"Hair Cocoon"

I could tell it was going to be a hair cocoon before we even opened it up. They have a smell, like a mix between a barber shop and an ass crack, which is distinct. They occur when the hair growth regulators in the hygiene beds go awry. At this point, I had not been a readjustment specialist very long and still enjoyed the feeling of standing back in my white lab coat while the technicians did all the mucky work, as I once had to do. This was how I saw the trajectory of my life: moving farther and farther away from the dirty work. When I was discharged from the Marines, I was very proud of what I had accomplished and fully determined to never get myself involved in bullshit like that again. So I went to school to become a bed tech. Went to school again became a readjustment specialist. Eventually, I hoped to become one of those high-dollar panty sniffers at the Halcyon Psychomotor Clinic. A thousand coins an hour, not bad. So I was standing there in my spiffy jacket while the working joes opened up the bed. I was pretty sure there would be little need for me today. We were pulling out a 33 year old woman who had gone into the bed at age 9. This was approaching a record. The younger a person is when they go in, the lower the likelihood of viability. Even if she had gone in at age 20, spending a full 24 years in the bed made viability unlikely. But at age 9, it was almost certain that she would be a gibbering smear. The technicians lifted the lid on the bed to reveal a nest of black hair. Guided by the glowing ER outline, they started working through it with scissors, cutting around the shape of the sleeping figure until her yellowish limbs were revealed. She was emaciated it, but fortunately the soft, moisture-wicking hair had prevented any sores. She had a medium mixed-American complexion, which would turn into a deep bronze color if she ever went into the sun, but now was the color of yellowed cardboard. They finally removed the mass of hair that covered her face and wiped away the various crusts that caked her head holes. The typical eerie agelessness of a long-term patient was especially pronounced. For a startling moment, it seemed as if she was still 9 years old. She was especially short and bony, but as I came closer to her, I was able to see those indefinable signs of age that let me know she was an adult. "Hi, Karen. Can you hear me?" I asked. I was required to at least attempt to communicate with her, though the odds of her being able to comprehend a basic face-to-face conversation were essentially zero. Her eyes opened, revealing large, wet eyes with black pupils. This was a good sign. Some occupants were unable to even understand the concept of eyelids or blinking. The pupils roamed within the eyes. After not seeing anything more than a micrometer away for 24 years, there was no chance of her being able to see anything in the room. She licked her lips with admirable muscle control. "Hello, friends," she said in a faint, creaking whisper. Her eyes still roamed, unable to fix on anything. "She talks," one of the technicians muttered. Another technician, who was taking a blood sample, turned and strode out of the room. "Is that you Ben?" Karen asked. I was surprised by this. She knew my name. This was supposed to be a "black awakening" i.e. a spontaneous, involuntary disconnection, due to some physical layer disruption in her hygiene bed. She shouldn't have known my name. I had been assigned to her less than half an hour ago, after she had been disconnected, when she was just lying in a dark hair cocoon. "Ben?" she called again. Her eyes stared blindly at the ceiling. "Yes, Karen, I'm here," I said, trying and failing to sound reassuring. "Can you come closer to me? I can't see you. I'm scared." I stepped closer to the bed, the smell of the foul hair becoming more intense. Up close, her face looked positively inhuman. "I'm here, Karen," I said. Not knowing what else to do, I began the standard speech for a responsive occupant. "You've just been disconnected from your feed. You're in a hygiene bed. My name is Bed, I mean, Ben. I'm a readjustment specialist assigned--" "I know all this. Come closer." Something in me resisted. I didn't want to get any closer. Though I had seen and handled occupants much worse than this, there was something eerie about this one talking to me, with the face of a child and voice of an old woman on her deathbed. Still, my entire job was to be psychologically reassuring. I couldn't afford to seem the least bit but off. I stepped closer and put my hand on the hygiene bed. We were instructed to touch the occupants as little as possible, as they were unaccustomed to actual physical contact. "Are you there?" she asked. Her skin had an unreal, plastic quality. "I'm here. How are--" "Come closer. I want to feel your breath on my face." I wondered if I should comply with this request. It was very odd. Frankly, I was a little unnerved by it. But I figured what harm could this wasted little creature do to me? I learned toward her, letting out a small, shaky breath. The woman's mask-like face became a blissful smile. The pupils wobbled within the rims of her huge, glistening eyes. "Listen..." she said, in the faintest of whispers. "You must help me." "I'm here, Karen." "A moment ago, one of your technicians placed a small pellet under the skin of my forearm. Within 10 minutes, the pellet's wax coating will melt and release a cardioplegic into my bloodstream, stopping my heart. You must cut it out." Link to Comment