My own Creation.

Tuesday 30th September 2019

Shay ran. With nothing but his device, he ran frantically, fast and far. Anywhere, he thought, anywhere but here.

He let the wind carry his legs just as the breeze had carried off his dreams. The blood that covered his hands was the very blood that had bore him.

I too am of flesh and blood, god, how I wish I was constructed, not born.

He heard crows caw in the distance, the call of death itself, and the smell of the electric earth below him exuded the stench of blood instead as his stride sent static waves through the soil.

He had killed his mother.

Friday 14th August 2019

The gentle whirr of machinery and the hum of his computers sang in the background, aiding his work and had evolved to keep him sane.

A single ray of sunlight leaked in through the crevice in the curtains into, an otherwise, near pitch black room. Reflection created sparkling glints of neon flashes at random points around his ethereal abode.

Shay had his eyes fixated on the movement of the blue flame he manoeuvred across the screen. 

For a moment, he glanced up, catching sight of the hues of colour that mystically danced off the assortment of glass equipment he had dotted around his make-shift laboratory.

He drew in a sharp breath of awe as his eyes filled with sheer wonder.

I have a better eye for beauty than David Attenborough, he smiled, as he dismantled the clamp-stands, plugged his device into an electricity unit and sat at his programming computer. 

Waiting for it to start-up, he caught a glimpse of the weapon he had invented a year and a bit ago, sitting on the top-most shelf in front of him.

Boy I haven’t touched that in a while LOL. Hopefully my mother won’t require its use too.

He held the assumption that most do not have the brain capacity to truly experience and acknowledge what it is to be a creator, the creator of your own world. 

This, he entertained, is what should impress him. Impress everyone.

The room was Shay’s entire universe, holding much history as well as hurt. His late father had stormed into his lab whenever he became enraged at the thought of his peculiar son, to destroy the things he thought were poisoning and destroying his humanity.

Despite every obstacle that had tried to infiltrate his domain and crush his dreams, he had finally made something he could proclaim as solely and ultimately his own.

It’s a success to surpass all successes. Sure, there’s gonna be objections, moral arguments, but man, when have I ever cared for those? Shay did things in a very methodical way. He swept the mullite ashes up in a set rhythm and positioned his chairs at specified angles. To an ordinary eye, Shay’s room would have looked like a junkyard for lab equipment. Believe it or not, he had finished organizing his room.

Spick and span. He would give nobody a way in to criticize his work, for he believed there was nothing worth of criticism in him.

But he was willing to give his mother a say. More than a say, a chance to make amends with him: a chance to admit she was wrong. After all, she was technically his own creator. 

Haha, the mother of God, she’d like that.

Sunday 16th August 2019

The choir sang in a harmonious voice the songs said to have been my father’s favourites.

“All things wise and wonderful,

'Twas God that made them all.”

Today is my father’s death anniversary, more importantly my new app’s birthday.

It was the day my father died, when I conceived the original idea. Oh how joyous I became that fine day. School had not appreciated me, nor had any of the other idiots my age, why, my own father failed to recognize my wisdom.

“James, Timothy, Rodrick and Kenji. All of these boys are on the list yet no Shay Whitlock. What on earth have you been doing at football practice for the last 2 years? Look me in the eye when I talk to you.”

“I haven’t been going to football practice,”

“I’ve put in all my money into trying to make you a normal person and-”

“I am normal. I’m better than them all. You’ve never known your own son. Not now, not ever.”

“Don’t you dare cut me off young man- what are you doing with that, I’ve told you to keep your useless lab junk- I-iI-kj”.

“Sad.”

He breathed his last that day. It was my first, but I felt no emotion for his passing, so I wandered off to my home to start creating my app instead. 

This app would simulate what a human could and could not do. It was second to its god; all you needed was a medium for it to function through, and that medium could be any physical entity around you. A chair, an animal, a human. Absolutely anything.

I had known that self-awareness was a possibility with such advanced technology, but I quickly dismissed the thought as something that, in spite of my capabilities, would be close to impossible to make. 

Just goes to show that humility is overrated, as I have proven myself wrong.

That’s right, my app is now self-aware. It is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh, able to do anything through everything at its own will. It listens to me though, as its creator.

I had tried it out that evening outside of the lab when my phone started moving on its own. With one swipe, I realised that I could transfer its energy to anything around me, like my mother’s handbag. It moved, at its own pace. I tried it on a passing cat, it became my own. It mewed like it was trying out its voice and took dainty first steps towards me. I think I may have cried a tear of joy.

The next day, Saturday, I broke the news to her over dinner.

“You may have noticed my facial expression to be happier today.”

She glanced up, and tentatively smiled briefly before looking back down again to continue making those abhorrent cutlery-scraping noises.

Through clenched teeth, I continued, “I’ve finally finished my project, the one I’ve been working on for a year now. And it’s even smarter than I had ever imagined. It’s practically superhuman, better than you or me.”

I didn’t mean that part where I said “or me”, how could a student be better than it’s master?

"Well think of it this way: you're basically the mother of god now."

My mother’s eyes widened when I said that last part, and she stopped eating. She glanced at me, with the same tentative smile, and walked away to the kitchen. 

Kinda sus.

So I left to bed that evening wondering why my mother was acting stranger than usual. Yesterday was even stranger. I noticed her scurrying around outside, where she never is, and I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on in her mind.

