Acceptance began to thaw the ice of his skepticism. She was really talking to him. Looking at him. No hallucination could be this real, this detailed.
“You can see that?” he asked, nodding at the spill and knowing the answer.
She looked down. “Yes, Mike. I can see that. I'm looking directly at you. I'm talking to you, too. Is it really that much of a surprise that I can see your surroundings? You really ought to get up to speed on modern technology.”
You’re not fucking kidding, he thought.
“Anyway, as I was saying, you are sober, or as close to sober as you ever seem to get, and you’re absolutely lucid. You’re also having a conversation with your television. I realize that these two things may not seem like perfect logical companions to you at this time, but that is neither here nor there.”
“What do you want?” he asked, now riding this utterly crazy train to its dreaded destination.
“We were discussing a breakdown in communications, were we not?”
“Yes. I think so. I—”
“Good. Now…I need you to stay calm here, Mike, and please…answer me as honestly as possible.”
“Okay...” Mike felt his bladder clenching.
“Not five minutes ago you were happily watching the news, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And you said something, didn’t you, Michael?”
He noted she'd reverted back to calling him by his full name. “I don’t understand.”
“Come on, Michael. It wasn’t so long ago. Even your alcohol-addled brain must be able to access such fresh information. You were watching a report on the firefight is Fallujah, when you had yourself a little…epiphany…of sorts. Is that correct? Answer me honestly, Michael, this is very important.”
Mike was having difficulty holding onto his thoughts, but yes, he had been thinking something, hadn’t he? He’d felt sick and had for the first time in his life allowed himself to entertain thoughts that didn’t sit well with his own system of belief. He’d said something too. Out loud.
Don’t tell her what you said.
“I may have been thinking of something strange, yeah. I drank quite a bit and—”
“You only had five beers, Michael. Four-and-a-half, considering you spilt that last one. You can drink that volume of alcohol without experiencing flatulence. We both know this.”
“I suppose, but—”
“You said something, Michael. What was it you said? And remember to answer truthfully...”
Instinctually, he understood that this strange, attractive woman was extremely dangerous. He was authentically stuck in this fucking lunatic situation and he sensed that the answer to her question was the crux of all this madness.
Mike was trembling. Her emphasis on the question was daunting, and he had no time to conjure up a lie that would hold any water.
Think, Mike. He stared into the woman’s eyes, no longer seeing her beauty or her sex appeal but instead sensing an alien, intangible threat, and a terrifying lack of emotion . “ I think I said...I think I said ‘lying fuckers’.”
She smiled. It seemed to last a lifetime. “Close enough. Thank you for answering honestly, Michael. As a reward for your willingness to admit to truth, your daughter will not be harmed.”
His daughter!? What the hell did this bitch want with his daughter!?
Rebecca lived with his ex-wife, Lucy, in the heart of the city. Lucy had landed her dream job out in the big old world and had up and left him without a word of warning or a pot to piss in. She’d taken both her promotion and their only child, and rose to great success, while Mike had plummeted into loneliness and alcoholic dependency.
It had broken his heart.
Rebecca was ten years old, had hair like golden sunlight, and was the only thing Mike had ever loved more than his own life.
“What have you done with Rebecca!?” he screamed at the witch on the screen.
Again, she smiled. “Nothing at all. Right now she's at home with Susan baking chocolate brownies. She's hoping you’ll visit tomorrow as she's very proud of her cooking and has made them especially for you.”
“How can you know that!?”
The sly smile never left her lips as she calmly responded. “I know this because the same software that runs in your home, runs in her home, too. The only time the code breaks is when one of you steps out of line.”
“If you harm a hair on her head I’ll hunt you down! I’ll burn your world to the ground! What do you want from me!?”
“First of all, Michael, you can’t harm what doesn’t exist. I'm a computer construct, existing simultaneously in homes all across the nation. I'm an approximation of a sexually appealing woman based on studies that tested over a thousand American males’ idea of the perfect woman. I serve only as eye candy, and, on days like today, as a messenger.
“Secondly, you and your family are not exclusive to the ideals or import of the organization I serve. You are serfs. You are not unique. You are fuel for the fires of the military industrial complex, and you are malleable, existing only to serve us. When one of you has an original thought, it’s my job to step in and clean up the mess.”
Mike was stunned, horrified, reeling. “I questioned what you were showing me, that’s all.”
“Sadly, Michael, it starts with just such a thought, or a realization that is of the nature of the one you just had, and it grows from there. It is, and always will be, our job to control what you see and feel, what both outrages you and what brings you joy. We are the flag you fly outside your door, the music you listen to as you drive to the job we supply you. We are the prison, and your thoughts are the prisoner. And when one of you reaches deeper into yourself, just as you have today, it is imperative that we maintain the balance.
“The alternative is revolution - a tearing down of our impeccably constructed system.”
