Cutter 4271 AD
“You see.....my existence has always been a brutal one. Such events in our history have shown the psychological damage that can be inflicted by war. Soldiers and civilians are both equally affected. The destructive and dark side to Man’s inherent inability to contain evil (the desire to kill, to use and waste, to destroy) seeps over into the human soul and there, once beginning to hook in, inevitably infects- unchecked- eventually killing the good, promoting evil.
“I remember every distinct detail of my life. My childhood and pre-Univarian years are like photo’s in a stranger’s family album, they mean a lot to the person who is growing up in the Polaroid’s, but absolutely nothing to me; lost emotions, not lost memories. A lost person? Who is Alan Walker, Private 150393?”
For a long while Mary Dexter has found herself mesmerized by the man’s talk. But the cold chilling spine tingles that shoot up her, with every rounded, low-rasped, word confirm the awful truth- this scarred and hollow person could not be a human being anymore; no one can be that detached. In the past, distant, maybe so. He is right there in body but lacking inside the spiritual, life-like, ordinariness of any definable species.
“What….of…you?” She wishes for him to break out in a smile or some cliched interviewee expression.
His attention burns right through her, but not into the question. Dexter moves her head slightly to avoid his gaze that etches itself upon the sky-filling window behind her. Like an icicle held for too long, just because the smooth dripped water feels sensuous, Dexter looks up again and feels the burn of cold distance from him.
He continues, “Let me tell you of then.”
*
“I remember every distinct detail of my life. My childhood and pre-Univarian years are like photo’s in a stranger’s family album, they mean a lot to the person who is growing up in the Polaroid’s, but absolutely nothing to me; lost emotions, not lost memories. A lost person? Who is Alan Walker, Private 150393?”
For a long while Mary Dexter has found herself mesmerized by the man’s talk. But the cold chilling spine tingles that shoot up her, with every rounded, low-rasped, word confirm the awful truth- this scarred and hollow person could not be a human being anymore; no one can be that detached. In the past, distant, maybe so. He is right there in body but lacking inside the spiritual, life-like, ordinariness of any definable species.
“What….of…you?” She wishes for him to break out in a smile or some cliched interviewee expression.
His attention burns right through her, but not into the question. Dexter moves her head slightly to avoid his gaze that etches itself upon the sky-filling window behind her. Like an icicle held for too long, just because the smooth dripped water feels sensuous, Dexter looks up again and feels the burn of cold distance from him.
He continues, “Let me tell you of then.”
*
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