Medical Mission by Nicola de Vera
*trigger warning; self harm
“No. 22, what do you think you’re doing?” No. 7 asked.
“I’m making my way up!” No. 22 responded as it scooched over the others and attempted at getting better positioning for a higher chance of being selected. “Excuse me, pardon me. Whoops, sorry about that. Just trying to get a better view.”
Thirty carefully formulated tried-and-tested veterans were called upon and banded together, in this specific cylinder, for a mission—to make the woman feel better, temporarily relieving her of anxiety & depression. Half of them have been chosen so far. While each is meant to be exactly identical to another, from No. 22’s standpoint, some performed better than others. The woman clearly was still in distress. No. 22 wasn’t content with their team’s performance and believed that No. 22 would make a difference—more so than others. No. 22 wanted to be next.
“You know your efforts won’t matter if the woman decides to shake the bottle, right?”
Of course it had to be No. 13 to play devil’s advocate.
“I know, but I’ve been counting. Of the 15 times she’s selected one of us, she shook the bottle only two times. I’ll take my chances,” No. 22 replied, with fervor.
No. 22 has observed the woman taking her pills enough times to know that after she holds down the tab to twist the cap off, she, using her right hand, would usually tilt the pill bottle downwards at about a 50-degree angle to her left, with the tab facing her, as her other hand receives the next pill for her to take. So No. 22 knew exactly where to go to take advantage of that incline and continued to move around to get to just the right spot.
At 6PM, right on schedule, the woman picked up the pill bottle and hurriedly removed the cap, No. 22 eager to be selected for this round. However, the woman tilted the bottle too quickly that No. 13, of all pills, overtook No. 22 when it landed first on her hand.
“See ya,” No. 13 bid farewell to the rest of the group, adding salt to the wound for No. 22. The woman popped in the pill, closed the bottle, then returned to her desk.
“You know we’ll all get our shot at some point, right? Take it easy,” an attempt from No. 7 to console No. 22.
“I should have accounted for speed. She normally does not tilt the bottle that quickly.” But No. 22 was unfazed. It probably was a fluke. The woman won’t likely tilt the bottle again that fast in her next go-around considering the evidence from her 15 other tries.
The next few hours were difficult to watch for No. 22 as the woman sobbed through the night in her lonesome. “Hold on a little longer, please. I’m doing everything I can to get to you sooner,” No. 22 whispered to no one as it repositioned itself again and waited patiently for its turn.
The following day, No. 22 spoke to the 13 other pills for a little pep talk. “Look, obviously we cannot control what the woman does, but she is in desperate need of help. I know we’re all built the same way, but I just really think I have what it takes to get her to a better place right now. I want to be next. Can I ask that no one else jumps the line?” The remaining 13 had no objections.
At 6PM, No. 22 was in prime position to be selected, but the woman did not show up. It wasn’t ideal, but this wasn’t the first time it’s happened either. She had been a few minutes late for about a third of the time anyway for these scheduled medications, so No. 22 was not as concerned.
A half hour past 6PM, the woman finally appeared—distraught but looking serious about getting better. No. 22 was ready for its moment. She removed the cap then tilted the bottle, this time too forcefully that ten of them, including No. 22, landed on her left hand. The ten of them looked at each other, contemplating the same thing. What are the odds that she picks me?
To their surprise, the woman did not make a choice. She put all ten pills in her mouth and swallowed them in one gulp, the remaining four in the bottle stunned by what just happened.
No. 22 and the other nine looked at each other in panic, as they traveled down the darkness of her esophagus, disintegrating by the second. They all knew they were made for solo missions, but their potent collective power was never talked about enough. Those like No. 22 that were fast enough to remember emergency protocols tried to induce vomiting before fully disintegrating. But not everyone remembered; it was too late to get the woman to spit them back out.
In shock and in silence, one could almost hear a faint cry. “I tried. I’m so sorry.”
“I wrote this piece when I was struggling through severe mental health challenges and had to cycle through multiple prescribed medications to stabilize my anxiety. Several publishers have rejected this story, but it remains close to my heart because it reminds me of one of the darkest periods in my life and how far I’ve come to trek towards the light.”
Nicola de Vera (she / her) is a queer writer born and raised in Manila, Philippines. She now lives in Los Angeles, trading one city of tropics & traffic jams for another. She holds a BA in Communication from Ateneo de Manila University and an MBA from Cornell University. When off from her full-time job in product management, she reads, writes, and cheers for Angel City FC.