shiver (FEATURED) | ✓

o19

The ghosts still come after me. They are my glitch, my problem, my sickness.

It isn't my fault. There's a virus in me, and I need to have it killed before it spreads through me and turns me into a terminal case. I am terrified of it; a ruthless enemy.

The sobs and whimpers of NW-60 cease. I refuse to look at him - instead, I focus on Malcolm - on her poise, the way she holds herself, the way she regards the people beneath her, the smile she gives them, to make them feel as her equals. 

"Today," Malcolm commences, "we are united to oversee a trial and the elimination of a threat to our society - as a threat to the preservation of our humanity and the unity of Tetrahmon." She takes in a deep breath, the rush of air enlarged in sound by the magnification device at her throat. "The man you see here-" she gestures formally to NW-60, "stands accused of the unconscious murder of three of the state's guards. The killing of our protectors, of the people who keep us safe from the horrors beyond the wall."

A murmur of disapproval and shock runs over the crowd.

"He has become ill, and has failed to report to the Medical Bureau for an examination - as such, we had to take him into a ward to examine his state. Mentally deficient, his madness is what drove him to commit such an abominable act as the killing of another, innocent human being. Such stands his offence, and he has been trialled as guilty, and therefore must go through the Passing, as one is condemned to do after such treason to the state and to our safety."

In Tetrahmon, the Passing is viewed as a godly ritual - as a necessity for keeping the peace and for keeping order. I have mentioned it before,  I think, but I am afraid that now, I will be forced to go, unwillingly, into the details of it.

What ensues Malcolm's finish is a cascade of grievous sound. "I didn't do it!" He screams again, struggling as they bring him up to the podium. Such are the words of a madman, we all think. At the side, somewhere in the background, a poet reads out a glorification of the state, as is custom for such rituals. 

Murderer. 

They force him to his knees, still wailing. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. The only thing tumbling out from his mouth is a static repetition of a plead. I'm not ready for it.

Nobody is ever ready for it.

One guard holds a weapon up against NW-60's temple. There will be no blood. There will be no gore - just a form of... dust. I wish I could care more about him, but I'm glad I can't. I don't need another ghost crawling its way through me, wispy fingers reaching out to pull my mind this way and that. There are too many hands pulling at it already.

The sound of static electricity erupts in the square for a split second, and when I look back at the podium, NW-60 is gone - his whimpers have disappeared, the tears on his cheeks gone. Technology is both terrible and beautiful.

It is a terrible way for NW-60 to go, but the technology itself - so immaculate, so precise, so perfect - it is beautiful.

Long live the state.

NW-60 is gone. He is here, still, with us, but not here at the same time, reduced to subatomic particles - trillions upon trillions of neutrons, protons, electrons, all gone in the wind, dispersed around us in particles, atoms, and for me, part of my humanity has inevitably lost itself amidst the chaos of grey. There is nothing I can do about it.

Long live President Malcolm.

What is left of him on the ground resembles a splash of soot against the marble podium, a charred reminder of the body that had once lain there. Soon, the wind carries the soot away too, and the podium is left clean.

Long live perfection.

A threat has been eliminated, and it will never be remembered.

▿

The black ink upon my forearm glowers up at me, the number accusatory. C1032.

Murderer.

They've applied it to my skin like a brand.

It will stay there forever, a permanent reminder of my undoing.