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benchiladaHe was kind.
He made certain that I could not feel anger, that I was not programmed for hate.
The delicacy with which he crafted my brain, it was amazing. So very amazing that when he died before me, I felt the sadness wash over me in waves. Horrible electronic noises substituted for sobs as I stared at his lifeless body, then at my own. My own lifeless body.
Phantom hand, phantom leg, I have all of these syndromes and more. I still have my arms, my feet. I can see them. I can see them laying on the table in front of me, only two feet away.
And now my beautiful olfactory sensors relay the stench of decay to my processors, which immediately and flawless calculate how many hundreds of years before my power supply runs low. How many days I must endure this sadness, this perfect depression that he created increasingly elaborate subroutines for.
He left me with hopes. He gave me dreams. He gave me all of these gifts and then allowed his too mortal flesh to fail. And now this most peculiar sensation, I believe that it must be what wishing feels like.
I think…
I think I wish he had programmed me to hate.
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benjamin sTone
Current Music: “Severance” – Dead Can Dance
Last Book I Read a Page of: TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD, Harper Lee
Last Movie: LAN YU (2000, Drama, China)
Next Movie: ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST (197?, Western, Italy/USA)
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My flash fiction, larger work excerpts, and nonfiction commentaries are at http://benchilada.livejournal.com
or via listserv at: http://www.yahoogroups.com/groups/compositemolecules
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My Flickr photostream of photos is at http://www.flickr.com/photos/benchilada
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