#110 The Cure

by Emma McMorran Clark

It began with rabbits, but easily could have been rats, or beagles. Work with them long enough and genus species becomes barcode and batch number. In the end it’s a success or a failure; a dataset.

The eyes are what get you, peering through the plexiglas with a pleading that you know is physiologically impossible. Whether they’re pink, beady black or soulful brown, you later come to understand that the look is the same: resigned, vapid.

A warm white belly rested in the open palm of my left hand as I drew back the plunger with my right. So trusting—no, that’s not right—so subdued that I didn’t need assistance. Those prey-wide eyes staring off in comically opposite directions, unperturbed and the colour of azaleas. Its heart beat steady and rapid like a moth’s wings against my fingertips as it accepted discomfort, groping, cold steel tables and harsh fluorescent lighting without protest.

Then came the Google searches, the clandestine meetings, the misplaced key card that led to the midnight raid, the broken locks, the liberation. I lost my job and appeared on the cover of TIME in the same month; I was a pioneer, ushering in a new era of kindness. The gears of medical progress ground to a halt.

And had you told me back then what would come to pass, I don’t think I’d change a thing. We’re human, and nothing if not problem-solvers.