It wasn’t the money that brought her here, it was the letter.  It wasn’t long, just two typed pages.  After she had watched the disease take her mother, one shuffling step at a time, the question had been open.  For a while she had left it unanswered, but ignorance had proven no refuge from the creeping dread.  The testing had been simple, the wait for the answer interminable.  In the end, the two typed pages passed sentence upon her.

Medical science had not understood the problem sufficiently at the time to save her mother from decline.  Beyond expensive, treatment is nascent and experimental.  In her dreams, Ariadne suffocates in treacle, unable to move except in the characteristic ratcheting gait.  The terror she feels when she wakes in the middle of the night from these dreams outweighs the uncertainty of any experimental procedure.

When the brief arrived, attached to pre-screened acceptance into a clinical trial, Ariadne had said yes.  It was only later that she wondered how someone else knew her price, even before she herself had.


~ by Electro-mechanical Man on June 21, 2011.

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