closed her eyes.
Dr. Buckley, in one expansive movement, stepped forward and grabbed Amanda around her waist. Then, jerking with all his strength, he pulled the woman backwards until she landed on top of him on the gravel rooftop.
His head slammed. A moment later, Amanda's head whacked his face.
He was out.
When the psychiatrist came to, he saw Amanda huddled into herself, her legs pulled up against her chest. While her forehead rested on her knees, she clenched her hands over the back of her head.
It was her crying-her wailing-that woke the doctor. He struggled to sit up and blacked out for a moment before consigning himself once again to a prone position.
"Amanda." That was too weak. He forced himself to speak louder. "Amanda." This time the word was raspy, but Amanda pulled her hands down and lifted her face.
"I need help. Call some..." He was out again.
A month later, Amanda entered Dr. Buckley's office with a gentle smile. Her cheeks were rosy and her mood matched her expression. He had managed to get her in on the preliminary U.S. trials of propranolol for her Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. The medicine worked. Amanda wanted to live.
*****
Clinical Report from the People for the Ethical Use of Drugs:
Cases like Amanda Mandryk's in 2015 were excellent indicators of the superb efficacy of propranolol. Doctors eagerly latched on to it as a miracle drug; no other in the history of pharmacology proved to be as potent a treatment for so many people suffering from Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.
It easily passed the FDA's stringent demands. Shortly afterwards, doctors began prescribing the drug.
*****
The New York Times
Health/ Tuesday, July 12, 2016/ Relief from Stress May be Closer than You Think
By Nick Lahore
Are you stressed out? I mean, really stressed out? Science finally has a cure for Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and the answer is no further away than your local psychiatrist.
The FDA has recently approved propranolol, labeled Antitraum by Megadrug Corp. Antitraum has been effective in controlling the sweating, heart palpitations, and trembling associated with panic attacks. Further, it can reduce the memories that lead to such debilitating symptoms. The new pharmaceutical dramatically decreases a patient's anxiety when they confront images from their traumatic experiences.
In the late 1950's, James W. Black, a Scottish scientist, developed the drug to treat hypertension. He later won the Nobel Prize in Medicine for his discovery.
Forty years later, doctors used the drug to treat patients experiencing PTSD. Propranolol succeeded in quelling the patients' traumatic memories.
The bottom line: life may now become tolerable for an estimated 3.4 million Americans for whom life has become a recurring nightmare. Now that's hope.
*****
Seeing the wild success of propranolol, a number of drug companies sought ways to enhance its qualities in order to find legitimate cures for additional psychological ailments and syndromes. Other less scrupulous purveyors of potions, however, began tweaking propranolol's chemical properties, hoping to develop a formula that would replace more dangerous-and illegal-drugs. Their monetary interest led them to a formula attractive to users looking for a new and powerful alternative to reality.
*****
2020, www.drugsinyourhand.com
Soon to be available from Drugs in Your Hand: Imagine
To all you faithful clients, we have great news. Soon we will be offering the drug of your dreams, and it's the closest thing to perpetual happiness you're likely to find this side of Nirvana.
Imagine will make you feel higher than cocaine, but without the addiction, without the high cost, and without that guilty knowledge that you're supporting a drug cartel. And, compared to coke, it's inexpensive.
What is Imagine? A powerful combination of a drug used to help weaken negative memories with gentle mood enhancers. None of its components is addictive.
Just one little pill, and your problems will no longer consume you.
Come on! Be happy!
Check our site regularly to find out when you can purchase Imagine. The first one hundred clients will receive their purchase at half off the posted price.
*****
"Drugs in Your Hand" attracted the attention they sought. Although their breakthrough drug, "Imagine," was technically non-habit-forming, the feeling it produced was addictive, indeed.
*****
2021
"I can't believe you, man. You're such a baby! Can't talk to Gabriela. Ha!" The ten-year-old boy used the sneer he had practiced for such a moment.
"Shut up" Titus said, though with his face tilted down, the words came out even weaker than they sounded to him.
"Yeah, Rigo," Jet, another one of the playground gang answered. "You have three sisters. Titus here has no experience with girls."
"Phuh. Whatever," Rigo answered.
"Don't just disregard it," Jet responded, happy to use jargon taught by his high school-aged brother. "Give our friend here some advice."
Titus was still looking down. These other boys were cool. How had he ever made his way into their company? Oh yeah. He let them play his Trans World Adventure Handheld.
"Alright, alright," Rigo answered, breathing out the word as though it took great effort. He jammed a stick into a tiny hole in his jeans and watched it grow with satisfaction. "Just tell me again what the problem is."
Lifting his head to talk, Titus answered, "I dunno. My hands get all sweaty, for one. You know that stupid dance they made us learn in gym class today?"
