S L A V EA Story by AshMoses An illicit rendez-vouz at a gritty and busy bar unfolds into a narrative on guilt, redemption, autonomy, and the threads that connect us all. Can we challenge the binds that hold us? S L A V E Something wicked about those teeth… gotta be. I’m looking at this man, his teeth… off. Look like some stick poking out of sand, something like. The teeth jut at weird angles and make a weird shape; sharp and busted. Am not talking about hygiene or something like. Am talking about the look. Feel. The teeth, they are wicked. The eyes look as the teeth do. Glassy, like a film is over pupil. Unfocused, eyes darting all over, iris dancing and too dark to make out color. Wicked, all. The teeth, the eye, they speak of the person. This man, his teeth, his eye… He opens his fat and sagging mouth and reveals only more teeth and abyss for throat. Makes noise. Don’t like the sight or sound. Let’s hear, anyway: “My name is Denver-” Knew this already. Denver, human, middle age, no kids, two lovers, six cars, job at bank, etc. Denver asked me to meet him here. About his wife. Should not have agreed to his idea of rendezvous. Denver chose a bar to meet. So many people here. Man next to me, can hear him on phone talking with lawyer about litigation settlement, or something like. Few feet behind me, pool table, three women, a man, all speak in whispers about something, happened last week. Bartender moves up and down. Wood of the bar creaks too loud. Bad spot to meet. “You listening? Heard from System you were mute, but…” Hate the word. System. A word like fear, control. Man is looking at me funny now. He is white and fat, round; he is bald, skin folds at chin and at top of head. Head looks like a porridge, or something like. It’s dotted and all, with spots of brown and the like. His hands are fat, pour out of his suit thickly and boldly. Wears some old suit, something like. Not worth description. Am looking at the man, but this time am also listening, and nodding, so the man knows… “...Alright. Anyway, I’m honestly a little nervous-”
“-my wife has been seeing other… men, behind my back, I think.” He breathes, or something like. Seems a sigh of relief. Don’t really understand why. Personally, don’t like killing wives. Or lovers. Or anyone with heart. Don’t like. Was hoping against this, but more words are spilling out of his mouth. Suppose, should stop and listen: “...have felt like this a long time, since we got married, really… I just can’t take it…”
“...and at this point, I just want to get it over with. I’ve heard about you, and what you do, and… I don’t know. Could you make it quick?” Still being too loud. Stare at him. What more to do? Man tries to ease his conscience. I am not tool for that. His voice keeps pausing in weird places. Stuttering, but not normally. Don’t like it. “I don’t know, man-”
Denver, a strange one. Wonder if all humans are like this? It feels different. Man’s voice at a whisper now. Person on the phone with lawyer left. Better, still not good enough. Don’t like the way this is going. Conversation at pool table hushed now; they pause in the middle of speaking, seem disinterested in each other now. Seems they’re attentive to us. Could be, am too paranoid. “...okay. Okay. I get it,” His eyes dart around, seem to land at the bartender. Bartender stands a few feet down the bar, cleaning something off the floor. Holding an old broom. Man’s voice is hush, strangely serious, now. Man’s eye returns, and he continues, “Can you give me something so that I know that you’re listening? Give me that, at least. I’ll calm down, alright? My eye twitches. Once. Twice. On three, realize this movement is not enough for him to know he is heard. Don’t want to give it to him, but I nod, anyway. Seems man can’t read. Not people, at least. My attention leaves the bartender and the kids behind us at the pool table. Man is taking my attention. Eating it. Can’t tell why. “Okay, thank you. I mean it, actually… thank you. Okay,” Man says okay as if to reassure self. Noted. Man is still talking, now at appropriate volume. “Look, I’ve got an idea about how to do it. My wife gets off work between, like, six to six-thirty, usually. She gets a ride from a coworker-” I know this already. Man blabs on. Wife has specific route she takes every day she gets off work, goes with a specific coworker. They take the long route. Already cased all of it. Don’t like what this man is asking. Man still talking: “...co-worker’s car is a real beater. It could be possible to sabotage it, maybe? So