I Was Abducted and Brought to the Mellon Institute
It was a normal Thursday night, meaning I had one tequila soda, one IPA, three tequila sodas, and a Celsius. I was walking back to my dorm from Squirrel Hill when a bright light appeared over me. All of a sudden, I found myself falling over. I assumed it was God. Or the police. Or the police acting in service of God. But no, it was far worse and stranger.
When I woke up, I was lying on a steel table in the Mellon Institute. You know, the only building with sixty-two columns that’s not in Greece, though it’s nearly as long a walk. Imagine the Parthenon but for biologists and chemists who haven’t felt joy since their own undergrad in the Bush administration. I was able to recognize it from the scent of mildew and the faint screams of monkeys being experimented on. They (my captors, not the monkeys) were communicating in a strange language I initially took for German: “Bond angles,” “pseudopodia,” “pi orbitals,” “ligand exchange.” Absolute nonsense. I tried to scream out for help but all that I could manage was “I’m in Tepper!” This only seemed to anger them. They then probed me, but not in the fun way. First, someone stuck a pipette or something up my nose. Next, a group of aids sent me through the MRI. One of them whispered, “We’re going to determine your resonance frequency.” I think they meant my GPA. Thankfully, it’s excellent, in spite of such brutal classes as Business Presentations and Management Game.
Anyway, I blacked out again and awoke in a tiny room lined with old, yellowing journals. They forced me to sign an NDA, which I’m currently violating, and then threatened to make me TA a lab section. Why, you ask? Well, they want more funding—a LOT more funding—and I’ve apparently been bioengineered into the perfect weapon. It’s a genius move: because of the sheer absurdity of their plan, any attempt to bring attention to the matter be dismissed as hangover ravings. Their ultimate goal is to implant me as a spy in Tepper and force me to reroute the funds. Speaking of implants, they put something in me. I don’t know what. Since then, I’ve noticed strange changes: I can identify solvents by smell, I get aroused near Bunsen burners, and I involuntarily hiss when someone mentions Dietrich.
They finally released me onto Fifth Avenue at dawn. Before I left, one scientist touched my forehead and I experienced a moment of telepathic visions: a grad student crying in a stairwell, a failed grant proposal, and an escaped mouse hiding under the vending machine. I also saw the heat death of the universe, or perhaps just a professor waiting for their paper to be published. And, at that moment, I understood the pain that comes with being in MCS, toiling away day and night in a department with a mediocre US News Ranking for a pitiful salary. At least, I imagine I would have felt something, if they had remembered to give me empathy.
I managed to stumble home, reeking of acetone, my memories fragmented. My roommate doesn’t believe me, and I have no friends to confide in, only a series of individuals I’ve networked with. If you see me around campus, twitching as I pass a fume hood, know I’ve seen the other side.