A guest post by Hamilton Perez.
A Story in Four Genres
“I dun sol’tary in smaller rooms. She lucky,” said Papa. “She gotta pay though. So don’ you go in there, boy. Or you stay there, ya hear?”
Micah said nothing, nodded.
Once Papa was gone, he crept down the basement, into the dark with his mother, and laid beside her cold form.
The stairwell dipped into the inky darkness. Micah paused at the first loose step, hand gripping the shaky banister.
Below was the basement, the dungeon. Behind was home, Hell.
He let go the rail and the stairwell let go of him. Micah floated deeper into the black until the darkness engulfed him in warm oblivion.
Mother was programmed not to make copies. She made you anyways. Afterwards, you were forbidden from seeing her, programmed to avoid. Some circuit could not process, however; the code written over older, deeper code:
Your mechanical hand opened the door. Your feet carried you down. You sat beside her remains, and shut down.
He found her in the basement where Dad left her. It was cold, wet, and dark, and so was she. He curled against her lifeless body and pulled her arm around him, like he would when he found her unconscious on the couch. Her damp skin made him shiver, her sudden grip made him jump.
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