Hello.
My name is Desmond.
Read my ankle tag.
Perhaps you've heard of me? You might know me as the infamous "Subject 17"; often spoken as a reverent whisper, accompanied by the slow shaking of heads. Hah. What do they know?
Or perhaps word has reached you of my numerical inferior, that rascal, "16"?
He and I share a common malady.
We are losing sleep.
Were. Will be. What?
(Am I?)
Strip lights our sun, icy metal our grass, we pace the bars of our windowless enclosure without rest, longing for the w i n d ~
Sometimes they bring us out, parade us, make us dance for them.
See the puppets writhe in the capable hands of their masters!
Where are our parents now? You traitors. Bastardos!
The ones who swore to guide us, protect us, cherish and hold us close? You brought us into this world, and now we scream indifferently into the air vents for you to bring us out.
Wait.
Wait.
We remember, both, again, the casting-out; long ago, and the stripping of our familiar positions. "Out" they cry, and out we go. They had bars of their own.
So similar, but so unlike those pitiful reds with their poisoned eyes and gaping souls.
Not like us. We are whole. (But am I?) They stare across hours at our rocking selves through gateways of steel crosses, crossing themselves. They seem to be cross, hah. The very word seems to dissolve into particles of language. Where did it go? The English streams through our grasping fingers. Though, whatever the name, we know they are always here.
Have been. Will be.
Not having the words is the hardest. She can shriiiiiiiiek all she wants, but we cannot comprehend. Too long have we been captives in a strange world. Oh, too long.
The walls close in about our fear-riddled minds, speaking of concrete sentinels and iron watchtowers. Ceaseless vigil of perimeter search lights; yet more glassy eyes.
It sinks in. A stone in a bath.
THERE.
IS.
NO.
ESCAPE.
And the mists fall.
Fell. Will fall.
(It's a free- for-all free-fall. Hah. Hah.)
Humour is a concept of the wealthy, or the crazed.
Scrabbling amongst the b-binary dust in the lights-out, hidden images are formed; is this a circle I see before me? Childlike hands covered in stinking scarlet finger paint. Let's make mama a present she won't forget in a hurry.
Exhausted, we collapse. Not sleeping; but unable to - maintain consciousness. The air is so thin here. Black spots, on our hands! And in our hearts!
In the lights-on, the fallen knight finds our drained corpses. He shouts a word.
Fuck!
Is this a bad word? It doesn't matter. Now, it is the only word in a blank world. And don't we cling to it like a rock in the sea?
_/C_/C_/C_ Trace the waves with your ragged, bitten nails. Watch out for the sharks. _|\_
How lost we have become⦠How lost I have become.
We- I swore to be strong, but the manacles of the machines have claimed us- them - me.
Hello. My name was Desmond, also known as "Subject 17".
But I can't remember what I'm famous for.
