Every wound is now registered. You line up with the others and wait to reach the check out kiosk. You show your wound, if necessary write it down on a single piece of paper, double spaced, New Times Roman. Or you show up and are allowed to lift your shirt to reveal your heart. Whichever way, you receive a receipt. You can take the receipt with you or just say no thank you.
But point is, it’s recorded. That wound has a case number. Later at home you can return online and enter a friendly name as well. I do that. Mother and Brother. Chuck. Pond. Those are the names I’ve given. You only get twenty-five characters, so it has to be concise.
Each time I go to the Wound Center and register what has happened to me, I leave feeling light and free. Usually later I regret not having taken the receipt. Perhaps it would extend the lightness in my heart. Unfortunately the immediate release that I feel diminishes so quickly, sometimes by the time I reach my car. During the summer it seems even quicker. Maybe the receipt, the sign of recognition, could bring back the release. But I never want to take it because I might look like I’m holding onto my trauma.
At the Wound Center, a banner hangs over the checkout area. “You Are Heard.” That is the point, right? But I wonder, is someone collecting our data? Hurt Data. Maybe they are training the AI shrinks (that we can now visit for free) to adapt to our hurts. I fear they have nefarious reasons and that frightens me. But I can’t give up the high I feel when I leave the Center. So I’ll go back until people start whispering that it’s all a sham and we’re being played.