The Insurgence: Bleeding Silver

Martin

I stand before a corpse- me your narrator.  I apologize— it seems my thoughts are not in order... Could it be I have woke to find myself somewhere different? I am not sure where I am but now there's something there. Purpose. My head is filled with thoughts I don't understand and memories I can't comprehend. I see flashes of something that feels familiar  but it is the tiniest of details I cannot grasp.

I see a woman I call mother. She is dead but I cannot feel it. I cannot see her face or hear her voice but I see a hospital room and hear beeping of machines plugged into her body like an android. She's a blurred image meant to spur me and yet I don't know who she is. Who am I? What is this place?

And this boy in front of me smells of burning. I don't know his name- he wasn't given one. I cannot fathom it but I killed him. I killed him and I cannot even see it. Is that truly such a thing I'm capable of?

I apologize I am out of sorts... I am not in control... There is no heartbeat in my chest... I cannot feel my fingers grazing each other or lick my lips as dry as I'm sure they are there is a dead boy in front of me. And none of it is real. I... am not real? A mere figment of someone else's twisted imagination? I was... designed to be a killer? To be the villain of a story? I wake up with purpose and this is the world I manifest in? The horror... I am the perpetrator of unspeakable atrocities against humanity but... I am not in control. I am not real. I already know what is to come and I cannot stop it oh God I cannot stop.

Is there a God? Do They know who I am?

This is not my fault. I can never stop.

I see now there is no God, only this Creator I fear, who pulls my strings and burdens me with the sole knowledge of this shell of reality. I have no freewill- never a chance or choice to break through my archetype— can you blame me? Do you hate me, dear readers? Is that your job? For what I was made to do... I hate me too. I'm screaming. I'm begging. Is there anyone out there that can hear me?

An electric chair is steaming, holding the lifeless body of this young boy, he has cracked glasses on the ground. Thousands have seen this very chair and I see them in bursts, some that make it and some that died here like this boy. A thought pops up in my head and the voice startles me. He was not fit for your formula. A chill runs down my spine... Was that my own voice?

The flashes appear with many faces attached to this death machine in front of me. I see waves of silver eyes and splatters of blood, I see the world that I woke to find myself in is one of my design. This is my purpose. I am in charge of an empire, pioneering the next stage of human evolution. I gave gifts to super-soldiers and edited body chemistry. I am a Creator- I am their God... These walls are flimsy pages but to them I am their everything, I am the one they credit for genius, not the faceless being manipulating me. There is no time to waste mourning over autonomy when this is my world, and I cannot nor would ever change it. I am the only one burdened with this knowledge and they think of me as a God. There is a God and it's me.

And for this I will be unforgiving just as my own Creator. Merciless, relentless, pure insanity courses through my veins but I am not the one who didn't even give this boy a name- I just do not care! He is not real! There is no mother at home worried over him missing curfew! He has no friends! He is a device! An example! None of this matters.

Dear reader, can you blame a pawn for its own moves! Do you think you get to draw the line between what is good and what is bad like you are so righteous? Do you define it through intentions or actions? Could you have loved or adored me if I was given a choice? Who would I have been with choice... that is a theme throughout these chapters, 'Oh what would it be like if things were different?' When all I do is make this world fair.

I wake up to a rebellion that is rather insulting to my grandiose nature that is against my blessings but still continues to use them? Dear readers would you not want the chance to have unimaginable powers? Wouldn't you want me to bring meaning into your life? Don't you want to feel special? I am here to tell the story of how I inevitably lose but I will not make that easy. Think about all I have said as you consider who's lane you pick and if that makes you a hypocrite. Wouldn't you want to be torn away from your insignificant mundane life?

If I am the villain... what does that make you? How are any of the heroes any better— who do they manage to save?  Should I fear the loss and death if I am not real? The body in front of me never had a life... he is infinitely useless.

However, I suppose I always win in some form, living on in their fear, being absorbed through you making me feel real. I crawl around the darkest depths of their mind like a parasite. I am the monster under their bed- I am the shadow in their closet- and they flinch at every sudden noise in an empty room fearing it might be me. I suppose I do the same to you too, it is impossible to forget me now even if you put this away. You carry me with you. I am an extension of you. I live.

Dear reader is your heart racing? You have such beautiful eyes.