The Glass Transcription¶
PATIENT INVENTORY
St. Agnes’ Asylum for Nervous Disorders
Admitted: 23rd February 1934
- One (1) child’s tin robot (paint chipped, missing left antenna)
- Forty-two (42) handwritten pages (titled How to Be a Good Mother When You’re Not Sure You’re Alive)
- A set of surgical tools (sterilized in lavender-scented alcohol)
- One (1) woolen sock (containing a roll of film labeled DO NOT DEVELOP)
- A phonograph record (scratch at 3:14, plays “Chinatown, My Chinatown”)
You are not sure which is worse: the machine or the other patient. The machine hums like a discontented bumblebee, all polished brass and angry red tubes. It sits between your beds like a jealous spouse. The other patient—Mr. Okoro, according to the tag on his gown—has not stopped talking since they wheeled him in. His voice is a radio tuned to a comedy hour you didn’t agree to listen to.
“They told me this thing would purify my thoughts,” Mr. Okoro says, eyeing the machine. “As if my thoughts were a batch of bad moonshine.” He grins, showing a gold-capped tooth. “What about you? Here to get your soul bottled?”
You clutch the tin robot. It was in your inventory, but you don’t remember owning it. The pages How to Be a Good Mother… make your chest ache. You don’t remember being a mother.
The nurse arrives, wearing a starched cap and a smirk. “Time for your transcription, darlings.” She plugs the machine into a socket that sizzles like a punished child.
Mr. Okoro winks. “If I come out the other side as a gramophone record, play me at your next dinner party. I’ll be the hit of the season.”
The machine beeps. A needle swings toward your forehead. You think of the sock with its hidden film, the typewriter missing letters that might spell HELP or HELLO. The nurse adjusts a knob (not a dial, never a dial) and the room fills with the smell of burnt honey.
“Wait—” you start.
“Shhh,” Mr. Okoro says, taking your hand. His palm is sweaty, alive. “They’ll edit the boring parts later.”
The needle touches down.
You are not sure which is worse: the searing cold of the machine or the way Mr. Okoro’s laughter follows you into the static.
When it’s over, the nurse hands you both a jar of fog and a stern look. “Don’t lose your copies. And no sharing. That’s unhygienic.”
Mr. Okoro pockets his jar like a coin. “Meet me outside the gates,” he whispers. “I’ll buy you a milkshake. Real ones, not the kind made from powdered hope.”
You tuck your jar into the tin robot’s hollow chest. It feels lighter than a soul should.
In the hallway, a radio plays Chinatown, My Chinatown. The scratch skips the song back three words, looping my my my into the air like a secret.
You laugh. It sounds nothing like the laughter in the jar.
Mr. Okoro tips an imaginary hat. “Tomorrow, then. Unless they’ve sold our memories to the toothpaste company.”
You wonder if the film in the sock shows a version of today where you said no to the machine.
The ward sister shushes you both. “No conspiracies in the corridors. It’s bad for the other patients.”
You are not sure which of you is the other patient.
You are not sure which of you is the transcription.