Eyyyy I finished part one of this, so I might as well post it somewhere, right?
I'm writing a series of short stories about my UTAUs. It takes place shortly after they were made. I may switch perspectives later on, but to start off with the narrator is Toshiko Asami.
Rated T for mentions of sexual things [it's not graphic] and probable swearing in future parts. It also has some existential-esq topics, so if those bother you I suggest not reading it.
Feel free to offer critique or just general feedback.
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Human Part I
As I stand in the bathroom, examining myself in the full-length mirror, it occurs to me how useless the room is, at least for those like me. Nonetheless, I occupy the small space and press a warm hand to the cold glass in front of me. My hair drapes over my shoulders in messy curls as I lean forward. With my one good eye, I study my own face, looking for hints of anything other than apathy. I am unsuccessful, of course.
I stand up straight again and break eye contact with my reflection, allowing my gaze to wander to other parts of my nude body. It is slim, but not very tall, with pale, freckled skin that contrasts with the vibrance of my hair colour. I am fairly attractive, to say the least. Not that I am very vain; I am simply comfortable in my appearance, and the strangers that I entangle myself with on occasion seem to find me appealing enough. Men, women, or anything else, really, it doesn’t quite matter, for complying with the abstract concept of social normality is not something I ever want to partake in. Of course, my libido aside, I am not interested in romance, and I believe that is what has driven all of my past partners away. That, or the fact that I really just don’t care about the petty emotions of humanity.
Thinking of that sort of thing might arouse others, but I remain physically limp and mentally detached. I stop focusing on the details and view my figure as a whole, I am, as usual, taken aback by how human I appear. I should be used to this by now, I scold myself, I have never looked like anything else. But the sense of uncanny falsehood and unease I feel by seeing myself lingers. I place a hand to my chest where new hairs will never grow. I feel my flawless skin where no blemish will ever rise. I run my fingers through my tangled hair that will never grey. My organs will never falter, for the artificial blood that runs through my veins and charges my thoughts assures me of endless life. Everything about me clearly reads human, but I know that I am not, and I never will be.
Shaking the unpleasant thoughts from my head, I turn away from the mirror and step out of the cramped room. The rest of my apartment is occupied by a simple bedroom scarcely large enough for a twin and a dresser, a pitiful wall of drawers and cabinets masquerading as a kitchen, and a small living space with a loveseat and a cheap television. Some generic artwork hangs on the walls where others might place family photos, and a rather depressed pot of house ivy slouches on one of the end tables.
Some might find my reserved lifestyle dull or perhaps lonely, but I find comfort in solitude, and have no desire to leave. Getting close to others is too dangerous, because once they feel like they know you, they will dig their claws in your mind and greedily consume your secrets. They ask questions, personal ones, and will not cease their pestering until you provide an answer that satisfies their selfish curiosity. I do not condemn the thirst for knowledge, for I too seek it, but when it is knowledge that is harmful to others, or harmful to me, I prefer it not to be tampered with.
I'm writing a series of short stories about my UTAUs. It takes place shortly after they were made. I may switch perspectives later on, but to start off with the narrator is Toshiko Asami.
Rated T for mentions of sexual things [it's not graphic] and probable swearing in future parts. It also has some existential-esq topics, so if those bother you I suggest not reading it.
Feel free to offer critique or just general feedback.
-
Human Part I
As I stand in the bathroom, examining myself in the full-length mirror, it occurs to me how useless the room is, at least for those like me. Nonetheless, I occupy the small space and press a warm hand to the cold glass in front of me. My hair drapes over my shoulders in messy curls as I lean forward. With my one good eye, I study my own face, looking for hints of anything other than apathy. I am unsuccessful, of course.
I stand up straight again and break eye contact with my reflection, allowing my gaze to wander to other parts of my nude body. It is slim, but not very tall, with pale, freckled skin that contrasts with the vibrance of my hair colour. I am fairly attractive, to say the least. Not that I am very vain; I am simply comfortable in my appearance, and the strangers that I entangle myself with on occasion seem to find me appealing enough. Men, women, or anything else, really, it doesn’t quite matter, for complying with the abstract concept of social normality is not something I ever want to partake in. Of course, my libido aside, I am not interested in romance, and I believe that is what has driven all of my past partners away. That, or the fact that I really just don’t care about the petty emotions of humanity.
Thinking of that sort of thing might arouse others, but I remain physically limp and mentally detached. I stop focusing on the details and view my figure as a whole, I am, as usual, taken aback by how human I appear. I should be used to this by now, I scold myself, I have never looked like anything else. But the sense of uncanny falsehood and unease I feel by seeing myself lingers. I place a hand to my chest where new hairs will never grow. I feel my flawless skin where no blemish will ever rise. I run my fingers through my tangled hair that will never grey. My organs will never falter, for the artificial blood that runs through my veins and charges my thoughts assures me of endless life. Everything about me clearly reads human, but I know that I am not, and I never will be.
Shaking the unpleasant thoughts from my head, I turn away from the mirror and step out of the cramped room. The rest of my apartment is occupied by a simple bedroom scarcely large enough for a twin and a dresser, a pitiful wall of drawers and cabinets masquerading as a kitchen, and a small living space with a loveseat and a cheap television. Some generic artwork hangs on the walls where others might place family photos, and a rather depressed pot of house ivy slouches on one of the end tables.
Some might find my reserved lifestyle dull or perhaps lonely, but I find comfort in solitude, and have no desire to leave. Getting close to others is too dangerous, because once they feel like they know you, they will dig their claws in your mind and greedily consume your secrets. They ask questions, personal ones, and will not cease their pestering until you provide an answer that satisfies their selfish curiosity. I do not condemn the thirst for knowledge, for I too seek it, but when it is knowledge that is harmful to others, or harmful to me, I prefer it not to be tampered with.
