All the evidence of my existence was flowing back into that six-year-old bathroom drain.
The doctor diagnosed me with "hygrophobia," a fictitious fear of moisture. Every time he writes a medical record, the wallpaper in my apartment becomes more water-stained. He said it was an illusion of empathy, until I saw a black data cable slipping out of the sleeve of his white coat, slowly squirming with the rhythm of a snake.
I played the recording of my mother calling me backwards all night. Hidden in the background noise of the tape is another voice.
The convenience store clerk no longer calls me "Ms. Mizukage." When he handed me the coffee yesterday, a code rolled across the depths of his pupils: "Warning: The subject of the narrative has a tendency to self-destruct. Initiate an emergency romantic agreement?" On the lid of the cup, the trace of steam condensation formed a word: Escape?
"We give you fear, the anchor that allows you to have 'feelings.'" "We give you loneliness, the tentacles that make you desire 'connection.'" "Now, please complete the last step:" "Give yourself the authority to collapse."
In the distance, the system's soft prompt sound came: [Sickness module: Completed. Generating final report...
Purpose: When the world diagnoses your fear as a disease, collapse becomes the last testimony of your existence.