Part Seventeen: The Author: Alone, from novella ‘She Who Wrote the World’



Holly had not slept in her bed;  I had waited for her thereupon wanting to record my knowledge, perched on its foot, with my head turned expectantly to the door.  Except no shadow ever filled its frame.  I was left to feel perplexed by her absence with a sense of worse things to come and a nagging disappointment that my night had been wasted.

Upon stepping into the dining room I was greeted by an assortment of my favorite breakfast fares, laid atop the masterfully crafted stone stable.  However, it was the poverty of personhood I noted above all: the absence of the Creator.  Breakfast was our tradition and one that he would not lightly miss.

All my suspicions were confirmed.  As I have feared in recent years, he was indeed trying to overtake me.  My recorder has been stolen from me and with her my gift to the world. For the recorder is the semblance of me to be left here after I transcend to my true home.

While I record my words now into my digital log, I see it all may be frivolity.   If what I predict unfolds, the recorder will be all that remains of my name.

Holly said all she should have said in her autobiographical video, discussing her upbringing in the Order of Writers and repeating phraseology of dedication to me.  There was nothing different in her words than what many other applicants had also said. I sliced through her words until her soul laid bare and bleeding in my hands.  I saw the pain; I saw a mirror of my younger self, but in a smaller less-beautified package.

In truth, I know what it is to wonder if life can get any better. I know what it is to see yourself failing at life because of your own mental decrepitness.  I know what it is to feel worthless and alone.  I know how it feels to be Holly and what she might relinquish to be someone else.

My father never liked me how I was.  He never had to tell me.  I just knew.  So, when he first pulled me aside by my elbow and confided in my ear, I was surprised, curious and inflated with self-importance.  He invited me into his laboratory, a place we had never been allowed to enter as children.  By then, my sister had moved off to College.  Of course, she is long since dead now, her and my mother both, since they denied my birthright and refused my father’s life-prolonging technology.

The laboratory was something you might picture in an old horror movie.  It was in our basement, so it was dank and humid, with bulbs that were dim and fluctuating light, cobwebs that bunched in corners with tendrils reaching down and laterally to other corners, and besides the smell of basement was that of bleach or maybe chlorine.

My father was notoriously disorganized, although he knew where everything was, which meant there were stacks of papers everywhere, chemicals and bottles, dust and chaos and he flitted purposefully among them.

Except for behind a plastic wall, which he moved aside and invited me to step into.  This world was a different place altogether.  It was white and sanitary with a wall of buzzing machines and computers.  On the table, was surgical instruments and microscopes and tiny pieces of electronics.  Along the wall was a shelf full of mason jars and in them were floating human brains.  When I looked closer, I could see what turned out to be the crude prototype of the brainchip.

The coincidence is not lost on me, that after a year of working with my father, I first heard the voice calling my name.  The only explanation I have been able to reason from that, is somehow, my father, opened my mind to hear beyond this world.  That somehow, with all his tinkering in my brain, he allowed her voice to come through.  That is why I have named him, the Creator and given him a place of honor.

Alas, he has betrayed me.  He has taken my recorder to thwart my plans.  He has always been jealous of the power I have obtained, although it was by no choice of my own, but through my destiny.  Little does he know, his own plots are his own undoing.  For it is with the weapon he would use against me, that I will destroy him.

Does he truly think, after all these years, I have not learned to manipulate the tech to my own advantage?  That I am not capable of reading his very thoughts?  I know without a doubt in my mind that when I search for his router, I will also find my recorder.  How little he thinks of my capabilities.

I am running out of time.  He grows more dangerous with each day that passes.  I must act before he hinders all my plans.  I must ensure my recordings will be secure.  And this is my saddest affair, knowing that my father, he who would have transcended with me, has become my greatest antagonist.  My only hope, is that in the recycling of his soul through the span of time, he will eventually learn humility and loyalty.

My guards bring me more troubling news from the East.  My spies have confirmed what I have feared.  War is descending upon the West.  Traitors all around me have told them, now is the time to act: act while there is division in the Author’s household.

Should I stay and defend the walls I have built or transcend and leave the mayhem to those I deem less worthy?   I am exhausted of this world and its petty quarrels.  They will destroy my name through history, smite everything related to me.  Ah, yes, but my recorder will live with my teachings within her forevermore, becoming a part of her until she cannot separate her entity from mine.

I am running out of time; time is such an illusion.




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