The Primrose Treatment

 I’d been drumming my fingers on the steering wheel for nearly twenty minutes. The dashboard clock showed it was just shy of ten at night.

When Marc called, demanding I pick him up at his parents' place, my first thought was that he’d gotten into trouble again.

That wouldn't exactly be news.

Marc had vanished for three months. No texts, no social media posts, no calls. His family had been absolutely frantic after the last mess he’d gotten himself into.

And now, after all that time, he was reappearing out of nowhere, wanting to play video games.

Of course.

The passenger door opened.

I got my best lecture ready.

"Where the hell have you been, you..."

The words died in my throat.

A blonde woman got into the car.

She was wearing a low-cut black dress with a floral print and little ties at the shoulders. Her long, bleached hair fell in perfect waves, and her tanned skin had that flawless look of someone who spent more time in beauty salons than at home.

Even her perfume was different, vanilla.

Nothing like the cheap deodorant Marc used to wear.

She closed the door, adjusted her dress, and gave me a calm look.

"Hey... miss," I said, still trying to wrap my head around what was happening. "I think you got into the wrong car. I'm waiting for a friend."

She arched an eyebrow.

Then she smiled.

"Cut the crap, Brian. It's me."

I stared at her.

"...Marc?"

"Exactly."

"What the fuck is this?!"

"I asked you not to shout."

The voice was perfectly feminine, but there was something about that lazy way of speaking—that bored expression—that I’d recognize anywhere.

Marc.

There was no doubt.

"You've got to be kidding me. Is this some kind of disguise?" I glanced at her quickly and immediately regretted it.

— And... that looks pretty real.

Marc let out a sigh.

— I really wish it were just a joke.

He ran his fingers through his hair, as if he were still getting used to it.

— Remember my millionaire aunt? The one who threatened to cut me out of the will completely if I didn't straighten out my life?

— The crazy one who said you were an embarrassment to the family?

— That’s the one.

He settled into the seat and crossed his legs with an ease that made me feel even more uncomfortable.

— She offered me one last chance. Three months at an isolated behavioral clinic in Europe.

— And you accepted?

Marc looked at me as if the answer were obvious.

— I was broke, Brian. Penniless, drowning in debt, and my aunt was the only thing standing between me and bankruptcy. So I signed.

— And what did they do to you?

Marc fell silent for a few seconds.

— The place was called the Primrose Institute. Officially, the program was designed to control violent impulses, improve posture, build discipline, and teach social skills.

— And?

— And they were very good at what they did.

He glanced at the rearview mirror and touched his face with his fingertips, examining his delicate features as if he still couldn't quite believe they were real.

— At first, it was just classes. Behavioral therapy, exercise, diet, medication... Then the "reshaping" sessions began.

— Reshaping?

— That was the exact word they used.

He let out a humorless laugh.

— Except I thought they were talking about behavior.

My stomach tightened.

— They weren't?

Marc shook his head.

— My clothes started getting loose. My voice changed. My hair grew out. My face started to change. My body...

He made a small gesture with his hands.

— Well, you can see for yourself.

I stared at him.

My mind simply refused to accept it.

— Marc, that’s impossible.

He smiled.

— In the summer of 2021, we stole your neighbor’s lawnmower to race it down the main avenue. You lost control, broke your left arm, and then lied to your mom, saying you’d fallen out of a tree.

I stopped breathing for a moment.

— And you still have that horrible tattoo on your back—the one you got without telling anyone.

I swallowed hard.

— Holy shit...

It was him.

It didn't matter—the hair, the voice, the face, or the body.

It was Marc.

— Man... what did they do to you?

Marc shrugged.

— I don’t know if I can explain it. I think they wanted to erase everything they considered "aggressive male behavior."

He looked down at his hands.

Long, perfectly manicured nails.

— Let’s just say they took the concept of "nipping the problem in the bud" a bit too seriously.

I remained silent.

— Are you okay?

Marc thought for a few seconds before answering.

— I’m... different.

He smiled.

— Much calmer, actually. And, apparently, incapable of staying angry at anything for more than five minutes.

— That doesn't sound like you.

— I know.

He let out a soft laugh.

— Are you serious?

— More serious than ever.

He opened the bag he was carrying and showed me some documents.

— My aunt considered the treatment a success. She said I’ve finally become someone worthy of managing the family money.

I shook my head, still trying to process it all.

Three months.

Three months, and the guy who used to settle every argument with his fists had come back looking like a perfume commercial model.

— So... — I began. — Do you really want to come over to my place and play video games?

Marc smiled.

— Sure. I want to see if I still remember how to play Call of Duty.

He held up one hand and examined his fingernails.

— Although these damn claws probably won't help.

I looked at him again.

It was just too weird.

I could perfectly picture the old Marc sitting in my room, yelling at the TV, tossing the controller onto the sofa, and cursing out any player who beat him.

But this version standing in front of me?

With elegant posture, a floral dress, the scent of vanilla, and an almost permanent smile?

It didn't seem to belong in the same universe.

— You know what? Forget the video games for today.

Marc tilted his head.

— Why?

— You just spent three months in an experimental clinic in Europe. I bet you’re sick of clinic food, white rooms, and behavioral classes.

He smiled.

— And what’s the alternative?

I started the car.

— Let’s go to dinner at that new restaurant downtown. You can tell me everything at your own pace. Then we can decide what to do.

Marc was silent for a few seconds.

Then he gave a shy smile.

A smile the old Marc would never have shown.

— Dinner?

— Yeah.

— Sounds great.

He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and looked at me.

— But you’re paying.

— Why? Marc replied with the utmost naturalness:

"Because my lessons taught me that a gentleman never lets a lady open her wallet."

I stared at him.

"I really miss the old Marc."

He chuckled.

"Me too."

And, for the first time that night, I got the impression that perhaps that treatment had left at least one thing intact.

His sense of humor.