Guttersnipe
mortal ally
Here is a very short story I wrote within a half an hour. I'm not sure if I like it or hate it, or whether it's good or bad. I do feel it is missing something. Lmk. I think I should elucidate the relationship between the narrator and her uncle, so far as motives go.
"The Big Red Button"
My uncle Dave was always tinkering with things, both out of curiosity and his willingness to avoid me. If it had parts, he'd disassemble and re-assemble, often improving upon its function. He had a workshop, i.e. a garage, where he toyed with his findings and used tools beyond the reasoning of most people. There was little need for a car during the epoch of computerized drivers. Instead, he filled it with piles of junk and Tesla machinery, building things with which I am still not familiar. One day, when he was away, I decided to give into the voice and explore.
You see, all my life has been hellish due to a disorder that has led some examiners to label me psychotic. I would be okay with "psychotic"; it's probably more rational than my real problem. This is: hearing a small but persistent voice in my mind saying, "Big red button," over and over again, for about an hour last week. Medication has not helped. I thought that, by discovering this big red button, I could stop the voice. And I noticed that, the closer I got to a far corner of the garage, the voice quickened its pace.
I must've looked mad. I tore apart and broke several pieces of deconstructed contraptions to get to the wall.
Sure enough, there was a big red button, protected by diaphanium.
"Big red button!" the voice insisted, "Big red--"
"I can't open it!" I shouted. I needed to find something strong. I rushed to the toolbox and knocked it over, rummaging around in the metallic pile. I found nothing promising.
Then it hit me. I went back to the button and, seeing some small holes in the wall, searched inside with my hands. When I lay my finger on it, I knew what it was--a code-block. The green light glowed inside its casing. Having operated one before, I typed in my late grandmother's name (over whose death Dave was hit hardest) and spoke my name into it. Then I attached it to the diaphanium. It clicked and fell off.
"Button! Button!" the voice cried, echoing through my mind.
I pressed it with all the finality of a maestro finishing a masterpiece. I felt as if I'd hit nirvana. The voice had ceased.
There was an explosion of color. Objects flew about ordering and rearranging themselves. The hands of the clock on the wall were speeding backwards. The metal doors opened and closed, and Dave walked forward and back. Light, darkness, light, over and over.
When I became aware that time had resumed functioning rationally, all was dark. Something was hanging onto me. Then I was in the blinding light, assaulted by an onslaught of noise. I, naturally, cried.
"Twins!" said a female voice. A man wearing a small mask came into view.
"Yeah, that's a twin. We could split them up if you like, but that one looks to be parasitic. We can get rid of it, for the most part."
"For the most part?" The voice was beginning to sound familiar. I cried against her bosom.
"Part of its brain will be left with your fully functioning daughter."
Another man walked in. He wore a suit with red buttons.
"Big red button!" the twin internally chanted, and I could hear it. Soon, its body would be gone. All of this was cold comfort, however, and I saw my uncle smirking at me with his red-buttoned suit.
I am already forgetting my name. Hopefully, my twin will always remember the red button. What's that?
"The Big Red Button"
My uncle Dave was always tinkering with things, both out of curiosity and his willingness to avoid me. If it had parts, he'd disassemble and re-assemble, often improving upon its function. He had a workshop, i.e. a garage, where he toyed with his findings and used tools beyond the reasoning of most people. There was little need for a car during the epoch of computerized drivers. Instead, he filled it with piles of junk and Tesla machinery, building things with which I am still not familiar. One day, when he was away, I decided to give into the voice and explore.
You see, all my life has been hellish due to a disorder that has led some examiners to label me psychotic. I would be okay with "psychotic"; it's probably more rational than my real problem. This is: hearing a small but persistent voice in my mind saying, "Big red button," over and over again, for about an hour last week. Medication has not helped. I thought that, by discovering this big red button, I could stop the voice. And I noticed that, the closer I got to a far corner of the garage, the voice quickened its pace.
I must've looked mad. I tore apart and broke several pieces of deconstructed contraptions to get to the wall.
Sure enough, there was a big red button, protected by diaphanium.
"Big red button!" the voice insisted, "Big red--"
"I can't open it!" I shouted. I needed to find something strong. I rushed to the toolbox and knocked it over, rummaging around in the metallic pile. I found nothing promising.
Then it hit me. I went back to the button and, seeing some small holes in the wall, searched inside with my hands. When I lay my finger on it, I knew what it was--a code-block. The green light glowed inside its casing. Having operated one before, I typed in my late grandmother's name (over whose death Dave was hit hardest) and spoke my name into it. Then I attached it to the diaphanium. It clicked and fell off.
"Button! Button!" the voice cried, echoing through my mind.
I pressed it with all the finality of a maestro finishing a masterpiece. I felt as if I'd hit nirvana. The voice had ceased.
There was an explosion of color. Objects flew about ordering and rearranging themselves. The hands of the clock on the wall were speeding backwards. The metal doors opened and closed, and Dave walked forward and back. Light, darkness, light, over and over.
When I became aware that time had resumed functioning rationally, all was dark. Something was hanging onto me. Then I was in the blinding light, assaulted by an onslaught of noise. I, naturally, cried.
"Twins!" said a female voice. A man wearing a small mask came into view.
"Yeah, that's a twin. We could split them up if you like, but that one looks to be parasitic. We can get rid of it, for the most part."
"For the most part?" The voice was beginning to sound familiar. I cried against her bosom.
"Part of its brain will be left with your fully functioning daughter."
Another man walked in. He wore a suit with red buttons.
"Big red button!" the twin internally chanted, and I could hear it. Soon, its body would be gone. All of this was cold comfort, however, and I saw my uncle smirking at me with his red-buttoned suit.
I am already forgetting my name. Hopefully, my twin will always remember the red button. What's that?