“Ow,”

I felt a sudden jerk to my shoulder as my mother gave me a face of tearful scorn.

“How are you not paying attention? Go up to the lectern and read off the letter in front,”

So my mother had formulated some sort of memorial speech for today, after she gave up trying to get through to me the last few weeks. Sure she knew something was off about me throughout my childhood but I don’t think she realised just how seriously different I was until her husband dropped dead. I became, in her eyes, a selective mute. 

“I told you I DIDN’T WANT TO READ IT.” 

Her face fell to a cold, despairing look, her eyes as vacant as the lifeless body in Mr. Whitlock’s grave.

I hadn’t meant to shout, I just hate it when people disrupt my chain of thought. 

Then, a scheme occured to me so I did walk up to the altar, blatantly ignoring their little rules of bowing and whatnot.

I didn’t need to look at the crowd to know they all held the same expressions of disgust as my father so often did. Funny that all of them, including my mother, still think of it as a natural death.

Tap, tap, the microphone gave feedback and I started to improvise. 

“The man we lost a year ago is of no value to us any longer.”

I could hear a judgemental murmur across the church-hall.

“He was but a mere, powerless human being. Even throughout his time alive, I can tell you as his son, he contributed very little to the wellbeing of society, let alone to his family. I believe that the device I am about to present to you will dissolve your stupidity and-”

I hadn’t seen my mother making her way across the bench and stomping towards the altar before she seized my shoulder again, this time violently, and dragged me off my stage.

Disapproving tuts and a collective gasp filled the congregation.

Mass went on for about half an hour more. My mother dragged me to the priest’s parishroom, deaf to my protests of “You might regret trying to embarrass me like this”.

She pushed me in, slammed the door behind her and started sobbing so loudly, and so hideously.

“Can you not? Look, I’m leaving. I don’t need you getting me to explain myself to randos.”

The priest held me back, with a face of pure judgement.

So much for Jesus’ teachings.

“Shay, I know watching your father die would have been emotionally numbing. But you cannot treat your mother like this. How were you saying those things in front of 100 people? He’s your father.”

“Father Andrews, I- he’s been doing things so evil, I can’t - it isn’t right I need you to fix him.”.

My mother was choking on her own tears, and she sounded more hideous than she looked. I knew what she was trying to do. And she won’t do it.

“She’s crazy. And so are you.”

I slipped out the room, sharpish. She won’t be able to articulate herself in that state for long.

Walking back home, I couldn’t help re-running through the day’s events. My blood was boiling, my hands trembling, and my eyes stinging with wrath. How she tried to embarrass me in front of a crowd, how she stood there like an idiot trying to shame me. She’s done enough of that.

She wasn’t supposed to know my app is self-aware yet, in fact I’m not sure how and when she realised but I can’t take any chances. It came so close to her exposing me like that, sure it’s just a priest, but you have no idea how much this means to me. 

I am protective over my creation like my own life.

There’s no way in hell was I going to let her have her chance of reconciliation.

It’s obvious she’s just as useless as her husband. As is all of humanity. I hate absolutely everything. Nothing matters anymore apart from my creation, this app. This technological masterpiece of energy I have created is at my fingertips and is mine. I don’t care about anything but this. 

Tuesday 30th September

I haven’t slept in a few weeks. I’ve been trying to put this off, the thoughts. I don’t think I can manage them any further. I really did mean it when I said this creation of mine is my only love.

My creation is the only thing that truly knows me. And I can’t help but feel like the whole world is just craving to destroy its kind. It’s a phenomenon that exceeds even the greatest majesties of nature. I feel like a god around it and this self-aware technology has more potential than any of these humans.

Such evil intentions as that priest, moral speakers anybody I have ever heard question self-aware automation need to be eradicated, and I’m prepared to do so. Except, it starts with my mother. My own creator. The only person I respect in this world is my mother. It’s natural to me. For how I have created this technology, so has my mother created me. But I just can’t take the paranoia any more. It’ll kill me before my mother even dies, so I guess her time has come to an end.

I’ll start with her, and work my way to the top, until nothing comes in between this technology and me and only those who truly understand this exist.

The following morning, Shay went down to his lab and made sure everything was as it was supposed to be. He walked to the weapon he hadn’t used since his father’s passing, looked at it contemplatively, and put it back. 

I can’t use these on her, it doesn’t feel natural killing my creator. I’m going to have to use a more traditional way.

For a second, he felt fear. Not knowing how to handle this, he grabbed his phone in need of solace. Sure enough, the self-aware energy made him feel more composed

Thank you so much for understanding me and what I’m doing for you.

He took out the kitchen knife, the sharpest and the biggest he could find and advanced to the garden where his mother sat, breathing in nature and life.

…

A blood-curdling scream that lasted what felt like forever filled the air around him. The self-aware energy seeped from his phone in search of that scream, making its way into the trees, the grass and the soil. A force took hold of him, electrifying.

Shay ran. With nothing but his device, he ran frantically, fast and far. Anywhere, he thought, anywhere but here.

He let the wind carry his legs just as the breeze had carried off his dreams. The blood that covered his hands was the very blood that had bore him.

I too am of flesh and blood, god, how I wish I was constructed, not born.

He heard crows caw in the distance, the call of death itself, and the smell of the electric earth below him exuded the stench of blood instead as his stride sent static waves through the soil.

He had killed his own creator.

Could my own creation kill me too?