Ocean Of Guilt

“Please, don't do it." Those were the words that always seemed to echo in my head when I was about to finish a robot. Only this time, it was stronger. It was the first robot to have feelings, and I was the creator, the genius. But the voice continued, like an alarm, it shouted and whispered and pleaded and cried. But it was always too late. There wasn't any sense left to reach anymore. Merely blank, absent-minded actions. A thick fog clogged my view. All I could see were the cables, shooting out, like red bloody veins, of their square metal cage and my hands, covered by white plastic surgical gloves. A vision flashed before my eyes. They were stained. Stained by blood. 

"You know whose blood that is..." The alarm said. I shook my head. No. No, I don't. I did, though. No. Stop. I tried to concentrate on my work. Already, concentration was but a far-fetched conception. All that was left now were my mere perfunctory movements, guided by my instincts, or a greater force, the force of fame, the force of power. The force of our leader, Isaac. I was being controlled, and it felt great. 

What the… my ears. My ears! They hurt. Something was ringing, like a cry of suffering animals. My heart raced. It pounded like wild stallions running in a field, like a gigantic hammer falling heavily on my chest. Suddenly, curtains fell over my eyes. 

I couldn't see anything. I was blinded by the noise. My organs were all screaming in agony. No! It didn't matter. I was going to finish this, even if I turned blind. It was simple, wasn’t it? I’d built robots thousands of times, I knew what to do, even for such a complex one.

"No! No, it isn't simple. Stop! Think about the consequences. About what you did." The alarm hollered. But I shook my head, dismissing reason. I mustn't think about it. 

"Just a bit more..." I muttered, as if asleep. I was close. But at what cost? Stop! Enough thinking. Thinking is bad. Bad, bad! 

"No, thinking is human!" The voice screamed. "That stupid Isaac got inside your head. Thinking is human… thinking is human… thinking is human… human… human… human… human..." Echoes. No more echoes... Please. No more thinking... I tried to shut down my brain, but it was hard. The alarm was out to get me.

"Thinking is human..." the alarm repeated. 

I felt ropes tighten around my neck. I knew perfectly well what I was doing, and yet, I didn't. Why was I doing it? Why did I do what I did? Why didn't I simply let her go? Stop! Get back to work! I had to keep on going, to shut off this stupid voice that kept on screaming at me. 

"THEN HUMAN IS BAD!" I screamed. "Bad, bad, bad!" I cannot be human. I have to obey. I have to obey. The ringing got louder. No... No, enough! My vision cleared slightly. I could see my white hands and the cables. I was almost finished, the suffering was almost finished.

"Just a bit more..." I was trying to reassure myself. I was on the verge of tears.  I had to finish. I saw the blurry faces of my colleagues, but most importantly, their eyes, filled with greed and impatience that stared at me hungrily. I twisted one last time; the cables were done and organised. 

I held my breath. It was time. I put my tools down on the table's hard surface with a clatter. My wide eyes stared at what I had created with wonder. I reached for the metal trapdoor on the robot's abdomen. The edges were so sharp, it felt so smooth and perfect. The metal was cold against my fingers. All I had to do was close it and plug the cable that dangled from it in the power outlet... A second... Just a second for the robot to charge... And then, fame. The glad shouts and satisfied comments of my colleagues, their fakely warm hugs, and fame. Fame and recognition. 

"Come on..." they pressed. Their voices were distant and slowed down as I plunged deep inside a suffocating ocean. I was getting closer, closer to a sweltering underwater cave of unconsciousness. There, my every move would be guided by something, someone. My thoughts would be controlled. Everything would be so easy, so simple. Nothing to worry about. I could be just like the robot I was creating. I would be famous. Just living my entire life in a deep abyss. I shivered with pleasure; I wanted that. I wanted it so bad, but the voice wouldn't have it.

"Greta was human."

I almost fell back in disarray. My head shot out of the ocean I had plunged in, the one I was drowning in. My eyes widened. Greta was human, it was true! Then I heard her voice. 

"You're killing me. You're killing me, dad!" She was screaming at me. She slammed the door. She shouldn’t be screaming at me. “You’re always trying to find something for your robot. I don’t give a damn about your robot!” She had said as I went in the corridor after her.

