Bruised
I was one of those strange kids that used to give themselves bruises. You know the type – were so bored they'd punch themselves in the arm.
It wasn't about getting attention or anything, I wasn't some kind of emo kid, I just seemed to enjoy the feeling. Then, when the bruises came up, i'd prod them. It hurt, but it was fun.
In recruit school we'd be made to stand up for hours on end if we were decidedly difficult. As my mother would say, I was born decidedly difficult, so I was one of those made to stand until our feet hurt. Then, later, when everyone else was rubbing their feet and trying to avoid standing on them I'd be there, standing until they burned with pain. I could go for hours just letting them ache until finally I was forced to sit down either by an external force or my own sheer will finally breaking. It was usually the former. I'm a very stubborn person.
Of course, my reasoning was simple – when the initial pain stops the real pain comes. When I stood my feet burnt but the minute I sat down they throbbed until I couldn't feel them anymore. Now, many would say that's preferable, nothing to feel means nothing to hurt. But for me feeling nothing was the worst possible thing – at least pain made me feel human. Humans feel pain, joy, anger etc. Robots feel nothing. I was not a robot.
But then, when he died, it all changed. When the man I loved was ripped away from me I couldn't stand away my pain. I couldn't focus on staying upright and never giving up. It hurt and hurt and never let up.
Suddenly I envied robots…