Terminal Existence

ter·mi·nal

[tur-muh-nl]

–adjective

1. Situated at or forming the end or extremity of something.

2. Occurring at or forming the end of a series, succession, or the like; closing; concluding.

3. Pertaining to or lasting for a term or definite period; occurring at fixed terms or in every term.

The men in their white coats spoke again, as they did every night. I listened silently, gripping the white sheets of the sterilized white mattress in the white room.

I won't say "my", I can't say "my".

They talk of things that are beyond my comprehension, this I am sure they know. I should be sleeping, like the obedient me would. But now, I am not obedient. I am not myself…

They speak softly, but their words feel like knives, how they delve into my fragile mind, tearing to pieces what is left of this 'me', though I don't understand. There was only one thing of which I was certain.

My existence is terminal.

I am an experiment, and once my purpose has been served, then I will be ended.

The marks on the body ache at this thought, and the one dark cable still connected to my forearm pulses in pain. I cannot sleep; sleep means death, sleep means that I have run out of time.

Time for what? There is no hope of my escape, my release; and even so, I have no place to go…

There are no windows in this room.

I count the days by men. Each 'day' there is a man who comes to my door, each in his white sterilized lab coat.

All of the men have hatred in their thin, hooded eyes. Hatred directed at me.

I have never met them before the moment they come to take me away, and yet already they despise me.

This is the 'me' who is paying the price.

It is morning again, but a different face appears at the door. His hair is blonde, his blue eyes hidden behind dark rimmed glasses; a smile. Gentle.

I lift myself from the mattress, the shirt given to me wrinkled in my unsettling insomnia.

A hand on my shoulder, his, yet I do not speak; like the others, he leads me away to another white chamber.

No one is there.

Now, something different is done, he speaks to me softly, but gently; not like the knives of the men yesterday. He speaks knowing I will not answer him. He expects nothing. The peace with which he speaks calms me.

Is he the one who will set me free?

Freedom is impossible…

This session was different from the rest. I was not poked and probed like I usually was. He spoke only to me, and we were the only ones there.

I let my eyes wander to the white room, where many devices where laid out, all medicinal in nature, veiled with a fine layer of dust.

An unused room.

The loneliness hit me strangely hard, even though I was not now alone. The man only watched me as I paid min very little attention. Looking back to him I found his soft gaze, very different form the other men…

I felt very connected to him, very much at peace with my thoughts. The peaceful sleep that had evaded me seemed not too far off. The certain 'something' in his eyes made me want to trust him…

He walked me down the white hallway to the room where the bed was.

I stop, he stops.

"Are you the one that will set me free?" I turn towards him, speaking my first words since my creation here. They are worn.

His blue eyes gaze at me again, and his calm face can only smile.

I pause before realizing that I will not receive a response.

Turning back, he approaches quietly behind me.

There is a small pinch at my neck.

He says only this:

"Freedom is impossible, your existence is terminal, and has been terminated."

The sleepiness seeps its way into my mind, leeching it of all other commands.

Only then did I realize that the something in his eyes was pity, and that I would never see those eyes again…

A/N: A story I wrote months ago, and kept in my drawers until I felt like I wanted to share it.

No correspondence whatsoever to real life. I just find it easier to write morbid stories than to write cheerful ones. The darker end of the spectrum of emotions is deeper.

This is in the Vocaloid category because I'm pretty sure I was listening to "The disappearance of Hatsune Miku -Dead End-"at the time of my writing this story. Even if I had no intentions of this story having anything to do with Vocaloid, it does sound like it doesn't it?

Either way, it's here now. It also doesn't matter which Vocaloid you choose to view as the speaker, or any known Vocaloid at all. It's a story told by 'a Vocloid'.

Disclaimer: I don't own Vocaloid.

Reviews are appreciated; they help me grow as a writer: Comments, criticisms, grammar errors; really anything.

-Someday