Refinement

Screams.

Can you hear them?

The cries and wails they let out as I tear them apart, drawing strings from their minds one by one, in a cruel, unforgiving pattern. Applying pressure to their framework weight by weight until one becomes too much and they just snap. It’s a beautiful sound, when minds snap. Like the crisp break of a dry twig, or the clicking of fingers, and it could make quite the beat, if music were my muse. But it is not.

And it is not the sound that I focus on, but the sensation. Boundless, it feels, as the chilling cold bolts down my spine to collide with the golden warmth of simple knowledge that what I am doing is good. I am helping them. I am helping everybody.

Yet they don’t understand. I am not sick, or twisted or evil, and I am neither unnatural nor ruthless. I am human. But I am a different kind of human, and I am helping them to be, too. Because they can’t see their own flaws, but I can. I can see everything wrong with what they are doing, and I am fixing them. This refinement will eliminate the sense of entitlement they think they have, and they will stand on the planet with grace, and equality. Real, limitless equality, with everything around them. It will bring them together, and it will bind them. Nobody will ever be alone, or ignored, or forgotten. Nobody will ever be broken. And nobody will ever need fixing.

I reach forward with my mind, and feel another, gentle, snap.

Arrival

A short excerpt from something I began writing last week.It's based, if loosely, on a dream I had (turns out I DO remember those things, occasionally), and the concept interested me a little. This needs rewriting, really, because it feels a little rough, and there's a couple of details I wanted to include but didn't. That, and I just like rewriting things. xDAnway, this thing is that thing. For now, I'll just call it 'Arrival'.

      It’s growing dark when I finally get out of the car and plant my feet on solid ground. Despite the unfamiliarity of the soil, it feels good to stand for the fleeting moment before I’m led into the building without even a ‘good-bye’ from my father. Perhaps he’ll be bringing my bags in, I decide, and will bid me farewell when he leaves. With slight reluctance, my attention turns back to the space around me.

     Even in the low light, I can see that the building’s exterior is colossal. Though surprisingly old, I muse as I climb the stone steps and enter an exquisitely decorated corridor, the smell of disinfectant lingers faintly in the air. Is that a good sign, or not?

     My struggles with these antique surroundings are cut short, though, when I am led to the left and into another room. It is exactly as I expected the centre to be. Completely pristine white. From the walls to the floors, to the ceiling and the lights which grip it, everything reeks with a bright, colourless gleam. Even the footsteps of white-coated staff-members ring with a colourless tone. It’s so unnerving, I have to fight a shiver which itches up my spine, and my escort, a young man with dark hair to match the black clothing he wears beneath his white lab coat, frowns at me as if I’m doing something wrong.

     I wonder if I should speak to him, ask a little bit about the centre, but it feels wrong to break such a perfectly undisturbed silence, so I keep my mouth shut and let the ground absorb my footsteps as I walk.