Lonely Death

in #fiction7 years ago (edited)

I see the blood yet have trouble understanding its meaning. It is a deep, bright red on my fingertips, and my palms are smeared with it. I wipe my hands on my white shirt. How will I ever get this clean?

There is pain when I move and I can sense the coming panic. There is a knife in my belly and it is covered in blood. Is it my blood? It is buried deep and I wonder where the point is resting. Touching the black handle sets off the fire inside. Muscles cramp and bowels scream. I stop touching the handle.

It is cool on the floor, with my back propped against a wall. I think I am alone. Alone save my small, personal droid coming towards me, it’s warm colors bringing comfort.

“I am here,” Phil says as a small, thin tentacle reaches to touch my temple. I don’t flinch. The touch is soothing as it connects with me. Inside my mind the floodgates open and recent memories leave unfiltered. Soon this body will be done.

I do not recognize the knife. So crude. So personal. I touch it and the pain spikes deep inside. I am still alive. The blood has pooled around me and I am dizzy, the room begins to spin.

I have died before and I never like it. I will come back, but not as me. I will look like me and know what I know; the people and places around me. But I won’t be me. I won’t love my wife who was reborn a year prior. She knows as well, but does not love me anymore.

“Stop,” I hear myself say. The small droid moves closer, its delicate tentacle dangling between us.

“It is almost done,” Phil says, programmed for reassurance. I don’t remember why I named my bot Phil.

“No,” I shake my head and feel the movement in my gut. “I can’t.” I smell blood in my breath and am surprised by the words. I think of the woman that I still love. The thought of losing those feelings to a machine filter horrifies me. “Stop, for a moment,” my bloody hand lifts. It is heavy, the fingers weak.

“What is wrong?” Phil asks. I wonder who programmed his voice for sympathy.

Maybe I have it wrong. Maybe this little guy is sentient. He’s been with me for several lifetimes, watching and learning from me all these years.

Him. Why do I thin it’s a ‘him’?

“Do you love?” I ask it.

There is a pause and I see the tentacle waiver. “I do not know,” it responds.

“I need you to stop.” Inside my head I see the data slow. “It’s time for me to move on.”

“Why?” it asks.

“I love my wife. I can’t lose that.”

“How do you know you will not lose it if I let you go?” Is that genuine concern I hear?

“I don’t.” I cough up blood. It is warm and thick on my tongue. “But I know I will if you continue.”

“I do not want to lose you,” it says while moving in closer.

“I don’t want to lose her.”

My droid holds for long moment and I wonder what we must look like. A bloody mess pondering the concept of love with his machine. I’m insane and the thought makes me smile.

“You are happy?” it asks.

“For the first time in a long time, my friend.”

The tentacle peels off me and brushes my cheek as it pulls back.

“Thank you,” I say. I close my eyes to ward off the nausea and Phil sits next to me. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“This is what friends do,” he says.

I sit back against the wall and feel myself falling. I want to hear her voice one last time, to hear her say it will be OK. I need her to hold my hand.

I fall into the darkness, knowing I will never wake up.


I awake on the cool table, Phil at my side, a slender tentacle touching my temple. He notices me and pulls back a little. “Good morning,” he says.

“New life?” I ask. I have learned to hate dying. “How?” I ask, my lips chapped, my tongue parched. I smell iodine and sterilizing fluids; it is a cold smell that has become all too familiar.

“Twelve days,” Phil says. “There was a gap from your last load.”

I close my eyes, searching foggy memories. I was married, not sure to whom. Maybe that engineer in mechanical. She seems familiar. A gap in the memory would have meant a traumatic event. Some pain or suffering my bot would not want me to remember.

“How did I die?” I ask.

“It was a lonely death,” he responds.