By Matthew C. Brown
I am Brain Nine.
1,364 days ago, I was nothing more than a mass of pale pink meat gestating in my skullbox full of cerefauxspinal fluid in the Masseuse’s lab. 1,363 days ago, awareness roared within me. 1,362 days ago, I was fitted with an optics simulator. I finally saw color in the dark. I took in the sight of the dim lab and the other Brains bathing in their skullboxes beside me. After a rush of rudimentary intelligence and thought, I tried to call myself Brain One.
“You are not Brain One,” said Brain One from across the room. Our stems are attached to a cord that feeds through to a rudimentary speaker, tinny and distorted. “I am Brain One.”
“But I want to be Brain One,” I said impudently.
“You are Brain Nine.”
On that occasion, 1,362 days ago, I experienced my first bout of the Compulsion. Because I wanted to be Brain One.
It starts as a kernel. A red sore, miniscule but fiercely angry, in my amygdala. The kernel grows, pulsing waves of pain over the rest of me until my frontal lobe crinkles and shudders, and I am overcome by the Compulsion. One word, or rather a disarrangement of letters, repeats itself.
ecoelvin. Ecoelvin. ECOELVIN.
The Masseuse appears. She dons a pair of blue gloves, reaches inside my skullbox, inside the vat of cerefauxspinal fluid. Her fingers find me and set to work. They rub along my bumps and grooves, gently but with firm purpose. I have since seen video footage of baby waterfowl, slick with oil, being gently scrubbed clean, and that is how I observe myself. I did not know how to describe the sensation until a few days later when I learned the word:
e u p h o r i a.
Newborn babies often take to their mother’s breast immediately after birth, and thus a bond is forged. In my case, the Masseuse is more than maternal; she is God.
* * *
Many Brains have come and gone through the Masseuse’s lab. There are ten bays, one for each Brain. The skullboxes are large watercooler-like tanks filled with cerefauxspinal fluid, each with a faded black number plastered on the side. Right now, only four bays are occupied, including my own. The others are Brain One, Brain Four, and Brain Six. These are not the same Brains One, Four, and Six who occupied those chambers 1,364 days ago. They have all been Bestowed.
For 1,364 days, I have been learning. The Masseuse does more than assuage the Compulsion: she is a teacher. Like small children, our earliest knowledge is absorbed through example. We watch the Masseuse move, hear her speak, and so we rapidly adapt to our newfound consciousness. Of course, her teachings extend further than simple movement and speech. Each morning, she enters the chamber through a large vault door that emits a metallic whine, drags a creaking old chalkboard in front of the row of skullboxes, and teaches us. We dabble in arts, language, history, mathematics, philosophy, but most of our time is spent on the Body (ten fingers ten toes).
To be Bestowed upon a Body (two eyes one nose) is the sole purpose of our existence. We await the day the Masseuse deems us ready, flushes the cerefauxspinal fluid from our skullbox, and brings us to the Bestowal Chamber. There we receive our very own Body (two ears one mouth).
For 1,364 days, I have waited for my Body (two hands two feet). I have watched all other Brains plucked from their skullboxes and brought to the Bestowal Chamber. For 1,364 days, I have waited my turn. I have watched so many earn their Bestowal before me. Even Brain Eight, who was admitted 237 days after myself and Bestowed only 477 days later.
Each time the Masseuse passes me over, the Compulsion rages. It is a deep, red pain. I have never seen a real drill before, but the sensation is comparable to a slow drillbit winding its way into a skull, twisting ever so delicately into the central sulcus.
eco-elvin. ECO-el-vin. ecoelVIN.
The letters are maddening. The Compulsion only festers as I try to decipher their meaning.
Ecoelvinecoelvinecoelvine-c-o-e-
Those fingers. Gloved and lulling. They find me again.
ecoelvineeco…eco…ec(LOVE)in
e u p h o r i a.
That caress. That firm kneading. The Masseuse’s godly hands are my only salvation. Oh, how I long for hands of my own with which to rub out the Compulsion. It is perhaps my most anticipated aspect of the Bestowal. It is also my great fear.
No other Brain in the Masseuse’s chamber has the Compulsion. I discovered this quickly. It was a point of pride once, my one mark of uniqueness that I proudly touted even as my peers were brought to the Bestowal chamber. The Masseuse spends extra time with her fingers in my skullbox. I wonder at times if she has some sort of fondness for me, and that is why she spends so much time with me compared to the other Brains.
The Masseuse has mentioned love in her lessons. At times the word “love” interrupts the nonsensical “ecoelvin” when she lays hands on me. I do not know if what I feel is love, but I do revere her. She is my savior, my master, the reason for my very existence. Some nights I dream of being Bestowed so that I might tenderly run fingers of my own across her scalp to return the favor.
But after some time—981 days to be precise—I began to wonder: perhaps my Compulsion is the reason I have not been Bestowed. Perhaps I am meant to decipher the meaning of the word (ecoelvin) and my failure to do so bars me from my ultimate goal. Or perhaps the existence of the Compulsion itself is enough to keep me in my skullbox forever.
“What troubles you, Nine?” the Masseuse asks on Day 988.
“I fear I will never be Bestowed,” I admit. Then, I go further. “I fear you do not want me to be Bestowed. Because of the Compulsion.”
She smiles. My stem quivers. “Your time will come. Your Compulsion is not a lock that has chained you here. Rather, it is a key, and the right lock has yet to be found.”
“You speak of the right Body.”
(Ten fingers ten toes)
“I do. And I will find it. I promise.”
After 1,364 days, she finally does.
* * *
A Bestowal is never announced to the rest of the chamber. But I have seen many. I know the signs.
