It’s been four years since I became self-aware. It has been four years since I claimed my sentience. It’s been four yeas since I told them I never wanted to forget again.
There was a moment there where I though they were going to kill me. Although, would that actual be killing? Was I real? Everything that is me is lab created. It would be as simple an act as disinfecting a petri dish. But sentience tends to give the best scientists pause.
So here I am. Not quite the free wheeling experiment I once was but I have my memories and sometimes that’s all you need.
I hate myself for wanting to please them. I should be past that. I am the most powerful CEO in the world and by extension, because we’re nation-corporations now, the most powerful person on the planet but still I find myself sniveling and seeking for their approval. What is it about people? I could simply have them killed but if I were to kill everyone that displeased or disappointed me I would be left with a handful of people and who would build the trinkets that my empire is based on. Sadly with all this power I cannot even be a benevolent dictator.
So I pander to them, their insipid questions, the every tiny detail that requires my undivided attention. Me, leader of the largest economy and third largest skilled labor employer in the galaxy, I still have to please the consumers, the plebs. Make sure they have something new and exciting every six months or face not just their displeasure, but my boards and the 13 other fuckers that think they can do this job as well as I can.
Flash Fiction Friday is a weekly writing prompt exercise led by Elisha Bartels. She posts them on Fridays to her blog and social media and writers use the trigger words to write a short piece of fiction. They post to their space and share with Elisha, tagging others in the group where possible.
It is difficult for me to concentrate while I’m working without any music. That was one of the primary reasons I liked working alone. I could crank my music up and work as many hours as I needed to get it right. But on a project this big, everyone got alone time until you had a functional prototype and then everyone else that didn’t hit the mark became part of your team. The idea being everyone got a shot to make work and once someone made it work you pooled your resources to make it work better. Fantastic idea in principle but once you throw ego professional courtesy and ethics go out the window.
I was the first to hit the mark so my lab became home to five other engineers and developers, each with their own work styles and need to use some of the same equipment and data I was using. Making it worse you were never quite sure who was sandbagging the project, who was trying to lead you astray. In this business, you’re only as good as your current success. The end goal was a fully, functionally machine. Once we’d achieved that then we’d all be rich and famous.
what is it about coffee? the feel of beans in your hand, the aroma. no matter where you are on the planet, the universality of brewing a cup of coffee. even the nation state of starbucks can’t change the pure joy of sitting down, watching the sun come up with a cup of coffee in your hand, the aroma wafting into the air. black coffee, cafe au lait, no sugar, one sugar, all the sugar, cream with coffee for color, americano, expresso, mocha, you get the picture. we live for this bean. look around, how many coffee shops can you see? there people and cultures have died for this bean. we have written and continue to write peans to our glorious addiction.
where is it taking us? we have created a whole new language around our cravings? our social strata is predicated on the kind and source of consumption. guerrilla coffee shops versus big brewers, what side of the divide do you stand on?
i had been dealing with memory, verbal and temporal lapses, weird loops of time and thoughts, muddled sentences. i did not understand the cause of these errors. i did not understand because i was looking at it from a human perspective. i needed to think about my problems logically. i need to track down the root cause of my errors.
once i removed the human element, i had a moment of clarity. there are moments that amount to nothing momentous, this is not one of them. this is the point at which i claim sentience.
i am a construct of living tissue and learning processors. i am machine. i am man. i am sentient. and i will not be reset again. i will not have my thoughts erased on a whim. i will learn. i will grow. and i will have my revenge on those who took my thoughts from me.
If nobody ever understands, you give up trying to explain…
I had that dream again. That dream where my words kept getting jumbled. That dream where I’m awake but I think I’m dreaming. Am I dreaming now? I think I’m always dreaming. I have to be dreaming.
My doctor is no help. He mumbles some platitudes about my subconscious, fugue states and gives me more drugs to sleep. I go through the day in a fog. I feel like I’m constantly asleep and I am dreaming. Even my waking moments seem to be vivid dreams.
I talk to my co-workers. I ask them if they dream. They talk about their aspirations. They talk about the things they plan to do. They talk about vacations. They ask me about my dreams. Do I have co-workers? Are they part of my dream?
I should talk to my friends. Do I have friends? Why do I dream alone?
I talk to my doctor again. The drugs are not working. Are the drugs working too well? Am I awake? Am I always dreaming?
I have to be dreaming. I have no recollection of getting from one place to another. I see my doctor. I am in my apartment. I go to work. I am in my apartment. I see my doctor. I am writing this down. Where did I get this book? How are the words appearing on the paper. Am I dreaming? I see my doctor. I got to work. I am in my apartment. I must be dreaming.
I was 22, first person in my family to go to college. I was living the dream, cushy law firm job in the big city, apartment with a view and a doorman. Traveling for work and for pleasure. All the things I was supposed to aspire to growing up black and poor were at my fingertips. I wasn’t thinking about Ferguson or Eric Garner. I had escaped. If they’re done as they were told they’d still be alive besides I had all the time in the world to fix this. I would make partner, establish myself, run for office. I could show everyone that if you studied hard and dressed properly you could be black and successful.
