This day starts like every other day. I arrive at work and check my agenda. My first appointment is with a man in his forties, if I remember correctly. The product lives alone, has no family, and, as far as we know, no health issues. Pretty much the usual basic stuff for the industry. So, I enter his room. One of those rooms with very few features. The walls are white, and the man is locked on a table. His arms, feet, and neck are secured with metal cuffs. He looks at me with terror, confusion, and pleading eyes, begging me to let him go. I know, not very original.
Like I said before, I've been doing this for decades, and this company is huge, so I don't get the thrill anymore, the stress of it, or whatever else drove me when I started. Now, I try to be straightforward with everyone and reduce their stress by simply telling them what's happening.
- "Hi, Mr. Smith. I know you probably have many questions, and if I can, I'll answer them. Let me start with this: your life has unfortunately come to its end. If the client likes you, you might survive a month, maybe more. I don't mean to be rude, but judging by your appearance and my experience, you'll likely have about a week. If you have questions…"
The man starts screaming.
"HELP ME! SOMEONE, I NEED HELP!"
So I scream with him.
"SOMEONE HELP! I'M GOING TO KILL THIS OLD MAN! PLEASE, I NEED SOMEONE TO STOP ME!"
He stops screaming and looks at me, clearly having more questions. It always works, and the clients find it funny. I think I saw it in a movie once, so sometimes I do it—it saves me a headache.
"Mr. Smith, look to your right. Can you read what's written on the wall for me?"
"752," the man says.
"That's your number. You are product number 752. Do you hear other people screaming? Like maybe your neighbor, number 751 or 753?"
"What are you talking about? I-I-I don't understand," the man stutters.
"You don't hear anyone, and no one hears you. The walls are very thick, and you're not the first one in this bed. So, like I said, try to digest the information, but don't take too much time because if the client doesn't like you, I'll end this and sell your organs."
I know that was quick, and I didn't say much, but sometimes I like to play with useless toys. So, I leave the room and "accidentally" leave the remote on the side of his cuff. I have other rooms to handle, and this one is wasting my time.
The next new arrival of the day is a girl, 8 years old…
***
- "Wait a minute, did you say 8 years old? That's a child!"
- "Why are you screaming like that? I know it's a child. I'm not stupid. What's the problem?"
- "You're going to give a child to rich people for sex or other deviant things, and you don't see the problem?!"
- "I just told you what my job is. I don't understand why you think this is worse than the rest. Can I continue?"
"Can you just get to the main story, please?"
"Whatever."
***
Later that day, I have some maintenance on a product to do. Number 41, she's a popular product. She has her own apartment and can move freely. A client spent time with her and beat her up. My job is to help her recover faster and assess the damage. She's been here for four or five months, I guess. Working with her is easy now. She doesn't fight anymore and has accepted her new life.
- "If I do this, does it hurt?"
She doesn't respond.
- "How do you feel? Do you have any symptoms?"
- "How much time do I have?" she finally answers.
- "It's mostly bruises. I don't think you'll die from this. The client cut you a bit, but nothing that looks deadly."
- "I'm not talking about that, and you know it. How much time?"
- "Well, the views are low, but you've had the chance to get some loyal clients who pay a lot and…"
My nose starts to bleed at that moment. I try to get up, but I lose consciousness in Room 41.