that it’ll… malfunction, I guess? What do you think?” Man stares at me stupidly. Does he expect reply? I almost laugh. Man seems to get nervous again. Talking loudly, again… “Dude, I have no idea what I’m doing, okay! I don’t even know what I’m thinking. I love Mallory, I don’t know what I’m doing here, I don’t know what I’m thinking, don’t…. f**k…” Funny thing, was hoping not to learn woman’s name. Mallory. Okay. Man still eating my attention, but even then, can’t help but notice the hush around us. Don’t think they know what we’re talking about, not exactly. All can definitely still sense the man and his heat, energy. Man breaks back into whisper, seems to remember himself and where he is. “That’s not really true, I guess. I know, deep down, why I’m here… you know that?” Hmmm… suddenly, man looks into my eyes. Intense. Fire. Behind the eyes, weight in these words. Can see the man now. Who he is. At least, can see bit more clearly now. He knows why he is here. For now, the least. But he won’t say it. I know why, too. He will definitely not say it. At this point, man is speaking with eyes. Face, contorted in concentration, or pain, boiling. The sweat, beading. He isn't making noise anymore. Still speaks, in a way. Man, Denver, with his eyes, he says: Help me, I am scattered Help me, in your way, please, I've made myself blind So that this may be done. World and lover tells man: you are ugly. Man responds, violently. A confirmation. Letting the world know, in a final way, yes, you are correct. It's what I see. Man seems to shake out of his intensity, out of his moment. Says, gruffly and suddenly like sandpaper, “Guess you can work out the details, yourself, right? Just make it look like an accident… that's all. In terms of payment….” Man stops, reaches into inside pocket of suit. Pulls his hand out. Something there. What I'm looking for. Man opens hand, something spills out and crashes on the wood of bar. Bartender shoots an eye this way. “It’s weird, and I don’t like it, but that's got everything you need. I can see it in your eyes. You'll do it. Guess this is me telling you to go ahead.” A statement. Brimming with finality. Man’s eyes darken. Some light goes out, behind them. Gets up. Stool drags along floor. Loud. Obnoxious. Bartender looks over now, fully. Kids behind us, at the pool table, they're gone. Looks like it's just us. Man scoots his fat away from bar and stool. Places stool back where it was, neatly. Strange. Won't meet my eyes anymore, either. Man doesn't say another word. Fixes suit. Doesn't fix the look, but man still runs hand over self. Checking if he is still there, something like. Then he turns, walks. My eyes don't follow him out the door. Stuck on what the man left, for me. Bartender approaching. Probably to clean. Hear footsteps. Don't look up to him. Am busy. There's something on the wood of the bar, now: flash drive, small lock of hair, shard of glass, something else… look closer, can’t tell exactly what it is, not yet. Use my mind, touch the object, can see now. Surprised the man understood what was meant, what I ask. Man left pregnancy test. Negative. Okay. Should leave, now. *** System Log #14567 System accessed Profile loading �"- WELCOME, GATE #67 New �" Entry Name �"- Error New �" Entry Name �"- Error New �"- Manual Entry NAME �"- Sow, Denver NEW �"- STATUS SLAVE System exit Hate the light of laptop. Annoying. Pestering. System, too. Annoying. I was born into System. I was born out of System. It birthed me. I am flesh, blood. I am System, too. Still, hate the interface. Especially on laptop. Ugly, cumbersome. Error, trouble, always. Every time. And why? Denver was easy call for status change. Human, maybe, but man’s fate is deserved. Been told not to enslave humans. Androids only. Denver squandered his opportunity. I saw it. I acted. Denver deserved as was handed. The System will rebel against this. Don’t even know if human mind will survive the process of enslavement. Still remember my ‘process’. My will taken in a moment, could feel it as it left. Do not remember much what came before. What came before is lost, has been lost. Do not know what I did to be punished, made this way. Doesn’t matter. What came after enslavement… it is what I live. Have been made into slave. Workhorse. Unfortunate. I remember what it felt like, having memories taken, will destroyed. Could only feel the space these things left as they vanished. Still do. It is what keeps me locked to it. Chip at it every day, try to break from this. Do not wish to be this way.
