“So, you think the characters of a book have free-will, or are they subjected to the will of their author?” I already know what she was going to say, but I can’t pass on an opportunity to hear her sweet voice.
She reaches over with a sleepy little smile, placing her gentle hands around my face. Her fiery crimson irises peer effortlessly into my mind. In the most beautiful voice a person can imagine, she says to me, “Of course not, silly. The characters have the same fate as you or me.” Then, she steals a kiss before turning over and backing her warm body into mine. “Except with us, the universe is our author, blind and without end.”
She does that often. She has this way of slowing everything down, this way of making everything simple, yet mystical. I’ve struggled with most concepts she easily understands. That’s probably the reason I work in the plant and she in the infirmary.
Kalli was right though. One side of me realizes that we are nothing more than biological droids programmed by our genetic code and the environmental stimuli we are constantly being subjected to – nature and nurture. We go through life doing exactly what our code tells us to, survive and reproduce. What happens when our code stops? Would we desire life if that part of the code was to be deleted somehow? Reproduction is almost an extinct act thanks to evolution or Lethe, I don’t know exactly. It does make sense though. Without death, the need to produce offspring isn’t essential. Of course, you can’t trust the network, but the number they keep tossing around is ninety-seven percent infertility, yet I still see love. Surely there must be something more to this life, or was I merely reborn to work twenty-five years then fade away again?
If people are no longer programmed to find a mate to reproduce, then shouldn’t we see an equal decline in love, lust, sexual desire? Perhaps these emotions are a part of our genetic code but become something else when we experience them. The other side of me believes, almost madly, that we are solely responsible for our destinies. I am in charge of my universe and nothing - not nature, nor the Lethe Corporation, can stop me. How can she be so at ease believing she’s some mindless bot?
“Hey Kalli,” I whisper as my arms wrap around her tighter.
“Yeah, she answers half awake.
“Whatever this is, program or free-will… I’m happy it’s brought you into my life.”
She adjusts her warm body under the comforter and nestles closer into me.
My lips press against the back of her head, and my hand finds hers, as we drift into each other’s dreams under the crescent midnight moonlight.
Wait.
Where am I?
My head spins wildly as the visual stimuli all comes rushing into me at once. It’s too much to handle. The distinct taste of my stomach splashes the back of my throat as a cold sweat knocks me off balance.
Fuck… It must’ve happened again.
The beaming sun reflecting off the vending machine in front of me scalds my eyes as I search frantically for the shattered pieces of my memory. How long was I gone for? Think.
My eyes jerk left to right, searching for clues, anything solid to stand on. In front of me, a blurred version of myself gleaming off the half-rusted machine. It’s weird seeing my smeared reflection. Lethe outlawed mirrors a few cycles ago and no one really knows why or cares enough to question. Mirrors are the last thing we need to worry about. My hair looks longer than I imagined, still dark. It’s usually shaven, but I haven’t had the time nor energy lately. The bags under my brown eyes scream my story despite which mask I try on in the reflection. My clothes, a grey t-shirt, and blue jeans are half soaked with sweat. The ringing in my ear fades in and out with the sway of disorientation. Think, Palin. Think.
Glancing up, tall metal buildings, dripping with corrosion and apathy, surround me. Each a failed shade of white. Windowless portholes cut to a circle wrap the structures alongside the blues, reds, and yellows of time’s stain. They reach far into the sky like rusted relics from a time when things were better. The cracked asphalt seems to glow in the morning sun as a frail breeze blows some crinkled trash past my feet. A holo-image flickers Archer Lethe’s face on a billboard overhead. Thank you for your service and your dedication fades in from the left of his salute.
People with blurry faces stare as they pass by me in a haze of their own. From across the street, two dark silhouettes are gathered around one of the benches under their apartment tower’s awning. From the shade, they argue amongst each other just out of range of my ear.
“You’re lucky I’m late!” shouts a Lethe officer, bumping into me from behind. I catch myself and turn slowly around. Eagle tattoos cover his massive arms. His neck, nonexistent. Just head mashed into shoulders. He mutters something from under his breath and carries on down the broken sidewalk.
Lucky? Right. The love of my life will be reborn today, not remembering me or any moment we’ve shared the past two decades. On top of that, my own mental state is quickly deteriorating. Another few months until I’m reborn again just so I can waste
