The drowning #2
Shit, another contamination.
Alicia looked up from the microscope and stared into the wall, cursing herself to no end. In the field of vision, tiny black dots of bacteria were floating around above her cell culture, rejoiced over another kingdom conquered. They loomed over the liquid media, like oil flung on a long and gloomy beach, black, mischievous, and pretty much unrepentant over the misery they had inflicted on the flora in their path.
She hated these black dots. She hated them for taking her to the brink of madness again. She hated them for not just killing her when they had the chance. She hated them for driving her deeper into the rabbit hole that there was no return. The plates had to be discarded.
“Fucking bastards,” she said under her breath.
The next day, Alicia received an email from her lab manager, copying both her boss and the coworker who’s been deeply involved in her research project. The subject of the email was “cell culture concern.” Along with the message were images taken of the exact plates where she observed the black dots. “This has been spotted for the third time in the past two months,” the email said. “Alicia, it is absolutely unacceptable for a 4th year, senior PhD student like you to not know or practice the basic aseptic techniques,” the email continued. As she read through the lines, she felt like she had just been slapped in the face. Taken aback, Alicia was absolutely petrified and not sure how to respond.
The mind was spinning. She was starting to doubt even her own memory.
Did I really not see those black dots before? Did I really not see them take over my medium? Did I really not see them growing like the plague in my culture days before? Did I really not see them coming back for the third time?
She was starting to doubt her own sanity.
Did I just waste time, waste money, and waste more time and money on the new plates? It felt as if I was living in a parallel universe where things are not what they seem to be. Or, maybe, a nightmare I cannot escape.
It was not the first time they were barraging her with emails. She had been working under extra supervision since two months ago. They had been watching her every step, and she had no doubt they had been doing so they could tell her, with hard evidence, that she wasn’t cut out for this.
You see, she wasn’t always like this. She used to be one of the best. “Alicia the A game” was her nickname. She used to be able to work long hours without breaking a sweat. She used to be able to juggle multiple tasks without breaking a stride. She used to be the go-to person when things needed to get done.
But then, something happened. She wasn’t sure what that something was, but she started to make mistakes. Small ones at first, but then they started to add up. She started to get careless. She started to rush through experiments without double-checking her work. She started to make careless mistakes that cost her time and money. She began to second-guess herself. She began to doubt her abilities.
Of course, Alicia tried to hide it at first. She tried to act like everything was normal. But eventually, it became too much. She began to unravel and fall apart. Her support network also started to peel like an onion — since Earth’s ecosystem collapsed and the world lost all but two continents, her cohort friends dropped off the program like flies, understandably so; several of her family members passed on from diseases inoculated when the original, perfectly livable environment was at its brink of death; her boyfriend had to move from Wind Point all the way west to Los Angeles, or what’s left of it, to fortify the infrastructure there for the inevitable collision of North America with Asia. One loving nuclear family separated into two hearts connected with love but 2,000 miles apart.
So now, here she was, alone. A shell of her former self. A shadow of her former self. A person she herself barely recognize. As Alicia sat idle at her cubicle, her mind kept racing.
I can see the disappointment in their eyes. I can feel the weight of their judgement. I can sense their disappointment. I can hear them point out my flaws, my flaws that have always been my strengths before.
I have lost my way. I have lost my passion. I have lost my courage. I have lost my confidence. And I don’t know how to get it back.
I have been involved in research for more than four years. It has been the passion that has kept me going. It was the work I was most proud of. I wanted to contribute to the greater good. I wanted to help achieve what others could not. I wanted to be a part of the cure. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be someone.
But now, I have to ask myself, what have I been doing all these years? Wasting time? Wasting resources? Wasting money? Wasting my future? Wasting my life? As I look at my colleagues, as I look at my boss, as I look at my life, I feel like I am having a heart attack. I feel my heart tearing into pieces. I feel my heart breaking. I feel my heart failing. What else is there when our own planet is failing?
The boss called Alicia in for a meeting and arranged for a leave of absence for her, because she simply could not keep going like this. “I hope this time will be different,” the boss said, sorrow, disappointment, and self-preserving anger in his eyes. “Me too.” Alicia murmured.
It was 5pm after their meeting. Alicia decided to get some alone time at the library. She walked past the long rows of empty tables and seats in the open space and darted straight towards the corner. There was a sigh of relief when she saw that the door to the tiny study was open.
This little study to the corner of the library had become her refuge. Shut that door, scatter those things, and let that mind go free. She’d get to dilate her gaze at the dam, blanking out and imagining what could’ve been the downtown skyline all the way east. “I wonder why I didn’t come to the library more often.” She thought.
This was one of the places where people didn’t need special card access to a good view of the outside. The small study rooms gave plenty of freedom to spread out papers and folders, instead of neatly stacking them at the risk of losing track of what was to be read next. With her recent deluge of experiments to restart and seminars to give, Alicia increasingly disliked her windowless cubicle in the artificially lit lab. And so, she flocked here with her bags whenever shew as able, a migratory bird carrying all its homesickness without wings. She rushed here, bar homesickness, more involuntary escapism.
The stress in recent months had been overwhelming, and she was mad at herself for it. It was burning down all of her self worth, fume of bitterness twisting before disappearing itself into the air. There was no forgiveness to be found, only a desire to vindicate. With the world seemingly crumbling beneath her feet, Alicia hated carrying this weight around, but could find nowhere to offload. A ship leaving its port carrying cargo and never reaching a destination, how fitting.
“As if spawned by Greek tragedies!” She would snub and involuntarily shake her head at that egotistical thought.
I wondered if I been afflicted by the divine beings, whoever they are, for the sins I unconsciously caused mankind by my birth, or was I being challenged by a test from the same to command forward the strength of my determination to succeed…in preparation for future destined greatness?
“Greatness doesn’t feel like something that belongs to me.” Alicia sighed.
“But! That is a worry for another day.” She tried her best to perk up, packed her bag, and dialed up her sister as she left for home.
The Drowning, a fictional exercise:
The Drowning #1
The Drowning #2
The Drowning #3