"Yeah," the other boys said, squinting and shaking their heads at the memory.
"I kept on having to wipe my hands on my pants, they were so wet. Then after I touched the girls, they had to wipe off their hands, too. They were sincerely disgusted."
"Yuck," Rigo said. "You do have it bad."
"That's what I've been telling you!"
"Hold it, boys, hold it," Jet said, sticking his palm out. "Do I have an idea? Yes I do. Am I brilliant? Yes I am."
"Tsh." The sound escaped Rigo's lips with some force. "Just get to it, will ya?"
Jet smiled and turned to Titus. "My sister-the one who had to take a semester off of college-well, she's been taking these pills."
Titus pulled his chin in and frowned.
"No, no. It's not what you're thinking. Imagine's different. Other people don't even know you're on it. You don't get dilated pupils and stuff like that. Besides, its not addictive."
A small sigh escaped Titus' mouth. The principal had expelled several kids from school for drug use. Besides, if he ever tried anything illegal, his father would bat him across the room in an encore performance of last week.
"So? What are these pills supposed to do for you?" Rigo asked.
"Make ya less nervous, less scared. Just basically more relaxed and happy. I can get a few for ya," Jet said, his wide-open eyes waiting for Titus' go-ahead.
"Well... You sure they're not dangerous or somethin'?" The school's drug information program stressed the risks of street drugs.
"No!" Jet said, scorn tingeing the word.
Titus's hands reached to his opposite shoulders and he squeezed. "One. Just get me one. I'll see how it goes."
"Give it to him before the next gym class," Rigo suggested.
Thursday's gym class went great.
*****
Imagine's use spread quickly, becoming the get-happy choice of users from ten to twenty-five years old. The drug, at recommended doses, did deliver euphoria. Fear, stress, guilt, and depression dissolved from a user's mind soon after swallowing the potent pill. Overdoses, however, produced strikingly different results: disinhibition and reckless behavior.
*****
2022 January 30
Police Report Monday, In a series of drug sweeps at several local frat houses over the weekend, police confiscated a large number of pills. Although analysis has yet to determine what drug they were dealing with, probability is high that the substance is Imagine, a party drug discovered in a number of raids in recent months, police Sgt. Aaron Dessler reported. Toxicology reports are pending on thirty students who displayed symptoms similar to alcohol or cocaine use.
*****
Although concerns over Imagine emerged from various sectors of society, its use was difficult to track.
Those who were most vocal in calling for the banning of the drug cited incidents of out-of-control teens and university students. The overdoses such young people were willing to experiment with were risky, though not to the user's health. The danger came when users came into contact with others.
But a deeper, more pernicious problem emerged with the habitual use of the drug. A person living on the imaginary cloud of bliss created by the drug became, in a word, monstrous.
*****
Tuesday, September 15, 2022
"I'm sorry, Ms. Azzam," Alyssa Golden said, "but I have the other children to think of." The young woman's hands were shaking as she kneaded them together. Her voice cracked as she continued. "From the moment you leave each day, Jamal begins to wail. And he continues crying until lunchtime. I can't do anything with the other children. I can barely even think!"
"I see," Farah Azzam answered in a slow, melodious tone. "Dear, have you ever thought of serving the children their lunch earlier?"
"No! That's not the point. Hunger isn't his problem." She paused, then leaned forward. "Is it?"
A mirthless laugh and a backward tilt of the head were Farah Azzam's response.
The daycare-giver stared. When no answer came, she said, "I'll give you until the end of the week to find other arrangements for Jamal."
Through clenched teeth, Farah Azzam breathed out her anger in a long, slow hiss. "Fine, Ms. Golden. I just hope you don't regret this."
Alyssa Golden shook her head in slow motion as the dark-haired woman with her dark-mood aura turned, scooped up her toddler, and exited.
The bright walls of the daycare center at once seemed cheerier.
When Farah Azzam carried Jamal through the door the next morning, Alyssa Golden tensed. Take a deep, calming, breath, she ordered herself. With a forced smile, she shook her blond curls and loosened her shoulders. I can do this. Only two more days after today. I'll be as glad to get rid of the mother as I will the kid. Maybe more.
"I hope you'll find Jamal better behaved today," Farah said in a steady tone as she set her son down at Alyssa's side.
Alyssa glanced at the boy before turning to the mother. "Yes. I do, too."
"Maybe this will be his big day of adjustment."
"I hope so."
"I have a good feeling about it."
"We'll see."
"Yes." The mother smiled again and left.
Alyssa closed her eyes to brace for Jamal's screams.
None came. She reopened them when Jamal tugged at her hand, giggling.
