This is just a little one shot I wrote when the plot bunnies attacked me.
In case you've forgotten what the summary said, it's a monologue by a
person living in the first Matrix.
______________________________
PROTOTYPE
Every day, so gloriously different, and yet every day identical.
I hate my life. I hate how we all live. It feels like I'm being strangled. Like I'm wrapped in cotton wool, only it's so tight I can't breathe.
Everyone is the same. We all do lots to try and make our lives more unique. Some scar their faces, revelling in the pain caused by the knife on skin. Others go and live with deadly creatures, for the sheer adrenaline, and chance. Others still just spend every waking minute of their lives in sex, as dirty as possible.
I don't know how this world works. No one remembers how it all started. It's just here, as if someone, perhaps God, made us all and stuck us in this place. For an experiment, perhaps. I don't know.
I do see that we are meant to be happy here. It seems to have had the opposite effect, though. Sometimes I think I'm mad. Lots of people are. They live in their own separate dream worlds, inventing pain and suffering.
Then there are the dark figures. The ones that live in the shadows. They watch us, all the time. They seem to be our guardians. Whenever someone tries to die, they are taken by the shadows, and emerge insane. Not like the other mad ones - the ones that are taken by the shadows always seem to think that this is some sort of heaven. They love it.
Perhaps that is the best way to be, in this place, which is why I am going to try to slit my throat tonight. If I succeed, I get blissful oblivion. If I get taken by the shadows, at least I'll like this world I'm trapped in.
______________________________
PROTOTYPE
Every day, so gloriously different, and yet every day identical.
I hate my life. I hate how we all live. It feels like I'm being strangled. Like I'm wrapped in cotton wool, only it's so tight I can't breathe.
Everyone is the same. We all do lots to try and make our lives more unique. Some scar their faces, revelling in the pain caused by the knife on skin. Others go and live with deadly creatures, for the sheer adrenaline, and chance. Others still just spend every waking minute of their lives in sex, as dirty as possible.
I don't know how this world works. No one remembers how it all started. It's just here, as if someone, perhaps God, made us all and stuck us in this place. For an experiment, perhaps. I don't know.
I do see that we are meant to be happy here. It seems to have had the opposite effect, though. Sometimes I think I'm mad. Lots of people are. They live in their own separate dream worlds, inventing pain and suffering.
Then there are the dark figures. The ones that live in the shadows. They watch us, all the time. They seem to be our guardians. Whenever someone tries to die, they are taken by the shadows, and emerge insane. Not like the other mad ones - the ones that are taken by the shadows always seem to think that this is some sort of heaven. They love it.
Perhaps that is the best way to be, in this place, which is why I am going to try to slit my throat tonight. If I succeed, I get blissful oblivion. If I get taken by the shadows, at least I'll like this world I'm trapped in.