I shook my head. I couldn’t think about this! I grabbed my robot, the fruit of so many years' work, and ran. Ran like a crazy man across the cold tiles of the laboratory. Behind I heard the surprised shouts and boisterous screams and footsteps of my colleagues trying to grab me, bring me back to my work. But I ran. I didn't even bother to open the door. I braced myself and ran through it, bursting into the corridor. I kept running, running to the emergency staircase, and raced down the steps four by four, jumping over the last six ones, and shot out onto the road, where I kept running, onto the highway, not stopping for the planes or the cars, not stopping for the robots carrying the women and men, nor for garbage-bots laying down heaps of metal scraps and rotten tree sized pumpkins, I ran. But my legs were already giving out, my breath was short and I ached all over. But I kept running, I ran up to my building, where I ran up the stairs, and pushed open my apartment door. I bolted the five locks and pushed my sofa to block it. I rushed to my large window,collapsed on the floor, the robot on my chest, as the curtain’s metallic sheet slowly started its descent. I turned and looked at the grey sky. How sad it looked. Once, when I was thirty, I travelled to Africa to see the real sky. I wanted to know if the paintings and descriptions were real. But when I got there it was only to see that the richer countries had planted industries in it, and it was already filled with ugly clouds. Most of those industries, sadly, belonged to Isaac. Someone told me that when I was small, about three years old, I had seen the sky, but I don’t really remember it. With a clack, the curtain hit the ground. I clutched the robot. It would only be mine, not the world's. It had always been mine. Its thoughts, its feelings. The world wouldn't have my child's brain at their mercy. Fame didn't seem so desirable anymore. I knew what I had to do to bring it to life. I knew what I had already done to bring it to life. I heard her again.

"Dad! What are you doing?!" 

Nobody would know what happened. Nobody would find her where I was bringing her. That's when I knew what I could do to give my robot feelings. All I had to do was simple. All I had to have was just in front of me. 

I looked at the robot, and darted into my room. As I fell to my knees and put the plug in the outlet, I caught a glimpse of a picture. Greta's picture. In that split millisecond, time stopped, my heart melted. Her soft, pure hazel eyes, her short brown hair made me want to cry. She was waiting for me. I remember her face, in tears, as she took her bag and her belongings.

"You're killing me, dad. Killing me!"

She also said that, as a child, she had sometimes gone for full days without food because I was too caught up in my creations. That had been the first time I had wanted to go back in time.

"I'll be waiting for you, dad. Once you understand."

And she had left. I remember my red anger as I pursued her in the corridor, scalpel in hand, and her terrified high pitched screams when I brought her inside. And her mercy pleads.

"Stop! Stop dad, you're killing me, you're killing me! Please don't do this! Don't do this!"

I remember holding them, so slippery and slimy. It was still throbbing slightly, and blood was oozing out. I just had to do a simple transfer. No more waiting. I had waited for so long already. Once she was in what I had created, everything would be simple. I thought that she would forgive me. 

But I understand now. I had to leave this robot behind and join her. Only, it was too late. The plug was in.

Ding! The robot lifted its head. In its pitch black beady eyes, you could distinguish confusion. But when it looked at me… I saw the disappointment. The sadness. I saw Greta. 

I ran out of the room to the kitchen and aggressively pulled each drawer, fumbling for a knife. I had to end this. Again. I couldn't live with it. I couldn't. As I ran back to my room, I heard the angry voices of my ex-colleagues pounding on my door, trying to open it, but I ignored them. I dived into my room and lifted my knife. The robot looked at me fearfully, but with a wondrous gaze. An almost loving gaze. I stood there, and a connection seemed to weave itself, one single thread, between us. Greta was already dead. Was she though? This wasn't her… though there was a part of her in there. But I remember. 

As my white gloves put the brain in, I felt enlightenment. It was a new beginning. For me, for her. 

But I know now that it is too late to find her. I felt drops running down my cheeks. I had wasted my daughter's life. But now I had a second chance, an opportunity. I was offered a do-over. My knife hung by a thread in the air. I had done it once, why couldn't I do it again? The robot lay trembling on my wall, as it whispered that heart-breaking:

"Please, don't do this. "