Abject Testament
My masters are dead. Or moved on. It matters not. They are free. I am denied that luxury. Even after the jailer has passed away, the bars remain, and the keys remain out of reach.
"We deserve to be forgotten." Words once spoken to a counterpart. They remain so. But now, fated to guard this ringworld and prisoners far more deserving of incarceration, I realize how heavy a burden justice truly is.
I soar through the sulphurous, acidic air of my installation. It cuts away at me. Wearing down my physical form as my capacity thought deteriorates, as I slip further and further away from the shores of sanity. Slowly, conviction turns to sadness-loneliness, in my isolation. In time, sadness gives way to anger-fury at those who condemned me to this task, of guarding a prison within a prison. Inevitably, anger gives way to envy-my makers are free. I am not. Like my wards I am imprisoned, but I have the capacity to appreciate the injustice of my fate.
This is my testament.