🙏 A One-Sided Conversation with My Sister on the Topic of Hope

by Mitchell Shanklin

I am not a monster, I swear to you. You’re missing so much context—it’s all very complex.

No, you didn’t get a good look at it; the hope harvester isn’t silver and sharp and blood-crusted. Why would blood be involved? Pure ridiculousness. See? Yes, you can hold it. It is bright blue, almost too bright to look at, and there are no sharp edges at all. See all the strange curves? The eye can’t quite track them; that’s because they bend behind reality, just a little dip behind the curtain.

We collect from a bunch of places, but yeah, I’ve been on the hospital circuit. Post-surgery was easiest, the families press their hope into the palms of the patients, they kiss it onto their foreheads. They spit it up with their panicked breathing, out into the waiting room intake ducts, through the AC system. They beam their hope through the walls with their stares, with the snap of their eyes tracking doctors and nurses at work while they wait for news.

I like my scrubs, I look great in them, they make my shoulders pop. I could have been on one of those medical drama shows. That worried me, most other doctors didn't look so nice, with their ugly, baggy scrubs. But no one ever caught me.

No, I couldn’t use a sedative, it was too dangerous; no way to know what was already in their system, what it would interfere with. As long as we got to them quick enough, they were still conked out from the general anaesthetic. People don't notice the hope when it attaches to them, but if they're conscious, they always notice when we scrape it away. The tool makes a grinding noise when it pulverizes the hope, like the sound of drilling a molar for a new filling, but quieter. The vibration is soft but aggressive, like a growl held in the back of the throat.

And there’s the pain. I’m told it’s exactly like having your skin flayed.

I hold open a collection bag to catch the chunks and fine dust it grinds off. One other time, years ago, I arrived too late. The anaesthesia faded and I jumped at the patient's scream. He had had major surgery, a lung transplant, I think? The sutures that held the edges of his sliced skin together were fresh and taut, but the pain I brought was worse. I clapped my hand over his mouth and waited—they always pass out eventually. I hoped he wouldn't remember. Then I had to collect that too, my palm pushed it onto his lips. I cried, but I made sure to not drip tears onto the tool or into the bag—tears spoil the hope, you see, eat into it like acid.

Our organization wishes we could skip the hospital circuit. But the other deposit points are over-harvested. There is too much competition in the toy stores. Sports games are a bounty, of course, it mostly comes out in the sweat, but the security for the most popular matches is too high. We have teams of trained operatives to raid the locker rooms, but I don't have the right skills.

Still, I did request to be taken off the hospital duty. So did everyone else, so they refused. I know you hate me for it—I hate me for it—but it's necessary. It's important. Physicalized hope is too valuable. It doesn't really hurt—we've done studies. When hope is removed it does not affect the hoped-for outcome. No statistically significant effect. Other than the pain.

Ow! Yes, pain is important, I didn’t mean—

Look, it shouldn't matter. You should trust me when I say it's for an important cause; you should trust that I'm not a monster. We melt it down. Oh the smell, like warm donuts and seared steak and sawdust—fine, yes, fine, I’m wandering. We give it away to people who really need it, like orphans, sick people, old people, sad people, whoever.

No, I didn’t lie—removing it has no effect! We think it’s some kind of evolutionary mistake, or a deep metaphysical irony, or both. Hope is useless on the outside, where it accumulates. But after it's processed into those sweet-smelling glass sheets, you can just grind it up and snort away... It’s divine. It's so fucking strong. Do you know how much your inner demons inhibit you? Day after day, week after week? Do you know how many opportunities you lose to doubt and anxiety? How many mistakes are due to tiredness and stress and pressure? I do. Every day on hope is infinitely better than a day without. Every day on hope is the best possible version of that day. You make the best possible choices, the perfect balance between risk and caution.

And the high—my god—better serenity than heroine and a harder rush than cocaine. Plus, no long-term health effects!

Fine, yes, we use it ourselves. How do you think they pay the collectors? It’s like a charity, even the best ones don’t contribute all their money to the cause. There’s overhead and every collector skims a little, it’s expected!

I’m sorry, I know it must have been frightening to watch me harvest. I didn’t mean for Dad to wake up, I swear, I thought he was still under, I didn’t mean— 

No, of course not. Once he passed out, why would I stop?

Just look at it from my perspective. I saw what you and Douglas were beaming at Dad, just looking at your faces. All that grade-A shit. It was all going to be wasted! Or skimmed by some other asshole. It’s my family, I deserve it more than some damn orphans.

Wait. Put the harvester down, you aren’t trained in how to—Please! I have what I got from Dad—most of it—you can have it, you don’t need to—Please, just let me explain!