Farah had no further problems with Alyssa. Her son had responded well to Imagine. Better than she'd expected. She wasn't being irresponsible by giving her toddler the drug. He needed it. One way or another, the negative cycle of crying for hours after her departure had to stop. Not for the snotty-nosed childcare provider, but for Jamal himself. Besides, Farah figured she would only dose her son with the drug for the next two weeks. By then, he wouldn't even remember his previous anxiety at her departure.
"I know what bad memories and difficult moments mean, my darling Jamal," Farah explained while crushing a quarter of a pill. Mixed with a spoonful of applesauce, Jamal took his "medicine" with pleasure. "Your father, the pig, hurt me in ways I'll never reveal to you, my son. But these tiny tablets were my escape from him. And they'll be your escape, too, Love, whenever you need them to be."
She was right. After two weeks, Jamal went to and played at the daycare center every day even without the drug and without a hint of tears.
2040
"Yeah. Tell me again why I need to talk to a shrink," twenty-year-old Jamal Azzam said, running his hand through his hair. He lifted it straight up so that it dropped tousled and puffy. Just the way he liked it.
The doctor winced. "You know, that term was dropped about forty years ago."
"Huh. When's the last time you heard it?"
"That's not the point. You need to talk to me, a psychiatrist, because your lawyer feels he may be able to argue clinical insanity."
"That I'm nuts? Forget it." Jamal leaned back in his chair. Ankle restraints prevented him from crossing his legs. "I'm not."
"Is that so?" Dr. Labash said, leaning forward, keeping the distance between them more or less the same. He narrowed his eyes, as though probing Jamal's mind. "Did you realize that most people don't kill others-their mothers in particular-and display no remorse over it?"
"So whattaya want me to do? Cry like a baby that my mommy's gone? Ha! That's not something you're gonna see, Doc. I stopped being afraid of her leaving me when I was two. I ain't sorry."
Dr. Labash blinked three, then four times. This guy is seriously deranged. You don't stab your mother fifteen times through the back and then drop her body in a marsh so animals can feast on it and feel nothing. This psychopath belongs behind prison bars.Ten more minutes were just a little more than the doctor could stand. He stood and pounded on the door with the side of his fist. A guard opened it within seconds. "Thank you," the doctor said, releasing tension through his words.
At Jamal's trial, the D.A. presented incontrovertible evidence. No one in the courtroom during the trial doubted that Jamal had murdered his mother.
But why did he do it? Could anyone be the stone Jamal appeared to be?
"To what do you attribute your composure in the moments leading up to and during the murder?" the district attorney asked.
"Huh?"
"Restate the question, please," the judge said.
"Why do you think you were so calm?"
"Oh. It was the Imagine," Jamal answered, with a bobbing of the head and an audible "um hm" following his words.
The D.A. looked back at his colleagues. They all shrugged.
"Imagine? Can you tell the court what that is?"
"Oh, sure. It's a drug that helps you get by without feeling all weird. I figured everyone knew about that stuff. It's not legal, but Mom had no problems getting it. I've been using it since I was two. My mother-"
"Mr. Azzam, please answer the question without elaboration," the judge instructed.
"Hmm?"
"Without further explanation."
"Oh. Okay. I just thought he'd wanna know." He wiggled in the chair and sat up a little straighter.
"Um, permission to approach the bench, your Honor," the D.A. said.
"Granted."
"Your Honor, I'm not sure where Mr. Azzam is going with this testimony, but I'd like to hear him out, with the court's permission."
"All right. But if he gets too-"
"Understood."
"So," the D.A. said, turning again to Jamal. "Can you please describe the effects Imagine had on you?"
"No problem. Mom and I always joked that we never felt bad about anything we did. When I reached my teens, we would dare each other to do things, then later explain how we felt.
"I started out with small stuff. Shoplifting, for example. The very first time, I slipped a pack of gum into my pocket. I started feeling bad, kind of guilty, you know, but Mom just gave me a dose of Imagine. That stuff'll fix your mind up right.
"I can't say she and I were hooked on it. We didn't need it. But, whenever things got tough, like when my girlfriend broke up with me in the tenth grade, I took Imagine whenever I thought of her. It really helped. It's so much better than just an upper, though. I know, 'cause I've tried them before. You can't even think straight when you're on those things.
"With Imagine, you still remember the incident, but don't feel guilty or sad or stressed or afraid anymore. It's a real godsend.
"So anyway, the one thing I'd never done before was to murder someone. I wanted to see if Imagine could come through on something that big. Mom just happened to be handy."
The D.A. cleared his throat several times before resuming the questioning. "So do you-rather, did you, before you were arrested-use Imagine often?
"Nah. Like I said, it's not addictive."
"How often did you use it?"