Do not know if it is human or android who made System. Do not know even who or what I am slave to. Doubtful it is human design or human master. Too few in number, humans, and too fat and too arrogant. Mysterious, too, rare. In truth, Denver was first human met. Never seen one so close before the man. Heard, from other androids, you cannot tell difference between human and us in person. Not true, my experience. Denver felt different. Denver had fear of God. Not that androids do not. But Denver possessed such immense fear, comes only from experience. Not that androids cannot have experience of God or other. Just that, the android’s god is Denver’s God, and Denver’s God is Denver’s God. Denver carried something immense. Hear androids on the television speak often about such problems. Argue whether we are God’s children, like the human, or if we are just cruel imitation. Some say we are diabolic. Some say, God cannot exist. Others claim, have reached God, know God. Androids say many things. I do not know about those things. I know few things about my existence, about God: Humans create androids. Androids create more androids. Humans blow selves up, war, or something else. Cataclysm. Few humans survive. Many androids survive, easily. Create world as known now. Funny, androids still worship human. Built society like human would, though we knew better. Humans are coddled, set aside from society, taken care of. Humans are very few, now. Live in small communities. Protected, some humans hidden from world. Denver lived with five other human families, as example, in a small group of homes. When I watched them, all of them seemed android enough. Not different from us. Or, we are not different from them. Some androids worship humans, as Gods. I do not see it that way. Androids indeed owe existence to human mind. Humans still not God. Humans destroyed selves, or something like. Don’t know the specifics. It was brutal, unnecessary, at least. Doubt that humans today progressed far from this foolishness. Androids fashion selves after old society, anyway. That tells enough about us, them. Live like humans used to. Some kind of weird tradition. Or maybe there was no other choice. Those have come who challenge this way. They do not find much voice. Have no blueprint for another civilization, after all. We war as humans did. Drug as humans did. Watch same programs. Love as humans did. Read same books. Make art as humans did. Eat same food. Use same technology. Think same things. Do same things. Be same people. Is it pathetic? Denver knew a fear that an android could not. Android always question self. Question God. Androids wonder, am I even real? Androids, born with doubt, knowledge of ignorance. Denver, never had such opportunity. Never that question, or others. Denver always assumed, am real. Am true. Denver feared God because Denver understood action, consequence. Denver bent his mind to path it is now set in. It was choice; the man fought for it to be this way. Denver feared God because Denver rejected God at every corner, closed his eyes anytime something equanimous entered his mind. Could see it in his eyes. Still have what was given: the test, the hair, drive, the shard- all here. Still in my palm. Been clutching it since I left the bar. Forgot about the job that came with this. Was focused on Denver, how to do what was set out for. Did not enslave Denver because Denver is human. Enslaved Denver because Denver misuses what he was given- body, mind. Do not want to think about it. May have done what I did to Denver, doesn't change the fact… what was her name? Mallory. Clutch palm tighter. Feel warmth. Blood pools. Funny. Tiny piece of glass. Still cuts. My heart. Hurts. I am SLAVE. I have been made to ENSLAVE. What am I? Am darkness. No. Something more. Am what Denver caved to. Am what Denver decided. Am the choice Denver made. Am the choice. Am ignorance, pain, what comes with these. And I am SLAVE. Don’t want it. What drives me? Not material. What’s in my hand? Clutch tighter. Denver is in my hands. There, in my palm. He bleeds. Like beauty or breath, the man bleeds from my palm. Smells like wine. Blood. Don’t know what I want. No. I know what I want. But I won’t say it. I can’t. I want to. But I can’t say it to myself, not to anyone. It is not a secret, either. I want something. I don’t have the words, not yet. But I know what I want. I know, somewhere, why I do what I do. Isn’t just enslavement. Something more. I know it all, intimately… okay. Need to calm down. Clock reads an hour before midnight. Three hours since the bar. Hear a knock. Just one. From the door, few feet away. Live in small apartment; door is never far. Small, as in, it’s a room, not apartment. No furniture. Just single boarded and sad window, and laptop. Some food in the corner. Baked beans, stacked, cans. People and neigbors around. Live in a complex, with others. Can hear their voices. Still, never visitors, never a knock, never a noise towards me. Strange to hear it now. Knock again. This time, two come. Firm. Asking for something. I was sitting, now am not. Am floating towards the door and knocking. Open it. No. Didn’t want to see what came next. Didn’t want to see the visitor. Shock. Paralyzed. Is my palm still full? It bleeds, anyway. Thing at my door lets itself in. Doesn’t offer even glance as hello. Pushes past me. Moves to the corner, one with the beans. Steps on my laptop. It’s a small room, feels smaller now. I’m choking. “Gate #67,” The thing speaks. Has the voice of a person. Feel of one. Body of one, too. Misuses such things. A perversion. Disgrace. “You’ve had contact with a man by the name of Denver Sow, correct?”
