You’d be surprised how far people are willing to go to feel a semblance of emotion. Happiness is always in season; people beg on their hands and knees for it. Love is desired by families who want well-adjusted children and lovers who want to enjoy each other’s company. Even sadness, with its depressing aftertaste, is a hot ticket now. Though given the suicide rate increase, I’d suppose that’s not a shock. I don’t know what’s worse: having to watch these people beg, having to feel the emotions myself, or having to give it to them myself.
The government marked us ages ago. A shimmering carved symbol on the side of my neck, though it’s more like a target. No money is worth the looks, the sobs, or the feelings. The government decided to play God. As a result, 80% of the population is now disconnected from their ability to feel anything beyond the need to eat or drink. Those of us who could were experimented on until they discovered that by using drops of our blood mixed with certain chemicals, we could create a drug of a specific emotion. Shortly after, the government felt the need to add a price tag. God forbid we’re friendly to thy neighbor.
“That’s not a good look,” Addie says as I enter the door to our apartment. The smell of tomato sauce and beef entered my nose, making my stomach grumble. “Rough day?” Addaline was my younger sister by only ten months; my parents wanted a fast family. Too bad they met death on the back end of a street pole before they could raise us.
“It smells good, Addie,” I say, sitting on the couch with a heavy sigh. I take in the grooves on the table as our cat Lucy curls into herself on my lap. She’s been scratching on the table again, rough marks amidst the fine oak.
“You didn’t answer my question, James,” she says, pulling plates down from the cabinet, causing a racket that makes me cringe. I almost always have a headache after work. The smell of iron mixed with whatever magic chemicals those bastards give me.
“My last customer was a little girl, maybe 8,” I say, making Addie turn towards me. Kids are always the worst; they barely remember what emotions are, let alone how they run their course. “The mom brought her in. She wanted me to give her grief; her father just died. Cancer.”
“Oh, James,” Addie says gently, a soft sense of pity escaping her. I suppose that means she took her vials today. Unlike me, Addie was not marked; she can not feel like I do. Every morning I give her a select set of emotions to keep her regulated, though it is technically illegal. “Well, you are meant to get that apprentice soon, yes? Maybe that will help,” she asks
The apprenticeship is a new idea created after the rise of the marked ones killing themselves, raised in many larger cities. The idea is that dealing with intense emotions daily might cause some additional mental stress. No shit. “Yeah, maybe,” I say, combing my fingers through Lucy’s fur.
I make it to my shop at 8 o’clock sharp for opening, a yawn escaping me as I put in my keys.
“Good morning!” a bright-eyed woman chirps from beside me. I look at her hazel eyes staring back at me. Did I walk right by her?
“Good morning?” I say, looking down at her.
“Hi, I’m your new apprentice, Iris!” she exclaims, shoving her hand towards me
“Oh, I’m James. I wasn’t expecting you so early in the morning.” I say, opening the door, a quick chime of the bell greets us.
“Well, I wanted to get here before the shop got busy,” she says, following closely behind me as I make my way to the main counter, turning towards her. As she examines the shelves lined with vials and glass bottles, my gaze fixes on her. She holds a coffee in her left hand, which she sets on the shelf, and a satchel adorns her side; her mark is further down towards her collarbone. “Why so many different sizes?” she asks, picking up a four-ounce bottle of grief with a dark blue tint along with an orange mason jar of happiness.
“With some emotions, a little goes a long way,” I say, carefully slipping the bottles out of her hands. “For others, it takes a lot to create a noticeable effect.”
“That’s interesting…” she says, moving to a different shelf.
“Were you just marked?” I ask, and she looks up at me almost sheepishly.
“Well, no, I just finished school in a small town when my professor offered me the opportunity to be an apothecary apprentice in a large city; it’s like a dream come true.” She explains her eyes crinkle at the edges, and I can’t help the scoff that escapes me.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” I mutter to myself, shaking my head; her smile falters briefly. “I like it,” she says, joining me at the front counter. “It makes it feel less…” Her voice fades, her eyes meeting mine. “Scary.”
