[Chewing On Fear] [PG-13] [Sci-Fi] [Melancholy] [Short Story] [Fun-Sized-Friday]

Chewing on Fear

 

A woman with a small baby bump was hitting the treadmill; each step was like a rhythmic pat echoing in the gym. 

“And stop,” The trainer by her side said. He pressed the button, and she began to slow down. “Excellent work Shima,” he said, offering a washcloth. 

“It’s Mrs. Anderson, Mister Boyd.” She said, taking the cloth and wiping sweat. “Just because he’s comatose from eating Fugo doesn’t mean we are not married.” 

“He’s been out for a while,” he said. 

She glared at him, “Rupert is and always will be the father of our child Boyd. It’s not the 2000s anymore. It’s the 3000s. The healing capsules have turned a fatality into a coma. One day he will wake up and see our honeymoon child.” 

Boyd flinched and said, “I wasn’t trying to pry, just concerned. You tend to take things pretty extreme, and my friend was really good for you.” 

Her gaze softened. “You mean holding down reckless impulsivity. I am doing fine for the baby. For her.” She rubbed her stomach bump, letting her smile show her inner happiness. She turned to him and said, “I have been eating very naturally for the past few months. No fast food, just normal food.” 

“A new record, Mrs. I-Have-No-Time-For-Cooking?” The trainer sarcastically said. “Fast food once in a while is better than you resisting for months and then binging on it.” He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to her. She opened it up and noticed that it was about food dieting for pregnant women.  

Shima said, “Boyd, I already had a brochure on food.” 

“The gym updated a lot of the brochures, including this one. I haven’t looked through it yet, but as your personal trainer, keeping friends up to date is part of the job.” He took the drenched cloth. “I’ll clean up here, you’re free to go.”  

Shima Anderson didn’t think too much of the brochure, chucking it into her purse. Walking outside to her car, she got into her pod vehicle with the child seat in the back and looked at the passenger’s seat. “I’ll sit there when you drive my guppy.” She pressed her hand against the wheel, the biometric scanner recognizing her and automatically driving her home. She got out and grabbed the mail while walking to her Pacific Ocean Blue colored home. She got in and put the mail on top of the pile of papers. She didn’t even take off her shoes before heading to the room in the back. In there was a healing pod, her husband floating in restorative light green fluid. 

She whispered, “Making me wait another day, Rupert? I waited three years for you to propose. A few months is nothing.” She kissed the transparent glass, just above his lips, and she could feel something move in her. “She kicks when I’m around you.” She tapped the glass and left the room. She burned through the afternoon, answering emails, dealing with meetings, and other corporate work. The sun had long set by the time everything was done. It was time to eat. 

She reached for her fridge and got a plastic jug. Pouring a glass of milk, she saw the brochure in her purse. “Well, let’s see what they recommend. Already cut wine, so whatever else they cut don’t matter.” She took the brochure and looked up the link the title in big, bold red letters, THE DANGER OF MICROPLASTICS. She rolled her eyes and said, “Sure, microplastics. One of the dangers of eating fast food. Already clean on it.” She scrolled down before noticing a jug of milk. It was her brand of milk. “What?” She asked and clicked on the image. She read out loud, “This company, like many others, is using low-quality plastic that easily breaks and fragments. This results in microplastic particulates releasing into the food. What?!” She scrolled down to see an umbilical cord. The cord was cut open, revealing a lot of microplastics. Her eyes were drawn to the bottom of the screen. 

The last sentence of the article said, “Avoid foods stored or made in cheap plastics.” She was about to take another drink from her glass when she froze. Her glass was plastic. The milk came from a plastic jug. She went as quickly as she could and threw out the milk in the trash. She then noticed that much of her food was wrapped in plastic packaging. She reached for it but hesitated. “Is this too far?” She rubbed her belly, and the baby kicked in response. She said, “Not for you.” She threw out most of the food in her fridge and then stuffed the trash can with plastic-wrapped food. She was left with less than half of her food, but she smiled and said, “This will work, it has to work.” She was about to get out of the kitchen when she noticed her garbage was now overflowing. “I guess I have to pay twice this week.” She pressed a kitchen sink button, and the mechanical limbs with grabbers took the trash out. 

For the next few months, she lived without plastics touching her food. Her baby bump became a full-on ball. Even though she was fit, walking was starting to get harder. She was on the treadmill again, ready to keep going, when he said, “And stop.” 

“This is slower than last time.” She said with furrowed brows.  

He shrugged his shoulders, saying, You’re bigger than last time. You can’t go too far considering that.” 

“Her, the ultrasound showed nothing, so it’s a girl.” 

“Congratulations.” 

“He wanted a boy, but we can always have another.” She said with a smile. “I best be heading home.” 

“Don’t go too extreme. Some people eat so healthy that they end up chewing on fear in between multivitamins.” 

She merely smiled and took off from home. She went back to him and said, “You adventurer. You wanted me, us, to be more adventurous. Try something new. It almost killed you.” She kissed the glass and left the room. Shima then made a salad, small cherry tomatoes, actual cherries, and rustic lettuce and put on a little balsamic wine vinegar and olive oil. 

“Eat safely, work safely,” she said while tossing the salad. Taking the bowl to her computer, she did some corporate work but not as much as she normally did. She could only work half the time with her motherly duties after all. She found the brochure by eating through the salad and going through the various papers. She felt her baby kick again, kick her into gear, and grab the brochure. She noticed that she had only read half of the brochure. She looked through the other half of the brochure to find information warning her about modern plant varieties. She clicked on the link, and the screen had documents and images. 