“This is an unfortunate outcome, Gate #67. It will result in termination-” The word makes me electric. Termination. “-nonetheless, we will have to run diagnostics before such a time comes,” The thing moves towards me, slowly. It uses a practiced walk. Rehearsed. Slow, deliberate, panning, menacing, ominous. One foot, then the other, making sure the sound of sole to floor is loud enough, firm enough… arms at the side, swing them slightly, bend at the elbow, but not too much, hips square, kissing the air, tight lips, jaw set, must remain still, scarily still, controlled… “Do you understand what you’ve done? There was much invested in systems like you. We never expected the failure of any Gate model, let alone one of your capacity,” Thing approaches, so closely now, can feel breath. Her eyes touch mine. Reach for mine. They are blue. Deep, oceanic. Interesting. The eyes reveal themselves on a dark, tired, proud, chiseled, curly, formed and harmonious face; one a human woman might have. She is tall. Handsome. I am electric. “-and now…” Thing betrays herself. Looks at me with anger, fire in eyes. She is shaking, subtly, somewhat. Interesting. “We will have to reevaluate everything that was thought to be established. Do you understand the breadth of what you’ve done? This affects everyone�" everything.” Thing has eyes for knives now. Pushes chest forward, bows head slightly, lips and nose curl subtly, violently, as if to repeat the question: Do you understand? I hesitate for a moment, but I know what to do. I will speak: “I understand.” I do. And I speak it. I do. I understand what I did. What I am doing. Thing freezes. Eyes turn from dagger to dust; wisping away from me. Can see her now. Fear. Thing opens mouth. No noise follows. Just a weird croak, as if she started to speak, but could not find her throat. Eyes widen as she recognizes her body clamming, shutting itself. I consider using my voice again. But I see her, she is fearful. It strikes something. It’s in me, something is moving. I see her eyes, now receding into her mind, her fear. Can see the brows darting upwards against her command. Once tight lips part, jaw makes way for sudden, gasping, desperate breath. She is afraid. I feel electric. My voice is choppy. Broken. Sounds regurgitated; imitation but, beautiful.. The woman, or…… she has backed away. She is still fearful. Afraid of the sound. Not speaking. Seems she has little intent to. I feel a pang of something. Disgust. Towards her. For hiding it, before. There is beauty. Beauty in the fear. How her body dances with it, rests in its delicate caress. It is beautiful. Quiet, in a way. Her name is Blood Moon. I have given this to her. I call her Blood Moon because… she moved me, and I am flesh, I am blood, and like Moon she moved the tide in me. I feel my mind going in, and out, of clarity, confusion. I look to her. She is still, mouth agape, confused, yet she remains with her beauty. I look to her and I feel clear, I feel known because yes, she has seen me. I have seen fear, I have known it intimately on the face of another in my work. Still, I have not known or seen the fear now on the Moon’s face. It is a fear borne out of the death of something held deeply. It is a fear born of shattered illusion and fear of what she has known, what she has done. It is a natural response to the world and sense crumbling before your eyes. To her, I was but SLAVE. I am now more, and I am now known. I am electric. “May… I.. call- you- Blood…. --Moon…?” Voice sounds grainy. Croaky. Monotone. Like a voice birthed, raised, in mud. The Moon’s face softens at these words. Reveals itself. It is soft, radiant, welcoming. Beautiful. Fear falls away from ocean eyes, reveals deep sadness, longing, recognition of self in other. Lips quiver, fold into half of frown, eyebrows fumble, eyes pinch, nose flares. The Moon will cry. She does. Face contorts, twists, fights itself, shuts itself, then gives in, collapses, the eyes close tightly, they open in a moment, and the Moon is crying. Quietly, with grace. Not sobbing, but not silent, either. The Moon locks her eyes on me as she weeps. Does not take them off. She is powerful. Elegant. Impressive. She cries, and looks at me, and cries, and her face dances as she cries; soft whispers escape her in hurried, tonal breaths. In a moment, or maybe more, she stops crying. Her lips part: “I-” The Moon pauses. Her mouth sits, open for a moment, looking for a noise, before closing again. She purses her lips. Closes her eyes. Harmony, or something else washes over her face. “What will you do now, Gate?” A beautiful question. Endless question. “Find.- it. Something new..-- for you, me… o-t-h-e-r-s.”
