They said not to worry about the explosion (that was easily
contained and far away, that is what they said) but they said to worry about
the recoil. The snap back. The sudden push from the backside of the Machine.
They said that it was perfectly safe to use (if one had the right training –
that is what they said), but I was skeptical. They said a lot and told little,
which one got used to, they said – they only said, but I never believed – not
yet, anyway. I would come to believe, they said.
The Machine. It dominated everything around it. It was huge.
It was metal. It was ugly. It was more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.
They said it was the first of its kind, they said, but I may have seen its like
before. I’m not sure. I don’t remember. It was a long time ago and things were
a lot smaller then.
They put me to work on it a few weeks ago. I was good with
numbers and with a wrench, and it’s hard to find people who can handle both,
they said. So I fix the Machine. Reset it every time it stops. Find the loose
nuts and put them back. Figure out how to make it better. And I’m good at my
job, that is what they said to me after I’d been there for a few days. It was a
long time ago. I think. I’m still good at my job, but I’m better now, at what I
do now, so I’m told.
My life was different before the Machine. I don’t know how,
I don’t remember – it was a long time ago. I used to work with machines – not
Machines, but little things. I think I made people happy. I still make people
happy. That is what they said.
I see people come in and out every day. Most of them are the
same every day, I think. I think some of them change. I’m sure of it – I think.
The people around me are like me – they do their jobs, they do them well, and
then they do it again, better, faster. That’s efficiency, they said.
The Machine in action is beautiful – every part finely
tuned, each blast contained, just enough movement, just enough energy to do
what is required, and no more. I don’t know exactly what it does but I have my
suspicions. The ones in black feed it paper, microchips, film. Stoke it. Press
the big red button. And then it shudders, twists - and burns, hot and fast. And
then it falls back in on itself.
I’m not the kind to look for a reason. I do my job and do it
well, and keep making things bigger and better, like they tell me to. I would
be dead if I didn’t, I think. The strangest times are when they bring a person
to the Machine, and shove them in. I know that the Machine isn’t meant for such
a big load. I know because I’ve had to fix it every time after they do it.
Because people like me are hard to find, hey said. The Machine breaks a little,
but nothing is left of the blood, the guts, the bones, the spirit. All burned
away by the explosion at the other end.
There was someone else
with me, a long time ago, when things were smaller. He taught me about the
Machine, then he disappeared. I don’t know what happened to him. They tell me
he is just a figure of my imagination, but I know I saw him and felt him and
smelt him – a bit like propane and grease. I wonder if I smell like that, if
that’s why people look the other way, cross the street when I walk by. I think
I remember a long time ago, when the other person disappeared, that was the
first time I saw them try to put a person in there. It was the hardest fix I’ve
ever had to make.
But I keep working on it – the Machine, I mean – making
fixes, making things more efficient, because if I don’t, they will notice. I
don’t remember if I have before, but I know they will notice. I don’t think I
have.
The other day, not long ago, I tried to talk to one of the
people in black. He was average looking, or at least I think he was. I don’t
remember what he said, and it bothers me because I know it’s important. I doubt
he knows much more than me. They keep everything need-to-know, and they said I
didn’t – or maybe I did and I forgot. That seems to be happening a lot, and it
scares me.
The other day there was someone else there, where I usually
go to start my tinkering. He was younger than me, I think (It’s really hard to
tell how old people are these days, where people are recycled like trash). The
person looked up, greeted me. The person looks so innocent, in clean white
coveralls. Mine are dirty from ingrained grease and filings. This one’s new and
young. I wonder if I was ever like that. I can’t clearly remember then, back
when things were small.
I greeted the person back, curiously. This one is the first
person who has talked to me in a long time. I scare people off. I think it’s
what I look like – all greasy and black, because it never all comes off. The person
told me their name. I don’t remember mine. This person is so pure. I think they
put this one here to ruin them.
***Thanks for reading this far. More to come.***
(Last Edit - 11/25/2014)
(Last Edit - 11/25/2014)
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