The label read, TAKE ONE A DAY. Few still questioned what the pill was. Their faiths had been satisfied by the absence of a third arm, which had yet to reveal itself in the many years that they’d been taking their pill.

Madison O’Cull was a diligent woman. She’d never forgotten to comply with this sacred instruction, though someday, she knew that age would prove otherwise. This failed to bother her. She would live until she died and refused to let the latter hinder her bliss.

Madison prided herself a resilient woman. The death of her husband had rattled her but hardly came close to breaking her will. The disappearance of her son after the last Territorial War did little more than unnerve her. The heavy wage cuts that came with the former population crisis had been little more than a nuisance.

This steadfastness, which kept her intact through seventy-or-so years of trouble, was now the last thing that kept her from screaming.

She had always been alone. She made no effort to establish new relationships, nor did she persist with her former ones. The company of someone else seemed foreign to her, almost uncomfortable, let alone the several uninvited guests that were now in her room.

Though her instincts spoke of danger, the people made no move against her. They were just there, some slumped over the bed, others milling by the lamplight. Madison saw a thin boy curled upon the couch and remembered that, only several hours ago, she had also been there finishing a Shirley Jackson novel. No acknowledgement was given to her for borrowing her couch. For that matter, no acknowledgement was given to anybody else, either. It was as if they were each trapped in their own worlds.

Madison thought what any sane person would’ve first thought: the apartment was haunted. She was among spirits, or was always among spirits, but had only realized now. As this theory nestled itself in her mind, she found curiosity override her fear. She nudged a young girl upon the bed, felt flesh touch flesh, and saw the girl’s eyes shoot awake. They were looking at each other now; only, the girl didn’t seem to look at her either, so much as looking through her. The eyes were distant and uneasy. Her head swiveled in apprehension, seeking who’d awoken her.

Finding this behavior somewhat un-spirit-like, Madison changed her course of thoughts. She wasn’t among spirits, but rather, a spirit among the living, having died in her sleep. That would explain for the other’s inability to perceive her and their surprise at brushing with a presence unseen.

She nodded to herself. It made perfect sense, if one didn’t account for why so many people were stuffed in a small room to begin with, or why they paid no heed to each other.

Feeling lightheaded, Madison settled herself upon the floor, causing others to turn her way as the wood gave a prolonged creak. In her mind, supposition chased fact and fact chased supposition in a dizzying spiral; the possibility of the supernatural came just as unfavorable as the lack of explanation otherwise. She took a deep breath, but the lightheadedness persisted. The stars in her eyes were multiplying now – they brightened, pulsed, flickered faster–

Then her senses were momentarily overshadowed by a singular voice, low and strained. Madison found herself looking through the lenses of – the lenses of what? – a veil of water, which distorted her senses and made her head swim. Two malnourished people were in her field of view, both donned in coats and gloves and hunched over a microscope. The strained voice, the voice of the taller one, said, “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” the shorter one agreed. She looked around, then added with some haste, “But it’s what they want of us. We should do it.”

The tall one grunted. “With the same amount of time, we could’ve found another solution to the population. We could’ve found a fix to the food shortage or designed a way to increase resource production. We could’ve even figured out how to colonize Mars at this rate.”

“But this is what they want.” Even as the shorter one said it, she sounded unsure. “The sooner we’re finished, the better.”

The taller one grumbled. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

The two headed to another corner of the lab, where three patients were asleep on separate cots. There was a vial beside each.

The taller one drew a harsh breath. The shorter one seemed unbalanced.

“The sooner, the better,” she said again, and injected the vials.

A moment later, the patients were awake.

They bore a dazed look which Madison accounted to fatigue, but some part of her knew that fatigue was only the surface of what she was seeing. They each stood from their cots and came near the researchers, seemingly unaware of their companions. Even stranger, though, was the way their movements seemed so unnaturally rigid, as if she were watching a choreography that was sloppily arranged. They drew near in a diagonal path, until Madison was sure they would collide, but at the last moment, snapped parallel to each other without any indication of intent a second earlier.

The person on the left reached the researchers first and shook their hands. The one behind tripped, though seeming perfectly balanced a moment before, and came back to his feet only when the first was dismissed. The third suddenly faltered, seemed confused, and continued as the other two finished.

When all three of them left the lab, the researchers shared a smile that held no joy.

“It works,” the smaller one said. “What do we do now? Do we write to the governors?”

The taller one shook his head. “We need more trials. The chip might’ve gotten lucky this time, but even a tiny error in the neural signals could turn the person’s brain into a chicken.”

“We could write to them in advance.”

“Why do that? If they asked for it, they better have the patience to wait.” He crossed his arms. “What was the reason for this experiment, again?”

