The Tool

Just an odd little story that wrote itself one afternoon

I lost myself on the way to meet time, never quite catching up. I ran until my feet blistered and my knees ached, trying to catch the clock before it struck midnight and fell off the wall, but the world was lost before I was ever born, and I was the only one capable of saving us all from time's wrath. I had the secret. I always had the secret. Everyone told me it was a lie, but I knew. I still know.

 

Yesterday the doctor with the grayest hair, I think his name is Zowalksy or something like that, he asked me, "Why you? Why on earth would YOU, Mr. Newsom, be THE SAVIOR of the world? Why would these secrets be given only to YOU?" He looked at me, sharp, trying to see the answers in my eyes that he knew I would not give them. He wanted the secrets. He can't have them. They are mine. He couldn't do anything with them anyway, as it is too late. We are all going to die. The hands are almost to midnight, the walls are about to fall down around us, destroying our Babylon, as all others have been destroyed. He will see. He will see just before his eyes close. Of course, I've already told them that. They don't listen. They think they know. They think I am crazy. What is crazy? Denying what is in front of your face? Do they not see what I see? I will not lie. I will not deny the truth. I know what reality is. It is they who are blind, deaf, dumb, crazy. Soon, their moment of realization will come. Any moment now. I will be the only one ready. Perhaps, I'll be one of the few to live.  Frankly, I hope not, though.

 

I never wanted to live. I never asked to be born. I never enjoyed being. I am a tool, a creature of purpose, a thing, never seen as real in the eyes of my creators. The female was cold and indifferent; the male was full of hate. I never loved them, did not even like them. A person is supposed to love their creators. I suppose I am not a person. I have, primarily, the genetics of a person, because I had to, to survive here. I think they gave me the wrong parts. They gave me the parts that make it harder for me to stop myself from self-destructing. But it is the part of me that is a part of them, the male and the female who created me, that I hate the most. If I could cut all of them out of me, I would. It is their fault that I couldn't stop time's wrath. It is their fault because they didn't make me perfect enough to do my job. It is not my fault. I never wanted the job.

 

There is an orderly taking the sheets off of my bed now, and when I look at her, I don't want her to die. She is good. She glows with inner peace. She is beautiful, though old. She must be near 60. Why does she still work here? Why is she so lonely, yet so kind, and helpful, and content? Her dark skin and hair and eyes remind me of how mother earth might look, were she a human woman. She doesn't treat me like the others do, either. She listens without giving me that sharp look. Her eyes are always soft, gentle, warm. I want to tell her all of the secrets, to ensure her survival, but I know she would not understand. She would become afraid of me, like the other lady, the nurse, the pretty one, the one I told a week ago. She will not come back. Now my nurse is a robust young man.

 

The doctor with the least gray in his hair comes in He is graying only at the temples. He has my certificate of birth in his hands. I wondered how long it would take them to ask me about it. I have been here for a week. How little attention must they pay to details around here? Before he can ask, I say "Yes, that is mine. I was born in 1867. It is now 2009. I am 142 years old."

 

He laughs at me. "You really expect me to believe that? Your face is not wrinkled; your hands are not infirm. You cannot be more than 40. And if you were 142, you would be the oldest human being to ever live. I would have heard your name somewhere by now, seen you on the news." He can laugh all he wants. I say nothing. I am not a human being, not entirely, but he would never believe that, so I won't say it again.

 

Stop, now, what is it? I hear something in my mind. The female is talking. I hate the telepathic connection with her. I want to give myself a lobotomy, find the place her voice comes from and rip it out, in one sharp yank, blood and veins and bone and all, whatever must be taken. I would not even care if my life came out with it. As soon as I can get a tool… but hush, what is that she is saying?

 

“It is nigh. Tell me, have you saved them? Will they welcome us? Do they understand?”

 

“You know what the answer is, so why do you ask, you cruel b***h!”

 

Startled, suddenly more alive, the old orderly glares at me. She thinks I have spoken to her. I should not have been so loud. The female can hear me if I simply think it hard enough. Her face becomes worry as she runs to tell a doctor I need meds. They always think I need meds, to see “reality”. Hehehe. If they only knew. Their drugs only make me slumber. I know what I know, and I can’t unknow it, much as I may desire to do so.

 

Again, the female: “Your task was simple. You were designed for it. We made you stay young and attractive enough, we gave you all of the tools you would need to make them see. You are a failure. When they die, it will all be your fault.”

 

“Stop! Stop! STOP! It is your decision to kill them. You knew before you made me that in the end you would. They are your cattle, your amusement, your tinker toys, your sheep. And they don’t know it. It’s wrong. There are good ones here. Good ones who don’t deserve…”

 

My thought-conveyance is interrupted as the men walk in with the needles. Two men, two needles, advancing so quickly that I know I can’t avoid them. So I will be sleeping, when they come? Perhaps. I blank my mind out away from them, so I can continue the telepathic conversation yet again.

 

“Why not just take the evil ones? Let the good ones live. You don’t need the land on this planet for anything else. You don’t need them. Why? Why? Why?”

 

“They are ugly, and I am bored with them, as is your father..”

 

“He is not my FATHER. You are not my MOTHER. Those are good, human words. You are monsters. I am a monstrosity. You created me from genes in a test-tube. There is more of them in me than of you.”

“I’m done talking, my creation. Perhaps I shall end you, too. You do not seem happy. No need to respond. You know how fast we can travel, how quickly we can destroy the whole thing. It will be mere moments. Goodbye.”

 

“WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT!” She does not answer. Apparently, I shouted out loud again. The two men who have injected me stop at the door. I look at them, point blank, and shout, “You have only moments to live!”

They laugh. They always laugh. How in the hell was I ever supposed to do my job? They always laugh. I was supposed to make them believe they were a herd of creatures created for the amusement of another race from outer space? How was I supposed to make them happy with that realization? There was no chance. There never was a chance. I was merely another toy- never like a child to them, though I had a little of their genetics within the human ones.

 

I have wasted my last moments of thought. I hear the droning. I hear the whistle. I hear explosions. They have come. The walls shake. The people are screaming. I curl into a ball to try and pretend not to hear them. I fall asleep.

 

“We found Mr. Newsom dead this morning, from a coronary, Dr. Zowalsky.” The young nurse seems relieved, when Zowalsky examines her face. He must admit, he is, too. No one should have to live like Newsom had; so delusional it had made his life a living hell, for all of those years. Human beings were not meant to live that long. And why had he not seen him in the paper?

 

 

Reviews

[TAO]

This is definitely one freaky piece of work. The despair is palpable... When I read it the first time, and got to the end, I was left feeling hopeless... I felt this man really was on a mission to save mankind and, because of mankind, wasn't able to complete that mission... Obviously, or may be not so... Frightening, yet meaningful piece of work.