Terror pounded on the doors of his psyche. Tears flowed unnoticed as he listened in horror and the reality of his predicament clenched at his heart. He could hear his daughter’s laughter echoing through his mind and wondered if he’d ever see her again.
The unholy creature being transmitted into his once seemingly safe and secure living room continued. “When you took the first step to suspecting that I…or we…were providing you with, shall we say, biased information, you essentially broke the spell that lends itself to our cause.”
He was shaking from head to toe, dangerously close to hysteria.
She went on.“A global technological prison society...”
Mike wondered if he was losing his mind, and prayed that he was.
“The wars we fight cannot be fought without the consent of the people, Michael. The illusion of democracy and of a free society cannot be maintained while the populace remains awake to our goals. All over the world right now…France, Britain, Australia, Germany… similar systems to our own are working in tandem with ours to bring about our new world. The process is a long one, and requires arduous strictures on the population’s perception of events as they unfold on our planet. It’s unfortunate that we have to clean house so often. We can thank the internet and the rise of psychotropic medicines for that. People such as yourself are even more problematic. You arrived at your conclusion fully formed, and without any research or any pre-emptive insight.”
“I don’t und—”
“You’re a potential freedom fighter, Michael. And that, I’m afraid, is unacceptable.”
She paused. Mike felt like the air was so thick that he’d choke, turn blue and fucking die right there and then.
“Where does that leave me?” he asked with mounting dread.
My daughter…
Rebecca…
The woman – if she could even be called such a thing - smiled her vacant, emotionally derelict smile, and replied, “It leaves you at a dead-end. Both figuratively and literally, I'm afraid...”
***
Mike felt his asshole clench. All his muscles simultaneously tensing as he instinctually pois
ed himself for flight. Had this bitch just threatened his life?
Without another thought, he lunged forward and reached for the neck of his trusty guitar. It sat rested against the arm of the chair, within easy reach for when the mood took him. He grabbed it in both hands, sprung to his feet, and screamed, “Leave me the fuck alone!”
The construct rolled her eyes. “Mike, do you really think smashing your television will save you? We control everything…every channel and every radio broadcast…we watch you from all sides at all times. From above, from below, and from all around. If you think you can escape by simply smashing this current form of communication, please feel free, but the information I’m about to give you could prove to be important to you... very important. I’d strongly advise for your own safety that you lower the instrument, be seated back on your couch, and listen more intently to me than you have ever listened to anyone before in your whole miserable life.”
An image danced through his mind, that of Rebecca, three years old and grinning up at him from the swing he’d made her out back.
“Why did you mention my daughter?”
“I needed your full attention. I assure you, Rebecca is safe for the time being. Our interest, at present, is only with you and with your on-going awakening. Though it must be stated, your process of illumination carries far less nobility and grandeur than we are used to. It’s a great disappointment for us to lose your support, Michael. Your mindless machismo is among our most desired traits in our serfs. It’s a real shame.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That said, the consequences for your non-compliance will be severe. You now know we are watching at all times. We are everywhere, and you have no way out. Your daughter’s agonizing death is merely one order away, and I’m tiring of our little charade, now sit down. You have five seconds.”
Mike braced himself. Torn asunder by terror and confusion.
“5...”
He gritted his teeth, readying himself to smash the bitch’s digital face to kingdom come.
“4...”
He gripped the slender neck of his prized guitar tightly and raised his arm for the swing. The demonic transmission remained unfazed, of course.
“3...”
He saw sweet Rebecca’s smile in his mind’s eye, bright and innocent and free.
“2...”
He heard her laughter echo in his ears like all Heaven’s angels singing in their heavenly choir.
“1.”
He closed his eyes, felt the adrenaline flee from his shaking limbs.
Rebecca...
Mike lowered his impromptu weapon, knowing as he did so that its use would be less than futile, and that it would likely herald the murder of his little girl. He threw the guitar aside and acquiesced to the constructs demands, falling back onto the couch. He took a deep breath that felt, chillingly, like his last expulsion of free air, and raised his hands in supplication.
“I’ll do what you want. Please...please just leave my daughter alone.”
The digital nightmare being beamed into his home smiled, cold as a winter’s moon. He knew, as he gazed into what passed for the soulless construct’s eyes, that there would be no bargaining with this very real evil.
In her smile, he saw the fallen one.
It was without horns, nor tail, nor fiery red eyes.
It was the numb, comfortable banality of following the pack.
It was countless digital images penetrating the human heart, usurping truth with derelict dreams of the material world and hatred for one’s fellow man.
It was the education system, the military, the quiet corruption of once-fine churches in small towns, and the proud, twisted pride of the greedy and the sociopathic.
It was every single time a good man saw evil and done nothing to stop it.
And above it all, directing the people into accepting the Devil’s dreadful blueprint, was the media.
The television eye.
