That procrastination bug has morphed into procrastination pneumonia. I cannot seem to concentrate or even sit still long enough to write what I need to write. And I NEED to finish this short story before NaNoWriMo begins in 2 weeks. There must be a way to motivate these fingers. It’s tough though when I have no readers.
Rather than going home straight away, I walked around the city lost in thought. With the truth known, as bizarre as it was, ideas were abuzz in my head. What does this mean for humanity? Will humanity cease to exist once our virtual selves invent means of reproducing without us? Will the face of humanity change? Perhaps we humans will become pack mules while our virtual selves take the lead as the real human being. Perhaps someone will manipulate this system. Break free. Save the day like in movies we’ve seen since childhood and before.
Passing an adult bookshop I inhaled the distinct scent of sex. What I really wanted to do was go home, embrace my wife. Tell her I loved her and that all would be okay. That we would be okay. But I couldn’t. Doing so meant dealing with consequences I knew nothing about but was certain those consequences weren’t something I wouldn’t enjoy. Still I ached for my wife’s touch.
Oh, to hold her naked curvy body to mine. Run my fingers through her dark wavy hair. Just to look into her eyes and see her looking lovingly back into mine, feeling her breath on my neck. She had the most tender touch. I begged the powers that be to let me get what I want. I’d make things up to her. I’d change, be a better person, a better husband.
Sure I had ignored her these passed few months. We’re both busy. Very busy. These things happen in marriages. Besides, this was not just my fault, was it? There are two of us. She could just as easily have initiated dates, early morning romps like we use to have, and anything in between that. Then again, I do tend to get tunnel vision with my work. She probably tried dozens of times to get me to show how much I care. We argued for weeks. Then things just went quiet. I assumed she stopped being angry.
I kept interrupting my own thoughts, telling myself that our not getting along and our lack of closeness didn’t cause the takeover of humanity by our computer selves. It just made it easier to manipulate our marriage. It’s so easy to demand men ignore their wives when they already do. Though lack of connection didn’t cause our situation, it made it easier. Had I paid attention to her more, perhaps we would’ve held off the invasion into our home until later, much later. Even indefinitely.
As a man of ideas, I worked every angle to determine an outlet. There is always a way out. If either Mark or I were capable of figuring this out, it was me. Running home to explain the situation to my wife was out of the question. Not only would it be against the rules, but she might think I completely lost it. I’d be sent the way of Kyle before sunup. Pleading with virtual Me seemed out of the question. Artificial intelligence rarely works with emotion in movies and stories. This, too, would raise red flags for virtual Me. Then I couldn’t get away with anything. Currently, I was still working within the element of surprise. Whatever plan I hatched required swift action that ensured maximum people told, minimum potential interference by virtual Me, and maximum chance of success. Failure meant the loony bin at best.
I was a slave, which is bad enough. Being drugged and tied to a bed because the world thinks you’re insane and a danger to yourself and others somehow seems a worse deal than my current situation. Both outcomes end with loss of freedom. However, the former allows me to continue acting as I choose in a sort of faulty realm of freedom. Tied to a bed, drugged, is an obvious loss of all choice. Then again, the later comes with no need to pretend things are not what they actually are.
The sun set hours ago. Where the time went, I can only speculate. It ticked by somewhere between Main Street and Menlo Boulevard. Though the city went quiet at least an hour ago, my car felt oddly claustrophobic and quieter. I probably fell asleep behind the driving wheel twice. Sleeping soundly, silently, my wife could not have looked more beautiful than she did just then. Every ounce of blood slithered through me begging to touch her. Just pull her hair away from her pale face, I thought. Such a small consolation that couldn’t hurt anything.
I fought those urges standing over her. Were we only dating but living together, I’d cuddle up to her so softly enough to suggest I wasn’t trying to wake her. She’d coo, reposition herself closer to me, and we’d make love until morning, getting up only to shower off the sex and start our separate days. As it was, I stood over her tender body like some psychotic stalker, twitching between reaching out to her and thinking better of it. Her face held a smile. Barely noticeable. Perhaps it wasn’t really there at all. I wanted to cry. For a moment, I convinced myself making love to her tonight would be well worth any retribution that came come morning when virtual Me realized what its, his, slave did. A twinge of pressure in my gut kept me from taking that risk. I slid ever so softly into bed, making sure not to disrupt her or touch any part of her.
Not touching her tore holes in my chest refilled with needles and heat pads. It was then I realized I had to do something. What that was escaped me. All I knew was I wanted my wife back. She was mine once. No virtual Me was going to take her away from me, either. Then it hit me.