She read aloud, “The modern varieties can not be trusted. First, The ever pursuit of larger fruits and veggies has come at the cost of nutrition. Secondly, bacteria and fungi produce natural but toxic chemicals that can hurt children.” Her eyes widened in horror. The images of disgusting bacteria in Petri dishes and fungi rotting in bins being harvested, pressed, and treated for their chemicals made her feel sick. Nausea, the trepidation made her baby stir. Made the little girl move around in her body. 

Shima clicked on more links and found evidence of human hormones in tomatoes, parasitic fungi chemicals on lettuce, and cherries devoid of meaningful vitamins. She brought the fork to her mouth but stopped. She dropped the fork, bits of lettuce, tomato, and sauce splattered on her and lurched back. Her breath quickened, and her hands were sweating. She went to her fridge, threw away everything, and filled the trash can with the rest of the pantry. She furiously tapped the trash button and the mechanical arm whirred to life doing its job. 

She went to the capsule’s room and said, “I’m sorry my little guppy. I think I hurt our child. I’ll revisit you, when I finally do it right.” She shut the door with such force that she broke the door handle. 

The days turned to weeks, months, and the neighbors of the pacific ocean blue house noticed that they never really saw her, just hands grabbing strangely packaged … packages and bringing them inside. Her job also heard less and less from her, so she was dropped. With no money, her various services shut off, including her subscription to the gym. 

Boyd in the gym noticed that her gym subscription was killed and said, “That’s weird. She hasn’t missed a day, even with her daughter. I said she should take it easy, but not even a call?” He spied the brochure that he had given her some time ago, and he decided to take a look through it. He noticed that the brochure was filled with nutrition and links to food to be cautious of. Something tweaked in his stomach. Something below his belly button started to tighten. It bothered him so much that he decided to visit her at the end of his work.  

He drove his pod to the house to notice that the blue house looked wrong. Maybe it was the fact he came in the twilight; maybe it was the pile of bills and unopened letters in her post office box. Maybe it was the house, dark, as if it had no electricity. Something seemed off. 

“Shima, Shima!” Boyd shouted. “Are you ok?!” He shouted into the home. He walked into a clean house. Immaculate. As if someone spent all their time cleaning every bit of dust off the walls and ceiling. Looking in, he saw one of the doors had the handle broken. As he entered the kitchen, he noticed knives impaled into the fridge and pantry. The garbage arm was whirring about, straining to haul out larger bags of trash. He could tell that the packaging was all about healthy food. He walked through the house, noticing that the floor was covered with healthy food packaging. He finally came upon Shima Anderson. It was months, but her baby bump was not larger. She was smaller. He could see the clavicle, shoulder joints, the gaunt wrist, the brittle body. 

He shouted, “Shima,” 

She said, “Nothing good enough. Nothing good enough.” 

“What’s going on?” He said. 

She gasped as if holding in the urge to puke. “Everything is killing her. Everything I eat is hurting her. She’s not kicking anymore. Mommy’s sorry, mommy’s sorry.” Shima shook back and forth. She then went limp and was about to fall.  He grabbed her and, while hugging her, called for emergency services. 

The big pod came and took her to the hospital. He left her car, and his behind, traveling with them. She was given treatment, and one of the doctors talked with Boyd. 

The middle-aged, tired-looking male doc asked, “You with her?” 

“Yes.” 

“Her condition’s rough. Malnutrition in many key nutrients, cortisol levels is through the roof, rough. The baby is still alive, but all the stress might induce an early pregnancy. Giving birth at eight months instead of 9 and a half.” 

“Will they be ok?” Boyd asked.

The doctor shrugged, “Physically, they can get nutrition back, and both mother and daughter will heal, but people that go through this often have a mental wound or get one suffering through this. Who knows how that will heal.” 

“She was talking about nothing’s good enough. All the food was killing her kid.” 

The doctor sighed. “Is it her first baby?” 

“Yes.” 

“You the husband?” 

“No, he’s recovering from fugo poisoning in a pod.”

The doctor sighed and said, “There we go. Normally, when good-natured women panic, they usually have a husband or someone else that explains things. New parents usually don’t just eat food. They usually have to eat their fears.” he turned to look at the doors he came from, and shook his head in sorrow. “She certainly is choking on her fears.” 

A nurse burst from the doors.  “Doc, there’s a complication. She’s going into labor.” 

The doc swore and entered the other room. The doors locked. 

An hour passed, and Boyd saw someone at the end of the hallway. It looked like Rupert Anderson. The Rupert figure waved at him and said, “Boyd, buddy, where’s Shima?” 

“How are you?” he asked with confusion. 

“Since I swallowed some fish guts, I remember going into a pod and sleeping long. I heard murmurings of my wife saying things, but for a while now, there was nothing. I wanted to be with her, and the pod opened up. Couldn’t find her around the house, so I figured that she might be in the hospital. Nursed directed me here. 

The doctor came out of the door with bloody hands. “Good news, the mother and daughter are born. The bad news is that the daughter is struggling. You two want to see?” 

Boyd nodded, and Rupert said, “Yes.” They entered the room and found her passed out next to the baby in a special medical pod. The baby was so hurt, she was hard to look at for Rupert and Boyd. Shima was muttering about bad food. Both were resting, unconscious. 

Rupert’s face was filled with worry, concern, and fear. He grabbed his wife’s hand and touched the baby’s box, saying, “After we get out of here, we will eat something good, some comfort food, and move on from here. We will move on.” 

 

End 

 

As you can tell I cultivated some greatness into this work. I roll for one of 52 topics randomly, and hopefully the next set of material actually have happier spring content. I also hope to get some gardening videos uploaded in the following weeks. Check out previous week’s video for a picker-upper. Until next time lets cultivate some greatness.