The smaller one explained, scholarly and without any enthusiasm, “Overpopulation is just as much a psychological issue as it is physical. They thought that if they could adjust the human brain to omit certain senses, such as the presence of others and their actions, then people would be satisfied. They wouldn’t know that a dozen others lived in their room, and they would be under the illusion that they were blissfully alone. Think of all the resources that would be conserved if we could just fit a hundred people into a small space without complaint.”

The taller one grunted, agreeing to the means but refusing to acknowledge the end.

“We’re doing the world a favor,” the shorter one continued. “If we didn’t put the world into the illusion of bliss, they’d be drowning under the misery of reality.”

She continued to talk, but the voice was melting away. Madison saw whiteness creep back into her vision, and during those few moments where her consciousness swam through a nexus, she thought about what she’d heard. What she now knew.

She remembered that she hadn’t taken her medication.

And as Madison O’Cull returned to the dark, suddenly stuffy room that was no longer hers, she began to scream.

He jumped.

The world unfurled before his eyes, like a kaleidoscope in full bloom. When had the sky been so blue? The sun so bright? The wind so fresh, whipping against his face as he soared?

Screams filled the air. That was the best part of it all: the screams, the onlookers, the panic. He was the center of attention now -- and for once, nobody was smiling.

It had always been the smiles. He’d coped with living on the streets, with the longing of something to fill his stomach and quench his thirst. He’d coped with being a cripple -- coped with the shock when he’d first heard that he had Parkinson’s, and coped when the disease had taken away his job as a repair worker. Who needed money, anyway? Who needed a place to live? The metropolitan streets were just as lively, and at any rate, nobody ever bothered to pay him a visit.

He’d coped with the weight of mountains, yet in the end, all it took was one last pebble to bring him down. The smiles.

It was the smiles as they told him he had Parkinson’s. The cheery looks that silently said: We know you’re going to suffer, but we don’t care. It was the expression his boss gave when he dismissed him: Oh, it’s a pity, but it’s not my problem. The cold gazes as he filed for bankruptcy: To us, it’s only a matter of numbers. Say your debts, say your mortgage values, and spare us the details.

The looks chased him even as he fled to the streets. He could hear passersby thinking: Here’s a shame. We could do something to help, but why bother? Sometimes, the smiles weren’t even directed towards him. They would be to a friend, or a loved one, or even a trinket that they’d recently purchased. They taunted him nonetheless, reminding him of what he’d lost. Others knew it, and that was the only reason they smiled.

He eventually left the city, hoping to find solace where only rolling fields and empty sky would disturb him. His hopes failed.

The clouds spat in his face. The wind’s laugh became cruel. The trees shook their fists and pelted him with leaves. Finally, he understood. There wasn’t anywhere to flee, not when the very world was against him. He could only continue to fight, knowing well that in the end, he would lose.

And as he dragged himself back to the city, he thought: Then I’ll have the victory of choosing how it ends, at least.

All odds said that he couldn’t make it to the top of the City Tower with his weak and crippled body, but he defied them: One last triumph before the fall. He announced his final stand to the streets below: to the smiles and the taunts and the jeers and the snarls. Here I am. Now you see me.

A crowd began to form. It stirred.

The screams came.

Now you don’t.

He jumped.

The world unfurled before his eyes, like a kaleidoscope in full bloom. Pandemonium filled his ears; even the wind was screaming as he cut through the air, spiraling down, down, down…

Now they aren’t smiling, are they?

At that moment, he was the one who laughed.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The question rang in Charles' mind, followed only by silence. Where was he going, among the roads of life paved before him? Where had he come from? Where was he now?

There was a crossroads about the ways of life, a crossroads that he now found himself standing beside. The previous road was finished, the obligations once plaguing him purged, and Charles realized that he could now wander wherever he wanted. Wherever he wanted -- but where? His mind spun. Should he continue on with the former path? Or perhaps a turn to the left would be better. No, the right. The right looked the most welcoming; its brick path flowed down the vast expanse of fields and valleys like a melodious stream. The left curved upwards, but there was something glittering at the top; something that called out, beckoning him to see what it was. And still, there was the middle path; mundane, the path that was always there for him to take.

He frowned. Three options lay before him -- innocent, straightforward, and yet all-too-difficult to decide. He turned his glance back to the right, then ahead, then behind. Thoughts boiled inside: What would come out of each? What surprises did each one hold? What didn't he know about them, and what did he know, and what could he do with what he knew, and how could he find out what he didn't?

The man gave a frustrated grunt and threw himself onto the ground beside the crossroads, allowing the soft grass to envelop him and the tender clouds to bob by overhead. Yes, he decided; this was his choice. He would lay here, for who-knew-how-long. And he was content.

I'm not exactly sure how the Feedback portal works, (or how Prose really works in general; I'm a newbie, guilty as charged), but am I allowed to advertise here? I just want some feedback on a short story I recently wrote, entitled Of Shadows Unseen. It's a bit under 3000 words.

Again, if self-advertising isn't allowed, I'm all-the-more willing to remove this post.