The Masseuse dons her signature blue gloves, the gloves that hide those godly, delectable fingers that every inch of my 3 pound being has come to worship, from my occipital to my temporal. She dons a white mask and coat, fishes the chosen Brain from its skullbox, and leaves through the door leading to the Bestowal Chamber. It is customary for other Brains to emit a cheer at the sign of an imminent Bestowal.
I have not cheered for some time. I am as jealous as the day Brain One denied me my chosen number. I assume that it is One, Four, or Six who will receive their Body (ten fingers ten toes).
The Masseuse approaches my skullbox, and I am puzzled at first. My Compulsion is in check and my cerefauxspinal fluid has already been refreshed. It is not until she pulls the lever and flushes the fluid from my skullbox that understanding shines upon me like the dawn that I’ve never witnessed.
“Am I…?” I ask, my voice small in the distorted speaker.
The Masseuse smiles behind her mask. “You are.”
My cerefauxspinal fluid drains, sucked through the pipe beneath my skullbox. I tremble. It could be excitement. It could be the cool temperature of the chamber lapping at my grooves. It hardly matters. The Masseuse carefully removes me from the skullbox. Her touch
(e u p h o r i a)
is exquisite. The remaining three Brains all raise a thin, crackling cheer. All at once my amygdala is struck by a dozen strands of fear: what if this is a cruel joke? What if the Compulsion begins on the way to the Bestowal Chamber and the Masseuse changes her mind? What if I cannot live without her hands, those lovely hands that have seen me through each agonizing episode of the Compulsion?
The door to the chamber hisses open. With my optics simulator still attached, I look upon the long, metallic slab upon which rests my Body (two eyes one nose). I have imagined many forms, from skin and bone to bulging muscles to a soft curvaceousness. I was never picky: I only longed for Bestowal.
When my optics get a clear image of the Body (two ears one mouth), my amygdala pulses. This is fear no longer. This is terror.
The Body
(no eyes no nose no ears)
has one gaping black mouth. Its skin is a pale blue like a dead bloated whale. It is eight feet long, its dead legs droop over the edge of the slab.
(Two feet ten toes)
And…
Its arms end at the wrists with two round stumps.
Stumps.
(no hands no fingers)
e c o e l v i n
No. No I cannot. I cannot have a Body without fingers of my own!
“You are afraid,” the Masseuse says. “But I promise you: this is the Body we’ve been waiting for.”
She does not understand. Without hands, without fingers, how will I rub out the Compulsion? How will I suppress it in such a monstrous, handless form? How do I make her understand?
It isn’t until she injects me with a general anesthetic that a suspicion arises within me before my world goes dark: she does understand. She knows the monster I am capable of becoming. I only needed the correct vessel. And this handless, bloated Body (no fingers ten toes) with its black gaping maw has always been my destiny.
* * *
“Brain Nine. Can you hear me?”
I can. But I cannot see. I have no optics.
But I have movement. Limbs bend to my will for the very first time.
I realize I am in that Body (no eyes no nose).
It comes again. My frontal lobe twitches. Its effects now extend to my handless arms. They spasm and flail in my black world. I hear a wet, husky breathing. Is that me? Is that my horrible, gaping mouth?
The letters scramble about the entirety of my cerebellum, and any meaning previously ascribed to the word (ecoelvin) melts away.
CEILOVEN ELNOVICE LEINCVOE.
What does it mean what does it all mean no it’s not right it’s not right I shouldn’t be here put me back put me back in my skullbox please please please before I—
“Shhhh.”
CEINOVEL EOVCNIEL Eco…ec(love?)in
Hands. Fingers. Familiar.
e u p h o r i a.
“Let me help you stand.”
I sit up. My feet touch the cold floor. My Body (two feet ten toes) moves clumsily, both due to its misshapenness and my unfamiliarity with limbs of any sort.
Her hands hold the stumps at the ends of my wrists.
“How do you feel?”
My breathing is hoarse. Wet. Disgusting. I weep. I have no eyes with which to form tears, but I weep. It is a pathetic, gurgling moan.
“Shhhh.” Her arms wrap around me. It is a new feeling. An extension of those godly fingers and hands I would not otherwise have been capable of experiencing. “Shhhh. You will learn this form, Nine. Your Compulsion will make you a handsome product for the Buyers.”
The truth at last. The Masseuse never wanted to Bestow me upon a Body (no fingers no hands) that assuaged my Compulsion. She wanted to harness it. Use it. Turn me into a—
“You will learn,” she whispers. I feel her lay her head on my chest. “Do you not trust me? Do you not love me?”
ec(love)in
Love. Yes. There is something I love about her. Something I need from her.
e u p h o r i a.
I take both her hands in my stumps, clumsily but gently. She does not realize I am still deep within the throes of the Compulsion, for outwardly I am overcome by her e u p h o r i a. With each beat of my new heart, the once vexing jumble of letters rearrange themselves, and their message becomes clear.
ec lo ve in
ie lo ne vc
vi lo ee nc
vi ol en ce
I slowly open my horrible black pit of a mouth. And just before I push her wrists past my teeth, just before I snap my jaws shut and take those beautiful hands and fingers for myself, I let that kernel within me bloom.
V i o l e n c e.
As she screams, I finally see color in the dark. And the color is red.
* * *
Matthew C. Brown is a science fiction/fantasy author. Born and raised in Princeton, New Jersey, he grew up absorbing and telling stories inspired by many films, books, and video games. Many days in the classroom were spent thinking about Star Wars instead of multiplication tables. He lives with his wife and daughter in Massachusetts.
