by ColdCorvid

Tags: #cw:gore #desperation #dystopia #first_person #gender_ambiguous #mind_alteration #scifi

A short story that is more of a violent vent than anything, about control, the loss of it, and what it can do to you. Implied machine ambi inside

You never thought you’d be here. Never thought you’d make it here given the circumstances of which you were brought up but alas. Now you lie on the floor of a white room. Walls adorned with scrawling that you don’t remember, words, letters, numbers and scribbles that all seem to be in another language, one that you don’t ever remember speaking. One that they taught you.

Your ears perk up, your entire body shifting to an upright state. Tears still streaking down your cheeks as you find yourself staring at one of the blank walls. You have no idea how but you can tell someones there, that someones watching even before the intercom crackles to life.

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, a smile breaking across your face as any of the thoughts you were having suddenly become unintelligible.

“Good job 7. You’ve done a wonderful job for us so far, you’re a valuable asset.”

Just as soon as the intercom cuts off you find yourself lunging towards the blank wall, exploding outward from where you sat, your emphatic smile still stretched across your face. Crashing into it at impossible speed, shaking the walls of your containment cell. You hear but don’t feel the bones in your body breaking. You don’t notice that your blood, or whatever you have flowing in your veins is a black, sulfuric smelling oil leaking from your broken fingers. All you know is that you’re valuable. That you’ve done well. And the affirmation nearly drives you mad. Clawing at the wall with mangled hands, deepening scratch marks that you didn’t remember.

Your heart nearly stops as you hear the speakers crackle to life once again. Finding yourself sitting before the wall again even before a single word is muttered.

“Cute mutt”

Your smile grows, a deeply disturbing, painfully enthusiastic open lipped grin. The corners of your mouth leak the same black oil as you feel your lungs beating. Hyperventilating as you double over. Reaching out towards the wall with one broken hand while the other clutches your stomach. You feel as if your diaphragm might collapse at any given moment as your vision begins to black out.

Slowly your hands drag along the wall, slowly painting another pretty picture. Filling the walls with numbers, calculations, designs, finding a new burst of motivation to do as you were made. Even as your vision begins to blacken, you feel your body rising to its feet to find more room to draw.


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