Contributor: Michael A. Withell
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I'm tired and I can't remember why they didn't bring me my tablets. I have my tablets every morning at six, it's strange that no-one brought them to me. The lady walks over to my bed, touches me on the face.
Not too hard.
And she gives the small cup to my tired hand. They always taste like the cold; bitter and metallic like the robot that they intend to turn me into. I wonder if a robot can feel the cold?
Cold; it's cold in here. The Sun seems to be on the other side of the corridor and it's dark. I can even begin to see my breath in front of my eyes, dancing in the remnants of the morning light.
You shouldn't smoke in here, they'd say to me; but I'm not smoking.
It's the cold, I'd say, A picture painted by my very lungs.
The door in front of me is open and my breath quickens in apprehension of the threshold. I wonder why they don't lock it? I thought they always locked it? Something faceless is on the small television screen, I can't make out what it is. All I see is the flowers sitting on the desk, relaxing in the glare of the morning Sun.
They look comfortable.
The man on the desk smiles past me, not making contact with my dancing eyes. I wonder if he knows why the woman didn't bring me my pills? But I can't ask him, I don't want him to look inside my head.
The front door lets me walk through it. I thank it for its courtesy and let it close and rest; I wonder if it ever gets tired? I can't imagine how a life like that can be much fun.
Open, close, open, close, open, close.
It's closed now and I can smell the flowers, they look pretty in their various states and positions. I can see the Sun now, bright and proud on its large pedestal; even when I close my eyes I can feel it touching my face.
Not too hard.
And she gives the small cup to my tired hand. They always taste like the cold; bitter and metallic like the robot that they intend to turn me into. I wonder if a robot can feel the cold?
I am not cold now, the Sun and flowers make sure of that. There are other people walking around the flowers, I don't recognise them. They are wearing green and appear to be cutting the heads of the flowers. Why are they hurting the flowers?
I lurch, move to say something, but they can't see me; I don't want them to see me.
The main gate is closed but the adjacent tunnels through the wall aren't, they are open to the elements and open to travel. I can't see anybody near the tunnel, only standing on top of the wall with their metallic grins and fingers. The light appears to be bouncing off their hands, like a tracer hurtling out of the barrel of a gun. They can't see me from there, their eyes don't stretch that far from their head.
The tunnel is cold, sheltered; I can feel the droplets taking residence on my cheeks. My cheeks must be warmer than where they usually sleep, under the tunnel; under the tunnel under the wall. I wonder why they didn't bring me my tablets?
I can hear an alarm, I wonder who got out? I hope they catch them, you're not allowed to escape.
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Michael A. Withell is a British law graduate from Hull, England. He mostly writes science-fiction, and has recently had short stories published in 'Mossyhearth Magazine' and 'Farther Stars Than These'.
- -
I'm tired and I can't remember why they didn't bring me my tablets. I have my tablets every morning at six, it's strange that no-one brought them to me. The lady walks over to my bed, touches me on the face.
Not too hard.
And she gives the small cup to my tired hand. They always taste like the cold; bitter and metallic like the robot that they intend to turn me into. I wonder if a robot can feel the cold?
Cold; it's cold in here. The Sun seems to be on the other side of the corridor and it's dark. I can even begin to see my breath in front of my eyes, dancing in the remnants of the morning light.
You shouldn't smoke in here, they'd say to me; but I'm not smoking.
It's the cold, I'd say, A picture painted by my very lungs.
The door in front of me is open and my breath quickens in apprehension of the threshold. I wonder why they don't lock it? I thought they always locked it? Something faceless is on the small television screen, I can't make out what it is. All I see is the flowers sitting on the desk, relaxing in the glare of the morning Sun.
They look comfortable.
The man on the desk smiles past me, not making contact with my dancing eyes. I wonder if he knows why the woman didn't bring me my pills? But I can't ask him, I don't want him to look inside my head.
The front door lets me walk through it. I thank it for its courtesy and let it close and rest; I wonder if it ever gets tired? I can't imagine how a life like that can be much fun.
Open, close, open, close, open, close.
It's closed now and I can smell the flowers, they look pretty in their various states and positions. I can see the Sun now, bright and proud on its large pedestal; even when I close my eyes I can feel it touching my face.
Not too hard.
And she gives the small cup to my tired hand. They always taste like the cold; bitter and metallic like the robot that they intend to turn me into. I wonder if a robot can feel the cold?
I am not cold now, the Sun and flowers make sure of that. There are other people walking around the flowers, I don't recognise them. They are wearing green and appear to be cutting the heads of the flowers. Why are they hurting the flowers?
I lurch, move to say something, but they can't see me; I don't want them to see me.
The main gate is closed but the adjacent tunnels through the wall aren't, they are open to the elements and open to travel. I can't see anybody near the tunnel, only standing on top of the wall with their metallic grins and fingers. The light appears to be bouncing off their hands, like a tracer hurtling out of the barrel of a gun. They can't see me from there, their eyes don't stretch that far from their head.
The tunnel is cold, sheltered; I can feel the droplets taking residence on my cheeks. My cheeks must be warmer than where they usually sleep, under the tunnel; under the tunnel under the wall. I wonder why they didn't bring me my tablets?
I can hear an alarm, I wonder who got out? I hope they catch them, you're not allowed to escape.
- - -
Michael A. Withell is a British law graduate from Hull, England. He mostly writes science-fiction, and has recently had short stories published in 'Mossyhearth Magazine' and 'Farther Stars Than These'.
Author:
Michael A. Withell
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