Mother's Experiment: The Key to Insanity

When my mother, Florence Hills, woke me up, the sky was still dark. Dragging my exhausted body out of bed, I saw her already fiddling with her tablet again.

"There's celery juice on the table," she said. "Drink it."

I frowned, my stomach twisting at the sight of the same murky green sludge she made every morning. The smell alone made me queasy.

"What's that face for? If you can't even get down one glass of celery juice, how do you expect to amount to anything?

"I've given you the best of everything, and I barely eat or buy anything for myself. And you can't even drink one glass?"

Her words pressed against me like a heavy weight, and I suddenly couldn't breathe.

"See? You never listen to me, and now, your asthma's acting up again. This is a special nutritional blend I made just for you. Do you think you'd still be alive if it weren't for me? Hurry up and drink it."

I was about to protest, but the words died in my throat when she pulled out a handful of syringes.

The sight made me tremble. My voice came out barely above a whisper. "Mom, I'm still a teenager. I don't need that stuff to look good. Can we skip it today?"

Her expression twisted instantly.

"What do you know? I spent a fortune on these treatments. They are what makes your skin smooth and perfect. Do you really think you're naturally pretty? You only look the way you do because of these injections."

She restrained me with both hands and calmly injected all five doses into my body as if it were a routine task.

I tried to say it hurt, but my throat refused to make a sound.

The microchip had already erased whatever defiance I had left against her idea of perfection.

As my skin swelled and flushed red, she finally smiled with satisfaction. "Such a good, obedient girl," she whispered.

She then grabbed her fitness tracker and stopped by the door.

"Your training plan's already synced. Maintain a ten-minute-per-mile pace. Breakfast has been entered into your calorie count, so there's no allowance for extra meals."

I touched my hollow stomach and let out a soundless, bitter laugh.

The steamed vegetables from last night hadn't been nearly enough to keep me going.

Runners were already passing by on the street, but no one noticed my trembling hands gripping the railing.

By the third mile, my vision started to blur, and the world tilted into darkness.

Ironically, my watch kept repeating in its flat, mechanical voice, "Your pace is too slow. Please accelerate."

Right before I blacked out, I thought I heard Florence saying faintly, "How could you pass out so quickly? Your body fat percentage hasn't even reached today's goal."