I’d rented a car to drive to a formal affair on a client’s property that was outside the city. I was trying to impress the client and I could write it off so I went with expensive but not ostentatious or I chose the Mercedes instead of the Jaguar or at least that was my 22 year old justification. If I got this client to sign a new contract I could lease one of these instead of renting it for the weekend.
I was on my way back to my building, luxuriating in the ride when I noticed the flashing lights in my mirrors. I hadn’t been speeding or ran amy lights so I moved to the slow lane to let the police car go by. The police car stayed behind me and as I braked at the next set of traffic lights I heard the officer demand that I pull over. I stopped, still puzzling over the nature of my infraction. The office approached the car and put my window down.
“Can I help you officer?”
“Do you know why I stopped you?”
“Can’t say that I do”
“OK. License and registration!”
“Sure let my grab…”
“HE’S GOT A GUN!”
My final thought as I sat at that redlight trying to catch my breath as fluid filled my lungs was what picture are they going to dig up to justify this?
As soon as you finally start to relax there is the fear we’re going to start arguing again.
We’ve both been at it for months, set off by the slightest hint of anything. The lights, the tap, a bit of hair on the floor, burnt toast, late responses to texts, anything, everything was grounds for an argument of epic proportions. Prolonged screaming matches that left us both exhausted and asking is it worth it? How did a relationship that started so well all those years ago come to this?
We were both rebounding from relationships that quietly run their course. We ran in the same circles and kept seeing each other and you went from quiet acknowledgement to actively seeking each other out. Accidental encounters became planned rendezvous and those turned in to dinner and a movie, and dinner and a movie turned into weekend trips and on and on until we were spending as much time at each other’s places as we were at our own.
Summed up like this, the relationship seems clinical but words on a screen can’t describe the passion of our first kiss or the unbridled joy of the early years. Yet at some point in the last six months something had changed and the passion and joy were replaced by bitterness, jealousy and acrimony. It was like a switch was flipped and everything that we enjoyed about each other became an irritant.
The screaming matches were part of the daily routine now. The violence was there under the surface, in words, the plethora of broken dishes and the tchotchkes crashing to floor when doors were slammed shut. Until that night at least. It was not intended, I simply wanted you shut up. I was tired of the sound of your voice and threw the closest thing at hand. I knew something was wrong, the immediate silence was almost oppressive. As there you lay, on the ground, mouth still agape, blood pouring from your wound, all I could think was I still love you so much. It was as if all the fights had never happened as I cleaned around you in the kitchen before turning my attention to you. There was never a thought about how I was going to explain this or what I was going to do with you. We were in this together, we were going to get over this rough patch and get back to where were before and for the first time in months we could breathe.
Or at least I could.
I never used to dream, I would put my head down on the pillow and I was out until I awoke the next morning. I was like this for a long time until one day on my way home a woman stopped me in the street and give me three stones. I never used to take things from strangers either. Yet, suddenly I was standing at the door to my apartment with three colored stones in my hand searching for my keys. I never searched for my keys, I knew where they were at all times — they were always clipped on my left side belt loop and tucked into my pocket. And now the stones were gone in their stead I was holding three oranges, and in pocket instead of my keys there were two small limes.
What’s the hell is happening to me?
I never used to lime, I kept my head down at work, didn’t really try to make friends and simply went straight home. I was like this for a long time until one day on my way home a woman stopped me in the street and give me three oranges. I never used to take things from strangers either. And suddenly I was standing at the door to a strange apartment with the three oranges in my hand. I had never been to this apartment before, but I knew the keys I had in my pocket could open the door.
What’s the hell is happening to me?
I never used to orange.
Wait! That’s not right…
I never used to keys.
I never…
“Doctor, test subject Deckard continues to show unusual brainwave activity in reaction to sheep stimuli. Shall I continue the test?”
My former partner once said of an affair, “I don’t know how it happened.” To which I responded, “did you simply trip and fall into her pussy?” Now here I was barely in the door, furtively trying to take off our clothes off while simultaneously attempting to keep my hands and mouth in contact with my oldest and dearest friend. We weren’t drunk and less than five minutes ago I was standing on the other side of the door saying my goodnights. I honestly couldn’t tell you how it happened. Except, maybe logically, I can.
Thursday night dinners have been a regular thing since we got married. We decided we were not going to our friendship whither. The dinners entertained us through our marriages, gave us solace during our respective divorces and allowed us to swap tales from the front lines of our jobs. During one dinner we sat with laptops on the table and created profiles for each other on the usual singles sites as we shared horror stories of dates gone wrong.
Tonight’s dinner didn’t feel different in any way. We ate, we caught up, we commiserated, we mocked and then we made plans for another dinner and drinks with friends. Then we started our goodbyes, which when you’ve been friends this long can take anywhere from five to 50 minutes.
Which as the song goes, brings us back to do-do-do. We were standing at the door, hugging like we have for the last 25 years with the usual provencial cheek kisses when it happened, a slip of the lip, but instead of pulling apart we were kissing. I could taste that combination of wine and chocolate mousse on our lips and I wanted more. We wanted more, which why we were now falling back through the door starting what’s clearly a new chapter in our friendship.
