The Empathy Delete

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Lily used to cry at commercials. Literally sob at those shelter dog ads with the Sarah McLachlan music. She apologized when people bumped into her. She stayed late at work covering for others. She was everyone's therapist, everyone's doormat, everyone's sweet, reliable Lily. Then she signed up for the trial. "Emotional Regulation Therapy," they called it. A simple injection to help with her anxiety. What they didn't mention was that her anxiety came from caring too fucking much, and the serum would fix that by deleting her capacity to care at all.


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The first sign came Tuesday. A coworker spilled coffee on Lily's laptop, destroying her presentation. Old Lily would have said "it's fine!" while internally spiralling. New Lily just stared at her and said, "You're going to replace that." No smile. No reassurance. The coworker's face crumpled. Lily felt... nothing. Actually, no—she felt a tiny spark of something warm. Something like pleasure. By Friday, she'd stopped filtering entirely. Told her roommate her cooking was "genuinely disgusting." Informed a street canvasser that nobody cared about his cause. Watched her sister cry over a breakup and felt only irritation at the noise.

Then came Saturday. Her best friend Megan came over, puffy-eyed about some boy. Same shit as always. But instead of listening, Lily found herself staring at Megan's face, cataloguing every flaw. The slightly crooked nose. The weight she'd gained.

"You know why he left, right?" Lily heard herself say. "You've let yourself go. You're not hot anymore." Megan's mouth fell open. Tears spilled. And Lily felt that spark again, bigger this time. A rush of power that went straight between her legs. While Megan sobbed in the living room, Lily wandered upstairs. Megan's dad was visiting, staying in the guest room. Divorced. Lonely. Looking at Lily the way he always had but was too polite to act on.

Old Lily would never. New Lily knocked on his door. Twenty minutes later, she was riding him in Megan's childhood bed, surrounded by old stuffed animals and faded boy band posters. She made sure to be loud. Made sure Megan could hear every moan, every "fuck me harder, Mr. Torres." When she came, it wasn't just physical. It was the cruelty itself. The knowledge that her best friend was downstairs, destroyed, listening to her father grunt Lily's name. Afterwards, she walked past Megan without a glance. Megan was still crying. A heap on the couch, mascara everywhere.

"Can you keep it down?" Lily said. "That sound is annoying." She poured herself wine and turned up the music, drowning out the sobs. Caught her reflection in the window and smiled. Cold eyes. Perfect posture. No guilt, no shame, no exhausting empathy weighing her down. 

She'd spent twenty-four years being nice. Being small. Being everyone's emotional support animal. Now she was free. And god, freedom tasted like power. 

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