Patent Medicine
Medical Research. 750 words, 3 minute read. With Gemini.
The dispensary doors slid open, not with a hiss, but a faint whoosh of displaced air. Clark stepped inside, the sudden quiet pressing in on him. It wasn't a peaceful quiet; it was the profound silence of a space stripped bare. No promotional clutter, no buzzing displays, just vast stretches of pale flooring reflecting the flat, shadowless light panels above. The air, cool and filtered, carried no scent memory of antiseptics or perfumes – it smelled of nothing at all.
He felt the familiar ache bloom in his knees, a dull throb that seemed amplified in the stillness. He remembered bounding up clinic steps two at a time, briefcase slapping his thigh, radiating confidence like heat off asphalt. Now, each step onto the gleaming floor felt deliberate, measured.
The shelves behind the counter were monuments to uniformity: endless rows of identical white boxes, differentiated only by crisp, black text. He scanned them, a useless reflex, searching for the familiar landmarks of his past – the bold swoosh of Lipitor, the confident slab-serif of Plavix. Nothing. It was like looking at a perfectly organized but completely anonymous library. He recalled a frantic afternoon spent rearranging a pharmacy's display – his brand front and center, the competitor slightly obscured. Sweat, adrenaline, the thrill of a tiny victory. Now? Just neat, sterile rows. Orderly, yes, but lifeless.
He laid his Health ID on the counter, its plastic cool against the smooth surface. The technician, pink-haired and placid, gave a brief, impersonal smile. "Mr. Henderson? Atorvastatin refill?"
"Yes," Clark said, the word dry in his throat. He swallowed. "The atorvastatin." He couldn't bring himself to utter the ghost-name, the brand he'd championed for over a decade.
The technician’s fingers tapped lightly on her console. "Certainly. Standard 20 milligram, 30-day supply." She didn't ask about brands, didn't mention options. Her efficiency was unnerving.
Clark cleared his throat, gesturing vaguely at the wall of white. "It's just… different now. All the same."
She glanced up, a flicker of polite incomprehension. "Different from what, Mr. Henderson?" Then, a dawning. "Ah, you mean the old packaging? From before standardization? Yes, the archives show quite a variety back then." She turned, retrieving a small white box from a drawer below. It felt weightless in her hand. "National Health dictates the packaging now for all Schedule 3 generics and below. Ensures clarity, reduces errors, optimizes logistics. Far more efficient."
Efficient. The word landed like a stone in Clark’s gut. He remembered a sales conference in Hawaii – luaus, beachfront suites, endless presentations on market share percentages infinitesimal enough to be statistical noise, all justified as necessary business expenses to promote a drug whose core patent was nearing its end. Efficient wasn't the goal then. Dominance was.
"So the companies," Clark began, then corrected himself, "the manufacturers... they don't..."
"Compete on branding?" the technician finished, placing the box before him. "Not for these compounds, no. There's no mechanism for it, and no point. They compete on fulfilling the NHS supply tenders reliably and cost-effectively. It’s a different model." She indicated the small payment screen. "That's sixty-five cents, please."
Sixty-five cents. The price echoed in the quiet room. He saw, for a flashing instant, the desperate face of a woman at a pharmacy counter years ago, arguing with him, pleading about co-pays, about choosing between medication and groceries. He’d offered practiced sympathy and steered the conversation back to the prescribing physician. Now, the cost was less than pocket change. A wave of something cold and unfamiliar washed through him – not quite guilt, not quite relief, but a profound sense of imbalance, as if the world he knew had been built on deliberately inflated values. Had his life’s work been dedicated to maintaining that imbalance?
He paid numbly. As the technician bagged the box, a man nearby collected three similar white boxes, tucking them casually into a worn canvas bag without even glancing at a screen or wallet. Effortless. Assumed.
"Have a healthy day, Mr. Henderson," the technician said, the phrase delivered with the same rote pleasantness as everything else.
Clark took the small bag. Healthy day. It sounded less like a wish and more like a statement of fact in this new reality. He walked towards the exit, the doors parting silently. Outside, the sun glinted off autonomous delivery vehicles humming quietly down the street. He clutched the little white box, its smooth, featureless surface cool against his palm. It felt like holding solidified absence, the tangible proof of a vibrant, complex, and perhaps monstrously expensive world that had simply… evaporated.