A machine is made for the sole purpose of causing agony. It is sold commercially by the millions. A father turns his on and contemplates its usage as he bonds with his daughter.
Today at breakfast, my daughter asked me about The Pain Machine. It was my weekend with her, and she spoke between spoonfuls of cereal and 2% milk. I didn’t know then if she knew of the Pain Machine’s installation in my psyche six months ago, six months after her mother had divorced me.
“Um,” was all I could say. I’m not usually one to fumble for words, but it was 7:46 am and I was still reeling from a night of sleeplessness. My pain had been at a steady 5.5 on the Subjective Pain Scale for quite some time now.
“I heard about it at school this week. DeeAnn’s aunt got it. DeeAnn said her aunt couldn’t get out of bed anymore and always looks gray.” My daughter said while looking at the muted Saturday morning news. DeeAnn’s aunt was exhibiting classic initial symptoms of The Pain Machine’s installation. Likely an 8.5 on the scale. Doctor Rayward Morganfeld designed the machine to be user-specific and varied across all devices. For some, it felt like wasp stings or paper cuts. For others, it felt like desert dehydration or passing a kidney stone. Some have it even worse. For me, my pain was ironic in its cruelty and cruel in its irony; my pain felt like that of losing someone you had once loved more dearly than anything else in the entire world. I looked up at my daughter from my bowl of cereal.
“DeeAnn really shouldn’t be telling other kids about that. It’s adult stuff.” I took a sip of pulpy orange juice to wash down the sandpaper feeling in my throat.
“I know, I know, but I don’t get it. Why would people even get it in the first place?”
“It’s a complex thing, honey…”
“Do you know why it was made?”
I sighed. “Well, Doctor Rayward Morganfeld developed a cure for wellness. People feel too happy nowadays, and want something to make them unhappy.”
“So he made a machine that makes pain?” She asked the question with a sad and childlike sincerity. My pain rose from a 5.5 to a 5.7. We both lapped up our cereal.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Well, does it last forever?” She seemed concerned and, in retrospect, maybe she could sense the pain in my heart. I wonder if she knew that The Pain Machine had wrapped its octopus tentacles around my insides.
“No,” I lied. “It doesn’t. At some random point, the pain shuts off and goes away like it was never there at all.” It hurt to say. While this was true, many had never experienced respite from the pain, with many more eventually dying with it. Doctor Rayward Morganfeld was sued because of this and won with every judge, jury, and court. It was all in the fine print of the Pain Machine Installation Contract. I had signed with the name given to me by my parents, a name that my daughter revered and my ex-wife had disavowed. In all her 11-year-old glory, my daughter reached across the table and put her hand on my hand.
“If you felt that pain, I would want to take it away and make it disappear.”
For a moment I feared for our lives that somehow my daughter’s kindness would provoke The Pain Machine to leave my body and enter her heart, soul, and mind. I feared it would free me and curse her. As she lifted her hand, however, a new feeling washed over me: The absence of pain. By a stroke of universal luck, as configured by the prolific Doctor Rayward Morganfeld (who was currently on the run from authorities), my Pain Machine turned off. Disappeared.
I watched my daughter stand from the table and place her empty bowl in my empty sink. I looked at her with tear-glazed eyes.
“I would do the same for you, sweetie.” She turned around and saw me in a different light, one less shaded by the regret of a 17-year failed marriage and the ensuing months of pain, agonizing pain that followed.
“Ew Dad, are you crying?” She raised an eyebrow with a look of strain.
I wiped my eyes. “No. Just happy.”
“Oh. Okay. I’m gonna go get changed.” And my daughter went upstairs, leaving me with a newfound absence in my life as I watched her go.