Despite her chipper first impression, Iris is very quiet. She’s been working alongside me for a few weeks now. I kept her tasks simple at first: preparing bottles, stocking the shelves, and dealing with the more regular customers who come in for their weekly selection of happiness or productivity vials. I even teach her the proper ratios of mixes to ensure the basics of emotions for those who don’t need something specific. It’s a rough balancing act; a little too much of something like sadness or anxiety can force a backlash of depression that ruins your day and overpowers the positive emotions.
I had her start preparing the ingredients, usually pills sent out by the government, labeled for each emotion. Our job is to grind them, mix the proper combinations of chemicals and drugs, and then add our blood. Once every few days, I strap my arm to a chair in the “The Elixir Room,” as Iris calls it, and pull the blood from my veins to add to each bottle. The color of deep red shifts and changes to form the color of each emotion.
“You know, I could give some too,” she says as I join her at the front with a small pack of graham crackers in my hand and a bottle of water. “They taught us how to do it.”
“I’m aware,” I respond, seeing her frown as I glance at her. Truth be told, with my headaches I should allow her to do some of the blood transfusions, but something about watching her place a needle in her vein makes me frustrated. “It won’t be necessary for now, at least.”
“I’ve been doing some reading into more organic ways to create elixirs using roots and herbs. Maybe offering a variety of choices will bring in more customers.” She says, moving her book towards me, the pages are decorated with plants and flowers. Notes were scribbled in the margins in her small handwriting. “What do you think?” she asks, almost nervously.
“I’ve considered it,” I say, moving the book closer to get a better look at her notes. “When I first started making the vials for my sister,. They didn’t seem as effective, but I’m also not as studied as you.” That comment makes her blush with a stutter.
“You’re just being kind,” she says, making me chuckle.
“You don’t know me well. Kind isn’t exactly what I’m known for.” I respond, sliding the book back to her. Turning my attention to this week’s record, it’s been a decent week so far. A tad slower than usual, but that’s probably a good thing.
“Did you not study at a university before opening your shop?” She asks from behind me.
“Oh-uh.” I start suddenly; a warmth starts reaching my face. “No, once I was marked, I was given the basic training and assigned this place.”
“How old were you?” she asks, moving a little closer.
“Sixteen at the time, they provided online classes so I could finish high school, but otherwise I was expected to be here. This is a big city, and there weren’t many marked ones in the area.” I explain, grabbing a new box of the love vials, a light magenta shining as I place them on the shelf.
“Must’ve been hard,” she says.
“It was at first,” I say with a sigh. “But it’s easier now, especially with you around.” I turn to her, trying to smile at her. She nods back at me with a bright grin before returning to her book. “If you’d like to try some of those natural remedies, place an order for what you need.”
“Are you sure?” She looks up, surprised. “You said they weren’t as effective. I wouldn’t want to waste your money if they didn’t work.”
“Well, if they do, it’ll be a nice fuck you to the government who did this in the first place,” I say, earning a laugh from her. “Besides, those damn chemicals give me a headache.”
It was about a month after that conversation before Iris began bottling her natural elixirs. She had also given me several remedies for my headaches, from tea blends to oils to put on my skin. At first, the demand for natural remedies was low. They were effective, but they took longer, and you had to take them more consistently for the effects to last. But a few of our regulars were willing to give them a try, and Addie loved them. Well, she adored Iris. Addie had insisted that I begin inviting her to dinner with us once a week as a thank you for the headache remedies. Once she discovered Iris’s natural elixirs, she demanded I switch hers out.
Iris certainly had a magic touch when it came to her blends. Before I knew it, there were plants in every window in the shop, and a few months later, the sales for the natural and the government-issue blends were beginning to even out. For the first time since I was a teenager, I did not dread opening the shop each day, as I’m greeted with the smell of herbs and soil rather than sharp chemicals.
It was mid-afternoon, and Iris had ordered us lunch from a sandwich shop down the street. As she goes to leave, a woman storms through the door. A baby was screaming in her arms, and two smaller children followed behind her. She looked around the shop frantically. I had seen this woman once before she told me that her family had just moved to the city. She came to my shop to set up a monthly delivery of vials for her family. She gave me a large sum to accommodate the additional work. My first thought was, did I forget to send this month’s shipment? But based on the panic written across their faces, it tells me they’re able to feel.
“Mrs. Rogers, is everything alright?” I ask as Iris glances my way, confused and frightened.
