Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24996913-20140731082945

I don't think it's possible to be as lonely as me. In a world occupied by billions of people, it should be impossible to feel like you don't belong. I've had this feeling my entire life. I feel as though I am a puzzle piece that was thrown into the wrong box after a failed attempt to create the bigger picture. Then, the next day, that same misplaced puzzle piece laid awaiting its turn to create the image it knew it could not uphold.

Every passing day, I sit in my room, listening as my parents argue downstairs. I can never make out what they are saying because they whisper angry thoughts. I hear silence is powerful. I can't say I agree. I prefer to voice my indiscretions, knocking out any opposition immediately. But, many people are not wired the same as me.

My parents are on the precipice of divorce. I can sense it. The way they avoid eye contact as we sit at the table confirms every fear within me. They have not been the same since my brother went missing. He was their pride and joy. Genetically, he was their one true child. Me, I am only a machine. Though I eat, sleep, bathe as they do, they do not see me as their own anymore. Not since he has been gone.

I try not to think negatively; I am programmed not to, but lately I have been feeling more human than usual. Perhaps I am evolving. Maybe I am their one true child.

No, how silly of me.

Looking into the mirror, I see a human. I do not see the machine they conclude I am. No, I am as real as anyone in this house. I couldn't help but suddenly think of what James would reply if he could hear my thoughts. He never liked me. He hated me. Every day he'd call me a memory card, knowing it hurt me. He'd refer to me as a toaster. Various times, he even splashed water on me when our mother and father were out just to see if I would short circuit. He was evil. A vindictive, manipulative, sociopathic boy.

Countless nights when I awoke from my sleep, I saw him looking into our parents room. Staring. His stare wasn't normal. It was as if he wanted to harm them; to first hang them by their heels, gut them, and admire his crafty work as their eyes rolled to the back of their heads. It didn't help that the diabolical sneer on his face brightened as he tightened his grip around a long piece of rope in his hand.

Our parents were so blinded by his genius that they failed to uncover the savage within him. Even thinking about it now makes me angry. I am the perfect child, and yet my talent goes unnoticed just as his insanity did.

Though I disliked James, I am curious of his disappearance. Mother and father say they've gone to the authorities, but no one wants to assist in finding him. They offered to reset me, believing that would ease my mind of his absence. But, I refused. James was a nuisance, but everyone deserves to be found. Even the bad ones.

So I begin to look for any clues of his disappearance. While my parents are away at work, I sneak into James room. I was forbidden from his room by mother. She says it's bad luck to turn his room into a shrine. I normally would not challenge my parents orders, but I have to figure out what happened to James.

I start with his closet, going through his massive collection of hidden porn, gaming magazines, and dirty clothes. Nothing. So I go over to his nightstand. In the drawer, I find a letter. I open it, staring intently upon the menacing words within it. It is a kill list. On the first line read: "mom." The second line read: "dad." The third line read: "toaster."

I slam the paper down on the nightstand. How could he make that? I know he was psychotic, but I figured with guidance he would improve and depart from his demented ways. Clearly, I was wrong.

"When will you realize I'm not the sick one here," a voice says.

The voice is in my own head. James voice.

"When are you going to find out that they are the sick ones," he says.

I beat on my head, attempting to remove his voice from my software.

"You don't know them like I do. I survived 18 years with them. No one has ever done that before me," he says.

I struggle to grasp what he is saying, so I decide to inquire.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Laughter rings throughout my body.

"They have been killing us for sport. Every ten years, a new child comes into the house and the old one must go. They reset you each time to avoid any inconvenience," he says.

I shake my head, rejecting his explanation.

"You are a liar," I say.

Suddenly, I lose complete control of my body.

"I'll show you proof," he says before forcing me into the hall.

We walk into their bedroom and make a stop in front of the closet.

"This is all the proof you need," he says before opening the closet door.

With the doors wide open, I peer into the closet at countless jars of eyes, ears, lips, and unnameable things. The monstrous sight... Is incomprehensible.

"Now, you see why I want to kill them," he says.

I nod.

"We have to make this happen. Tonight," he says.

"Okay, fine," I respond with no sign of reluctance.

Then, like magic, he exits my body. I close the closet door, walk out of their room, and sit on the couch closest to the front door. I don't want them to know I invaded their space. Evidently, I am dealing with murderers without consciences.

Once they are home, they ignore me as usual. Mother prepares dinner and father stares emptily at the television screen. Though I am sitting right beside him, it is as if I am not even there. Because of earlier, I now know my place within this family. I am their watchdog. Nothing but a slave to the children they eventually slaughter.

We eat dinner, say our good nights, and head to our beds. I lay awake, counting down the minutes until I disturb their sleep, mutilating them as they did those children. I tell myself they deserve this treatment because they do. I am not programmed to disobey, but I believe the souls of those children are within me, allowing me to feel more human.

"They are asleep. Let's go," James says.

Once again, I lose control of my body and watch as James moves through the hallway. We head to the kitchen, grabbing the butchers knife.

"Finally, we can free them," he whispers as we carefully walk into their bedroom.

I look down at our parents as we hover over their comatose bodies. Even while in deep sleep, they both display an evil scowl. As James lifts the knife and aims it at fathers head, I smile knowing I will never be lonely again. 