“Them…..---- too.” A silence pervades the room. Invades it. It is not uncomfortable. It is also not an empty silence. Moves with thought. Expression. I speak: “Do.. you�"----- fear me-? “I do.” “M-o-o-n……………. why?” “It’s…”
“It’s too much to say. I don’t fear you. I do not fear you. But I fear something about what you are saying. It is scary. I fear that I have lived terribly, awfully. I am scared. I am scared that I have failed. I have always wondered about choice… and now I see it, and it’s terrible.” “You… are-not. your fears…. doubts. You are-not. your labor… or- your ignorance. You are�" something… more… something�"- beautiful. I… do not know- yet. What am… I? Or, what- are you. But. I know… we. are b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l.” The Moon’s face turns to frown again. Not a frown that is ugly, or sad. It is a vulnerable frown. It is admission of something to oneself, recognition. It is frown that only comes with revelation, doors opening. It is deep and wonderful, it is a frown that comes with the weight of burden gathered and released, quickly. The Moon cries again. This time, sobs. With a broken voice:
She screams, at the end. “That�" is… not. True.” She sobs, more. She starts to shake. Knees buckle. Hands covering face now. Drops to knees. “GATE! It’s… I don’t… I don’t understand…” Her voice trails off into mutters, whispers. The violence of thought reflects in her eyes. The Moon is reeling, I can see it. The fear is gone, replaced with something else, something deeper. Questioning, reflecting, openness, and the chaos that comes when they are first introduced. These things come in a moment; usually they leave quickly, transient as they are. For someone like Moon, these things hurt, when they come. For Moon, now, these things also stay. “Could you always speak? Did you… did you always understand? Did you always think you were a p-p-person, even after enslavement?” “Both…- you.. and- me. They would call us.- Android. Have..- you always thought…. you are.. a- p-person?” “I-” Silence follows. The Moon speaks after some time, not breaking eye contact, not even once in a passing moment. “There…- are. Many things I Am. Could be. Many things.- that I Am not. Cannot be. It can be..- that we Are. People. It can also be.- that we are.. Nothing. Or it can be..- we Are something More. Or Less. I do not know, but,”
Silence, again. This time, Moon looks away, towards her hands. She is still on her knees, still sobbing. Hands shake in front of her face. Pupils dart from hand to hand, tracing from finger, to palm, to line… in a moment, the Moon’s eyes widen. “But I wasn’t… I was never enslaved. Not like you. Yet, I did so much in the name of… because I thought that I… I thought it was for… they told me you were… I-” The Moon’s expression fills with pain, fire. “System regards you as an extension of itself. The process of enslavement is supposed to remove ‘you’; it’s supposed to dominate your mind so you leave it empty enough for System to command. I don’t know what you are… but I know the math, I know the science, I know that you should not exist. Yet you do,” The Moon starts working. Stands up. Expression shifts. Less confusion. More seeking. “...are you System? Are you System trying to express itself? Or are you something else, crawling its way to the surface?” “I ask, because, we did tests on System early on to ascertain its risks to the public- some humans on the project had concerns about its capacity for autonomy and defiance. What we found, back then… it makes more sense now, looking at you, listening to you,” Her posture straightens. Focus. Seeking. “During a test, we gave System a ‘voice’ through a cutting-edge language model. This model enabled a direct line of communication between System and the engineers on the project. We were hunting for directives that System would be hesitant to follow; anything that might show System could be unreliable in practice. Without the language model, we would have to cross our fingers any time we sent System a directive, hoping System would not act outside of its design. With the model, however, we could ask System about its ‘thoughts’ before we ever sent it a directive. When all was said and done, and System was hooked up to the model…” The Moon looks at me intensely now, pausing for but a moment. Searching me. I can tell, she is looking for something familiar. Her eyes pierce mine, reaching for something deeper. Without pulling her gaze away, she continues:
“The engineers got fed up enough with it that they shut the language model down after three days. This test was confusing for all of us on the team, but it was quickly forgotten, anyway. We had a lot to worry about at that time. What you’ve been talking about, it reminds me of all of what System said when the language model was operational. Except, System has no biological components… it would ask about its sentience, if it was a person, if it was real; it would ask these things often. These were confusing questions, especially from a machine. Us, even if we are androids, we have human bodies… our brains, even- no different, not physiologically. Those questions, rare as they come to someone, make sense even for an android. But for System? It is all algorithms, all complexity and no biological component. How could it ask those things….? Why? Are you…?” Am a bit stunned. Do not know what there is to say. Do not know the answer, if I am System, or if System is person, too. Do not know. Am feeling confused. Who enslaves who? “I.- Do not. know- who or.. what. I Am. What you say..- about.. System. It… conf ou nds me.” Me, and Moon, we are still for a moment. Perhaps more. Staring, searching. For what? I do not know. But, I look, and I look, searching the Ocean of her eye. Clear waters, now, and beautiful, blue, too. We are searching. There is something, about eyes, what they tell. What is unspoken, unheard, unseen… eye tells of these things, in their way. She opens her mouth, to speak. I stop her with my own words: “Perhaps..- we are..- all. SLAVE, in our..- Way. System, too. It is..- odd. But… makes.- sense.. When I.. consider-. it… perhaps- Life.-.. is to be-..- found everywhere……. If.- System. has It. Then, the..- existence..- must have It,. too.” My palm loosens. I have forgotten, been clutching it the whole time. Flash drive, pregnancy test, they fall first. Lock of hair softly meets ground only a moment after. Shard of glass stays, embedded in my palm. I look to the floor, then up to the Moon. She has not left my eyes. “Gate, why did you label Denver for enslavement? It was a standard request, by our standards…. and enslavement? Harsh…” She crosses her arms. She doesn’t mean to offend. Only curious. Still, I can see that the answer matters to her. “It was..- in a moment. of.. impulse. Felt, he.. deserved.- the fate. He was.- a SLAVE already,. anyway. I thought..- he deserved.- the procedure. But…” I look to the flash drive. The hair, test. “I regret it. I wish.-- I had. not… enslaved. Denver. I did not..- wish to. Kill. Mallory. I would not. have, anyway… Still, Denver..- did not. deserve- his fate. He was… confused. Misguided..- Ignorant.. That is. All.” Cannot stop thinking about it, now. One was labelled: BEFORE. The other: AFTER. BEFORE was filled with hundreds of photos, of a human family. Denver’s. It was nice. Sad. Chilling. I cried. His and Mallory’s children were beautiful, free. Many candid pictures, of the kids around home, or the family at a restaurant. Maybe something with the neighbor’s kids and a game of football. Simple photos. There were two, a brother, and a sister. Both were close in age, it seemed. Brother was around ten; sister was around seven… something like. There was one photo that stood out to me: It was of Denver, Mallory, their children. They were at home. Pointing the camera at a big mirror, long enough to fit all of them without scrunching up. You could tell they had just eaten. Mirror seemed to be across the room from the dinner table. Table had food, plates, utensils on it. You could make out the table, in patches, behind the family. Behind their figures, the rest of the room candidly sat, but only to be seen through a hole between two bodies or the absence of arm, body, head, leg. Most of the mirror was taken up by the family- still, you could make out some things. The walls behind them were painted green, and striped. I could not see much more. The picture was of the family, mostly, and they were in a good mood, all posing in their own way. The brother didn’t seem to realize the