“Oh, Mr. James! I think something is wrong!” Mrs. Rogers cries, showing me the young girl in her arms. “I gave Olivia just what you recommended, the small mixes of drops in her food. But she won’t stop crying!” Her breath was heavy with panic.
Glancing down at the other kids, it seemed their mixes had worked normally. Iris approaches from behind the mother with a vial of calmness, offering it to me. Mrs. Rogers pulls out a bottle of milk for the little girl, offering that as well. I work quickly, dropping a few drops of the light blue into the little one’s bottle as she shrieks. It’s ripped out of my hands the moment I turn towards Ms. Rogers. She forces the bottle into the baby’s mouth, stopping the screeches for a split moment as she drinks the drips of milk flowing down her chin. I glance at Iris, whose eyebrows are furrowed in focus.
“It’s not working,” she exclaims, shifting the poor thing into her arms and rocking back and forth as she begins screeching again.
“Should I get a natural elixir, James?” Iris asks me softly. Even if she had, I do not think it would help much.
“Mrs. Rogers, may I hold her for a moment?” I ask, and she looks up at me, shocked and a little hesitant, before giving a curt nod. I take the young girl into my arms, giving her a slight bounce and soft shushes before bringing her close to my chest, humming a lullaby my mother used to sing to my sister and me as children. It’s one of the only memories of her I have left; I use it to soothe myself sometimes when I can’t sleep. Soon, the baby’s cries turn to sniffles and then soft coos as she begins to sleep.
“I-I don’t understand,” she whispers to me as I hand her Olivia. “Did the vial work? Was it delayed?”
“I don’t believe so, Mrs. Rogers.” I sigh, and she looks back at me, confused. “Your daughter seemed to be reacting to your sense of panic. I believe that she has access to her own emotions, like I and Ms.Iris.”
“What?!” she asks. “But how is that possible? No one in our family is marked, not even her youngest cousins.”
“I am not a doctor, Mrs. Rogers, but that is the only reason I can think of why she didn’t respond at all to the drops of calmness, and you gave her the daily amount I recommended,” I explain to her.
“You can take her to a doctor and perform a blood test,” Iris suggests to the mother, who glances at her. “They should be able to tell you for sure.” Mrs. Rogers looks down at her children, her hands shaking slightly before nodding.
“Thank you both,” she says quickly before rushing out just as she came in. Iris and I look up at each other.
“How did you know what to do?” She asks, our lunch forgotten.
“It’s been happening more often since last fall, but it’s been a while since I’ve had one in the shop. More often, they’ll call the shop and ask. Oliva Rogers is the first baby I’ve ever encountered, though.” I explain pulling out the Rogers file so I can make adjustments to their shipment in case I’m correct.
“So she’ll be marked?” her voice quavering ever so slightly.
“Are you alright?” I ask her to see her wiping her eyes.
“Oh yes,” she sniffs a little. “I just didn’t think it was possible,” she said softly.
“Didn’t think what was possible?” I ask her, stepping closer, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Emotions returning to our world.” She looks up at me, tears brimming in her eyes, making my heart clench in my chest.
“Slowly, yes.” I nod at her, and her arms wrap around me, tears dripping on my shirt. I’ve had to watch and feel others’ emotions and tears for many years now. However, I’ve never had a sense of warmth flow through me in such a way. A new emotion has found me. One that I don’t know how I could put in a bottle. I don’t want to.
This story is my own mixed bag of genres originally inspired by a Sci-Fi/Dyspotina idea that shifted into a more grounded magical realism story with a dash of romance. This piece takes place in a world where emotions have disappeared for a majority of the population, only to be bottled and sold from the people who can still feel them. This story follows James, a young man who has been tasked to sell emotions after a few years he receives an apprentice that brings something unexpected along with her.
It is also my first officially published story!
About The Author
Sabrina Lavine is a fiction writer with a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing from Guilford College. Born and raised in North Carolina. She writes speculative fiction, magical realism and cozy fantasy. She adds a whimsical and witty energy to all of her work. Outside of writing, she loves crocheting, cozy games, reading, and snuggling with her cat Jasper.
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Thank you for being here 🖤
This was lovely, I was hooked! Made me nostalgic for the early YA dystopian books.
This was fascinating.