"When I was a kid, I used it a lot, like once a week. More if I needed it. You know the world can be a scary place for a kid."
"And when you grew older?"
"Not so much then. I guess my mind or body sort of got used to the idea that nothing was so bad that you should feel scared or depressed or guilty about it."
"So, can you tell the court what you were thinking before you stabbed your mother?"
"Oh yeah. I was reading this book about the value of guilt. Ha! What a joke! I still don't get it."
"Why is that, Mr. Azzam?"
"It's like some kind of mind control or something. You feel guilty so you won't do the same 'bad' thing again, right? Gimme a break. How messed up is that?" Jamal glanced at the judge, smiled, then said, "Heh. I know. He's the one who's supposed to ask the questions, right?"
The judge nodded.
"So how did that lead to the murder?"
"I talked the book over with Mom. She thought it was out there, too. But, like I said, I had never killed anyone before, so I stabbed her in the back. I hadda see if guilt would do something to me."
"Did you feel guilty?"
"No."
"Did you have to take Imagine to wipe out the bad parts of the memory?"
"Nah. Ya know, I think somehow it permanently changed that part of me. But there's one thing I do regret."
"Yes? Please tell us."
"I wish I'd'a seen Mom's face when I stabbed her. I think she'd be proud of me. But now I'll never know."
There was a long pause in the courtroom. Jamal looked around the room, but no one met his eyes.
"You're dismissed, Mr. Azzam," the judge said.
"Yeah. Thanks."
While waiting for his sentencing hearing, Jamal shared a cell with Zeke Daniels. Imprisoned for grand larceny and attempted murder, Zeke became as close a friend to Jamal as anyone could be. In the exercise yard, they often walked the perimeter and talked.
The court nearly dropped the case against Zeke because of a technicality before new evidence surfaced. "But ya know, I'm not sad or mad or anything that I'm here. I finally learned my lesson," Zeke explained. "I mean, not just 'cause I have to spend the next twenty years of my life in this place. But I really hurt people. My parents, my wife, my kid. Most of all, the guy I shot and his family."
"How d'ya get that?"
"Whattya mean how do I get that? I wrecked their lives. Chances are the guy's never going to regain the use of his right arm, where that bullet ripped through. Man, I wouldn't want that to happen to me."
Jamal huffed out a laugh. "Well, you woulda loved what happened to me after my trial."
"Oh yeah? What?"
"My aunt-you know, my mother's sister-she comes up to me and says, 'Jamal, I forgive you. I'll pray that you can feel again.' Really pissed me bad."
"So you're telling me you don't feel anything about stuff you've done?"
"No. And I don't want to start now."
Zeke's features scrunched into disbelief. "You know, you're some messed up dude. I always thought it'd be a good thing not to feel guilty. I guess I should be thankful."
"Huh?"
"Never mind. You wouldn't understand."
"I forgive you, Jamal. I'll pray that you can feel again."
What a bizarre thing for his aunt to say. Why would he want to feel? Pain, sadness, guilt. Those weren't good things, he was sure. So why do those words keep slamming their way into my brain?
In one smooth motion, Jamal flipped from his back to his stomach on the cot in his cell. He clasped his hands tight over his ears and shoved his face flat onto the mattress. His stupid aunt. Why couldn't she leave him alone?
The words she spoke were relentless. For six days, they haunted Jamal. They were with him when he woke, with him when he tried to sleep.
Then they stopped. But a new enemy pursued him. Guilt. What had he done? To his mother? To people he had stolen from and hurt? All the scenes and scenarios that had dulled and faded from his memory burst into his brain like blasting, crackling, flashing fireworks.
What was happening to him? He needed Imagine. The drug could help him. But there was no way of getting it. His one and only "friend" was a fellow-prisoner who seemed a little afraid of Jamal. He'd get no help from Zeke.
The guilt was overpowering, relentless. Jamal squirmed and writhed, even bashed his head against the concrete wall. Then he staggered to the cot. Nearly blinded by blood and pain, he stumbled, plunging onto his knees at the edge of the bed.
Jamal's chin fell to his chest. He breathed a heavy sigh and said words that were utterly foreign to his soul, to his being: "God, please help me."
*****
We, the People for the Ethical Use of Drugs, based on the above evidence, have reached the following recommendation: the FDA should ban Imagine due to its potentially dangerous side effects.
In its place, we would like to recommend "Verve," a competently tested medication for people suffering profound despair, despondency, and depression that cannot be adequately treated with other medications.
Those desiring a free sample may request it at our web site.
The End
Jennifer says:
I like the mixture of news stories, anecdotes and crime reports, but I'd like to feel more impact from the story's "twist"
Plot - 22
Characters - 22
Mechanics - 23
Enjoyment - 22
TOTAL - 89
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