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S.H.A.R.E.

The selfless choice is often the most painful.

By Gage DeanPublished 3 years ago 5 min read
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Excerpt from Jacob Coster’s unpublished and incomplete autobiography regarding the S.H.A.R.E. procedure and his relationship with Alice Reaves. (June 9, 2061)

“So… can you hear what I’m thinking? Do you know what I’m about to say before I say it?” my voice bounces between the walls of the vacant room. The crack in the ceiling tile above me zigzags haphazardly around a corner.

No. It’s not like that, it’s more like… a feeling. Like when you’re getting along really well with someone, and you feel like you’re on the same beat as them. Does that make sense?

"Oh.” I scuff the floor with the heel of my shoe. My eyes find the crack in the ceiling again. “Can--”

You don’t have to look at the ceiling every time you want to say something.

“Right.” I level my head, sheepish. “Sorry.”

Don’t apologize! It’s gonna be a little weird until we get used to it. Just think of me as, like, another set of eyes to help you out when you’re in the driver’s seat.

“Okay,” I smile a little closer to eye level than before, “that could work.”

She was right. It was weird and took quite a bit of getting used to. Honestly, I’m pretty impressed with how well the procedure held up over time. Sometimes I wonder what got us accepted. There were a lot of applicants, and it’s not like I’m anything special. Apparently, we were some of the most compatible subjects in the whole program!

Overpopulation was a pretty nasty problem by 2060, so the United Corporations of America started offering corporate employees double salary and triple vacation days AND paid time off if they offered to be guinea pigs for the new S.H.A.R.E. technology.

For those who don’t know, S.H.A.R.E. stands for Synchronized Habitation via Allocation of Reserved Encephala. In English, the doctors hook two people’s brains up to this machine that splices their memories and subconscious functions together, and voila! Two minds in one body. That’s half the food consumed for double the brainpower!

I was skeptical at first, but my assigned job just wasn’t paying the bills, and I had already used up my vacation days. Besides, the insurance payout if something had gone wrong would have been UNREAL. With that in mind, I decided to go for it.

That’s where I met Alice-- the waiting room at the hospital. I was there for a bigger paycheck. She was there for a new lease on life. Bad heart. We talked for hours before we were called in. Suffice to say, I wasn’t exactly surprised that we were matched. “Synergistic personalities,” the lab coats called it. 96%-- as high as they’d ever seen. Even after the surgery, we recovered almost twice as fast as any other patient.

Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t easy. See, when you’re taking the back seat of a body for the first time and you see yourself stand up without feeling it, you tend to freak out for a second. The first time we tried to walk, she shouted so loud in my head that I got a migraine. It was a good thing the nurse was there; it would have been a nasty fall.

We’ve gotten much better since then. We still have some hiccups, but having a whole extra person in your head makes life much easier. We never lose our keys, and crossword puzzles are a breeze!

We’re also pretty good at switching drivers. ‘Drivers’ is the word we use for who controls the body. I still have more control, given that I grew up in this thing, but she’s a natural. It’s funny; food tastes different depending on who is driving. I let her eat the vegetables. We’ve even figured out how to ‘sleep’ when the other person is in control. A little bit of private time each day helps decompress, you know?

The surgery didn’t come without its side effects, unfortunately. Sometimes we don’t sleep so well, and I get migraines on occasion. It’s been so bad that I’ve had to miss work before, but the Company doesn’t even count it as a sick day. That’s nice of them to do. I can’t drink either. I got some big warning after the surgery; doctors fussing about “alcohol-induced consciousness fusion.” They tell us it’s deadly.

All in all, I would recommend the procedure to whomever considered it. The pay definitely outweighs the bad stuff. Plus, you always have someone to talk to!

Alice Reaves’ letter to Jacob Coster, written twelve hours prior to her physician-assisted suicide. Found by Coster three days after the procedure, enclosed alongside a heart-shaped locket depicting Reaves and Coster thirty minutes prior to their surgery. (November 2062)

J,

I guess I’ve got some apologies to make, huh?

I first want to say that I’m sorry for hiding this from you. It feels wrong to write this letter with your hands while you’re asleep, just like it felt wrong to use your voice to make the appointment with Dr. Bailey. But that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s not our body, it’s your body.

I guess I should have known. I’m sorry for the headaches, especially after they started to make you sick. I’m sorry for the sleepless nights and bad dreams. I remember every single one, but you never complained. I wish you would have; then I wouldn’t feel so guilty.

This is the last sorry, I promise. I’m sorry it had to be this way, but I know you would have made it difficult. I mean, can you blame me after the way you acted when they told us that one of us had to go or we both would die? Dr. Bailey told us that our chance to make it out together was 4%, if that.

“It’ll have to do,” you said.

I can’t tell you how much that means to me, J. I can’t begin to express how grateful I am. Not just for that, but for everything. I had a few weeks left, and you gave me two years. You gave me two of the best years I’ve ever had. I lived more inside your head than I ever did in my own body, and I can’t thank anyone but you for that.

Please don’t be too broken up over this. As long as you remember me, I’m not all the way gone, right? I’ll still be floating around up here somewhere.

I’m rambling. I guess I don’t want to stop writing. I think that when I do, it marks the end of our little chapter together, and I don’t want it to. As much as I want to kick and scream, as much as I want to argue with someone for just a few more days, I can’t. I can’t say we didn’t have enough time, because every second I’ve had since I left my body has been a priceless gift.

So thank you, J. You gave me something no one else could, even if it doesn't feel like enough.

I guess it’ll have to do, right?

Still up here somewhere,

A

Short Story
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About the Creator

Gage Dean

He/Him. Literate. Potty trained.

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