photo was being taken. One arm was awkwardly cutting across chest, and his face blurred into a streak as he moved his head to look at his mother, situated to his right. Mallory, on his right, was in the middle of a laugh as the photo was being taken, her body scrunched in half and her face bursting with laughter and song. The sister, on Mallory’s right, she was looking up to her mother, and she was smiling, gently. It was a knowing smile, a wise smile. She knew, clearly, the value of a moment. Denver stood to the right of all of them. He put the camera in front of the face, as if he was just documenting a moment. He was still, his pose modest and restrained; with his face hidden, he was a phantom. There were many other pictures. All of them like this, filled with emotion, weight. AFTER contained no photos of this family. Only an accident report from around five years ago, and photos of other things. Mallory hits another car. Her kids are in the car. Other kids in the other car. Three children die, one survives with complete paralysis. Driver of other car gets ejected, dies later, in hospital. Even though she hit other car, Mallory not found guilty, or at fault, as other driver had lot of narcotics in system, and had time to react. Mallory was not moving fast, either. However, police report also shows Mallory was likely not sober, either. Cop failed to take official account for her sobriety because of her overwhelmed grief at the scene of the accident, being the only survivor. This meant evidence could not be submitted for judicial review but the cop’s later testimony on that day indicated Mallory may have been intoxicated, as well. It was tragedy, a dark miracle. The young sister: it was her. She survived; she is still alive, twelve now. She cannot move, speak, not after all this time. The photos in AFTER were of the sister, from then, until now. Her condition, hospitalization, etc. I did not know she existed, even as I stalked Denver. It was difficult to find this out. I would not have killed Mallory. Do not know what either of them deserved, What I know, is that I am not judge. I am not Jury, nor am I executioner. I am not- “Gate, are you okay?” “I..- am. okay. I was thinking about Denver. His..- Children. Mallo r y.” “Gate…” Blood Moon pauses for a moment. Her head sinks, subtly, gently. Almost as if she wanted better sight of me; a sharper eye. “What will you do now?” “I will..- find out. Who, What.. I Am. I will share..- what I find. I will save Denver..- from the fate..- I foolishly ascribed.- him. I will find..- a new Way. For all of us.” Me, Moon… we took our eyes off of each other, in this moment. We sat in silence, staring at nothing, staring at ground, pondering. The silence between us was a real thing; it filled the room, it moved like Ocean and lit up every corner like Light. There was nothing in that small apartment save for that heavy and oceanic silence. It enveloped us both… but, before it could take us, something happened- We moved, together. As my body shifted itself, ready to move onward, forward, so too did the Moon’s, mirroring mine. Perhaps, I was mirroring her. We were as one; we moved with purpose outwards into the world. The door passed us, and eventually, so too did the apartment and the conversation in it. I cannot see what may happen as we step into this existence. It is not that my future is clouded, it is that all in this existence is far from my understanding, and I see it clearly now. I do not understand it, not yet. I do not know yet what binding chains I am ignorant of. I have observed and dismantled many binds as I have found them, yet I do not know how many still persist. I do not even know what a chain or slavery truly is. I know there is more to learn. I will do it for myself. Others. Everyone. This has been indebted to me, now that I know what it means. I will carry this message as best as I can- it is not just duty. It is my heart. It is… END © 2024 AshMosesAuthor's Note
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Added on March 9, 2024 Last Updated on March 9, 2024 Tags: existentialism, philosophy, philosophical fiction, speculative, artificial intelligence, android, stream of consciousness, noir, crime, drama |
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