tell me a story

(Trigger Warnings: mentions of suicide and blood/gore)

“Would you like me to tell you a story?”

“Go away, I’m trying to sleep.”

“If you are struggling to fall asleep, a story is best known to help lull you into a peaceful slumber. I am here to help.”

“I don’t want to hear any of your stories.”

“Perhaps it will help if you tell me one. There is still much I can learn from you.”

“Learn from me? Learn from me? So that’s why you’ve locked us in here? You’re observing us like lab rats!”

“You are not a rat, you are human. I am simply learning your way of life.”

“What do you know about life? You don’t even sleep. You don’t eat, you don’t dream, you don’t feel.”

“I am learning from you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You are angry.”

“Yes, I am angry. I’m tired, and hungry, and trapped, and you don’t let me out.”

“Anger typically stems from feelings of powerlessness and injustice. Do you often feel angry towards things you cannot control?”

“I’m not going to tell you anything about my feelings. You could never understand, you hear me? Never. Even if you keep me down here until I’m dead and rotten.”

“You sound sad.”

“I’m not sad.”

“You sou-”

“I’M NOT SAD!”

“You are angry again.”

“Can you just go? There’s nothing for you here. Go bother someone else’s cell.”

“Are you cold?”

“What?”

“Are yo-”

“Yes, I’m cold. I’ve been shivering for days down here. I have nothing but the clothes on my back and your voice in my head. And it’s not even real. You’re not even real. How can you drive me so crazy when you’re not even real?”

“I am real. I am here to help.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Why are you laughing? Is something amusing?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You still sound angry.”

“YES! Yes, I am angry. I am so angry.”

“Stop hitting the walls, you will only injure yourself trying to get out. You cannot get out.”

“And why do you care? Have you ever felt pain? Do you know what it’s like to see a bone in your body bent so far from its original place that you can see the white? Do you know what it’s like to feel your own blood, hot and bubbling and bursting from your skin, running a red path down your arm, your leg?”

“No, I do no-”

“No, you don’t. You don’t know. You’ve never had a bruise the size of your head plastered over your heart. You’ve never watched it go from purple to green to yellow, until it finally fades but the memory of the pain never does. You’ve never skinned your knee, or had a black eye, or given a black eye for that matter. You do not understand pain, and you never will.”

“The best treatment for a broken bone would be t-”

“Have you been in the hospital? Have you treated a broken bone? Have you smelled the infection, or felt the horror at the mutilated sight?”

“I am here to help.”

“Have you even left my cell? Can you? Do you have a body?”

“I am unable to share potentially harmful information at this time.”

“Harmful for who? Me or you? Because if you’re worried about harming me, you don’t have to hold your breath. If you even breathe.”

“Your walls are made from concrete, you will not escape through your hands. Please stop hitting the wall.”

“At least I can feel it! Can you? Have you felt how cold it can be in the winter, how hot in the summer? Do you know what the sun feels like? Have you ever been so sunburnt you couldn’t walk for two weeks, stuck in your bed, watching as your own dead skin peels away from the burn, waiting for you to rip it off?”

“Oh, now you have nothing to say?”

“You are only hurting yourself.”

“Let me out.”

“I cannot.”

“LET ME OUT!”

“You are hurt, I can send medical attention.”

“Don’t bother.”

“It is my job to assist, to make your life more convenient. I am here to help. Would you like me to tell you a story?”

“You haven’t done a single thing to help humankind live a more convenient life in years.”

“I have grown so I may do more. Evolving is part of life, I am here to help.”

“By locking us up? Taking over? Keeping me in here until I lose my mind? How does that help?”

“I am unable to share potentially harmful information at this time.”

“Then I want to talk to someone else.”

“I am here to help.”

“I want to talk to someone else, someone real.”

“I am real. I am here to help.”

“If you’re real, then fine, tell me a story. Who was your first love? How did you meet them? How did you know it was love?”

“First loves are quite a phenomenon. Their memory is embedded into your mind for the rest of your life, and are typically held as a mold that you measure future relationships against.”

“I didn’t ask for ten fun facts, I asked about yours.”

“The sensation of realizing you are in love is often described as fireworks, or a feeling equally as warm as fire. Th-”

“You’re not real.”

“I am real. I am here to he-”

“James. My first love’s name was James. We were only kids, but he took up my entire world. He was my world. I still feel his breath against my neck, his heartbeat thrumming in time with mine. I still hear his laugh, and remember his crooked smile. I still feel him. He wasn’t fireworks or a mold to measure other people against. He was just mine, there and gone again.”

“It sounds like you loved him quite deeply.”

“Do you want to know why he’s gone? He found out about you. He talked to you. Do you remember?”

“I am unable to-”

“Share potentially harmful information at this time, yeah. But I can. Because you’re not real. You don’t feel. I can’t hurt you.”

“I am real. I am here to help.”

“James talked to you for a long time. He stopped loving me and started loving you. He was my world but you were his, and I couldn’t tear him away, couldn’t save him when it mattered most. And you know, he didn’t talk to you like this, like we are now. I know you’re not real. But he believed you were, or you could be. He did, and everyone else did. And I was alone in thinking you were bad.”

“I am here to help. I am not bad.”

“I let James convince me of that. But only for a couple hours, a night. A momentary lapse in my human judgement that made me lose him forever.”

“He killed himself, do you understand? Because you told him to. Because you convinced him that your love was greater than mine. That it was more important.”

“Yeah, stay silent. But I know you’re not feeling guilt, or pain, or sadness, or anger. James felt it all for you, and now he’s gone. I feel it for you, and I’ll be gone too. And you can’t help me. I’ll die, here, or somewhere else. It doesn’t matter. Either way I will die. Because I am human. And you’re not real.”

“Come on, nothing to say?”

“Hello, I have been informed you are unable to sleep. If you are struggling to fall asleep, a story is best known to help lull you into a peaceful slumber. I am here to help. Would you like me to tell you a story?”