Post by shawnhartnell on Sept 13, 2013 14:07:46 GMT -6
I got an idea for a weird fiction story and wrote it. Here it is :
The first thing I told him was the truth: that all the grotesque murders I committed were just a plot device to get his attention. I had to kill several hundred "people" in the most depraved way imaginable just to gain an audience of this specific investigator.
The second thing I told him was also the truth: that our time was short. This world, and everything in it, was about to end, but that he shouldn't worry, because even though this world and everything in it ends, he would go on in a world where he wasn't who he was now, but who he was before all this began.
That was the third thing I told him, which was also the truth: that I wasn't alive and never have been. I was never born; I just flashed into existence, just as I will flash out of existence. I have never known anything like life. My existence is more like an engraving in a record and the appearance of life was nothing more sound produced as the record plays.
The fourth thing I told him was the last and most important truth of all: that he was like a God, in his own way, and was giving this world it's life. After all, how could someone like me, being nothing more real than etching fading in weathering stone, give life to anything?
Of course, he believed none of this and our time is getting ever shorter.
So I tried a different tactic.
I told him that I had committed no crimes and that there were no "victims", that they were less "real" than I was. He was skeptical but intrigued, and as all investigators, wanted to see proof. That I had. My only challenge was getting him to see it.
I called his attention to light brown folder on the table of the interregation room containing the crime scene photos of my "victims"...
For a moment I was disoriented my new surroundings and quickly darted my head around, and he looked around as well, to see what I was looking for, and seeing our surroundings as nothing unusual, looked back at me. A moment later I remembered that this was all just the nature of the universe and was grateful that I'm witness to it's creation though I couldn't witness it's destruction. For that I have no regrets, as this is all I know and all I will ever be.
Our time together is getting shorter.
I asked him to show me the proof of my "crimes", to take out a picture of my garish deeds and it to me. This he was more than glad to do, to see for himself the sheer depravity which he had been previously told about.
He took out a single picture and placed it face up on the table.
"See?" I challenged him. "There, what do you see?", I said as I strained to point at, it only to find my hands were restrained in a straightjacket, so that my actual movement was that of lurching forward with my shoulder.
I could tell that the pictures were exactly as he had imagined them to be, and as he looked at it, his eyes slowly moved from one grotesque detail to the next, each one more graphic than the next.
"No!", I shouted in protest, "Another! Another! You didn't see the Truth!"
Glancing at me sideways, he slowly took another picture from the folder and placed it to the next. Again, his eyes rested somewhere on the picture, then moved around as the crime seen unfolded before his eyes.
"No! No! Another!" I protested, "It's not true! It's not true!"
Another picture was taken from the folder and placed next to the others, then another, and another, adding together and giving the appearance that the table had been covered in blood.
"These are not my crimes!" I protested, looking down at the pictures and up at the investigator. "The only crimes committed here have been yours!", I spat in disgust.
Knowing that our time is about to end, that the world is about to end, that the needle in groves of the record is about to run off into nothingness, I have to be direct and choose my last words carefully:
"Look at the words! The pictures are words! You're not hearing me speak because I'm not speaking! You're just reading w...
The first thing I told him was the truth: that all the grotesque murders I committed were just a plot device to get his attention. I had to kill several hundred "people" in the most depraved way imaginable just to gain an audience of this specific investigator.
The second thing I told him was also the truth: that our time was short. This world, and everything in it, was about to end, but that he shouldn't worry, because even though this world and everything in it ends, he would go on in a world where he wasn't who he was now, but who he was before all this began.
That was the third thing I told him, which was also the truth: that I wasn't alive and never have been. I was never born; I just flashed into existence, just as I will flash out of existence. I have never known anything like life. My existence is more like an engraving in a record and the appearance of life was nothing more sound produced as the record plays.
The fourth thing I told him was the last and most important truth of all: that he was like a God, in his own way, and was giving this world it's life. After all, how could someone like me, being nothing more real than etching fading in weathering stone, give life to anything?
Of course, he believed none of this and our time is getting ever shorter.
So I tried a different tactic.
I told him that I had committed no crimes and that there were no "victims", that they were less "real" than I was. He was skeptical but intrigued, and as all investigators, wanted to see proof. That I had. My only challenge was getting him to see it.
I called his attention to light brown folder on the table of the interregation room containing the crime scene photos of my "victims"...
For a moment I was disoriented my new surroundings and quickly darted my head around, and he looked around as well, to see what I was looking for, and seeing our surroundings as nothing unusual, looked back at me. A moment later I remembered that this was all just the nature of the universe and was grateful that I'm witness to it's creation though I couldn't witness it's destruction. For that I have no regrets, as this is all I know and all I will ever be.
Our time together is getting shorter.
I asked him to show me the proof of my "crimes", to take out a picture of my garish deeds and it to me. This he was more than glad to do, to see for himself the sheer depravity which he had been previously told about.
He took out a single picture and placed it face up on the table.
"See?" I challenged him. "There, what do you see?", I said as I strained to point at, it only to find my hands were restrained in a straightjacket, so that my actual movement was that of lurching forward with my shoulder.
I could tell that the pictures were exactly as he had imagined them to be, and as he looked at it, his eyes slowly moved from one grotesque detail to the next, each one more graphic than the next.
"No!", I shouted in protest, "Another! Another! You didn't see the Truth!"
Glancing at me sideways, he slowly took another picture from the folder and placed it to the next. Again, his eyes rested somewhere on the picture, then moved around as the crime seen unfolded before his eyes.
"No! No! Another!" I protested, "It's not true! It's not true!"
Another picture was taken from the folder and placed next to the others, then another, and another, adding together and giving the appearance that the table had been covered in blood.
"These are not my crimes!" I protested, looking down at the pictures and up at the investigator. "The only crimes committed here have been yours!", I spat in disgust.
Knowing that our time is about to end, that the world is about to end, that the needle in groves of the record is about to run off into nothingness, I have to be direct and choose my last words carefully:
"Look at the words! The pictures are words! You're not hearing me speak because I'm not speaking! You're just reading w...