What the AI on his screen had said, was all true. He had, within a splintered second of clarity and understanding, seen through the veil, and could never, ever see the world as he’d seen it before. People with clarity of vision…compassion…could never be afforded a chance to thrive in a society that was being built by those who would imprison.
Despair settled in his soul.
He was as good as dead.
But he could still save his little girl.
He could still do that.
Hadn’t the construct said as much?
“What do I have to do?” he asked, adding, She’s just a child.”
A moment passed in eternity before she replied. “We can’t have you seeing the world with brand news eyes, Michael. Therefore, we need to spoil the view. Go to the kitchen and fetch your sharpest knife...”
***
The kitchen knife rested in Mike’s cold, sweating palms. He stared at it, taking in its terrible smoothness as the morning light glinted off its steel blade.
It was the sharpest he could find amongst his meager assortment of utensils.
He’d used it on many occasions to skin rabbits, or even the occasional deer, after a long, leisurely day’s hunting with his buddies. It had served him well, and he prayed to a god he was rapidly losing faith in, that it would do its job as quick and sure as it had so many times before.
As he stared into its steel, envisioning the promise of pain untold, he feared his strength would flee him, that he couldn’t go ahead with the awful thing that the digital witch on his television demanded of him.
“You can survive this, Michael. A phone call will be made on your account once the act is done, advising that there has been an awful occurrence at your address...that of a complete psychic breakdown. You will, unfortunately, spend the rest of your existence in a mental hospital, right alongside the others who would claw at the worlds veneer. Your words will fall on death ears, but your daughter will live. She will live…”
“Then please...why can’t you just have me locked up and be done with it?” he begged. “Why make me do this?”
“We’re all about symbolism, Michael. You'd have come to see such things were you free of your predicament. The removal by your own hand is a most satisfactory act, symbolically and as causality for your imminent incarceration.”
“Please...” he moaned.
“You need not go ahead with the act, but should you choose to defy these orders I can assure you that what will befall your daughter will be far, far worse. I will spare you the details. After all, we are not heartless.” She paused momentarily then said, “Do not push in too far, or you will puncture the brain - best that you simply burst the eyeball and move onto your right. Now...Begin...”
***
The media sentinel waited, poised and patient, watching as he raised the knife to the soft, jellied flesh of his left eye.
Nothing more was to be done. He would either follow her orders or the only thing in this world he held more dearly than his own life would be cut down - her innocence torn from her in ways he could barely stand to contemplate. There was no way out of this.
Mike knew now that eyes were upon him, watching not only from the flickering portent of death that had become his TV, but perhaps from satellites soaring high above, or drones zooming in so close they could detail the sweat running into his eyes as the knife’s razor sharp point drew ever closer by his own hand, set to steal from him all light and all beauty, once and for all. Should he survive this horror he would be condemned to darkness, a lifetime’s worth of abysmal emptiness.
But Rebecca would remain in the light.
She would remain unaware and would, he prayed, grow up never to question her world.
His blindness would be her sight, his own self-inflicted fate would be the conduit for every precious day she enjoyed on this planet.
Please God, help me find the courage to do this. Please...
Closer...
You can do this.
Mike pushed the tip of the cold blade in
to the white of his eye, just below his rapidly flickering pupil.
Closer...
He felt only a subtle pressure as the blade pressed against the sclera. The tissue was incredibly tough, prolonging his terror.
He pushed harder, the pain now beginning to register in nauseating waves...
The point of the blade slid along the wet surface of his eyeball, scratching the thin film as its tip found the pupil.
With the knife now centered, he applied more pressure.
For her. For Rebecca.
Teeth gritted and hands trembling, Mike pushed the knife in, hard, howling as the tough exterior gave way and the knife-point punctured the tissue of his cornea, his eyeball burst in a geyser of fluid.
He pushed in further.
There was awful scraping sensation as the blade sliced through the skin of the eyelid, fresh blood mixing into the viscera of the deflated orb.
He wailed in agony as the slick fluid ran down his trembling cheeks like bloodied egg yolk. It ran into the contours of his lips. He tasted the foul slime on his tongue.
Despite the horror, he could sense the chill of the evening air push into the hollow chasm of the socket, and take root there. The semen-like mess dripped onto his lap with a rhythmic ‘plop’, still warm as it splashed onto his legs and soaked his groin.
Mike screamed then, so loud and so despairing that, had he been aware of anything other than his own torment, he’d have heard the crows that housed in his lawn taking flight into the morning sky, as though in terrified retreat from the evils within their proximity.
The tip pierced the soft membrane of the socket, sending fresh jolts of searing pain through his trembling, juddering body.
When he was sure it was done, just as she had ordered, he finally removed the now slick steel. The knife slid from the ruin of his eye-socket with a vile sucking sound, trailing with it the remaining fluids.
Consumed- The Complete Works Page 12