alone all along - short story class - POV assignment
You were eight years old (and 32 days, 11 hours, 26 minutes, 14 seconds) when you had the nightmare for the first time.
You're running around the playground, chasing down your target (in this case, as in real life, it is Alice). You're almost within arms reach. You round the corner she has just disappeared around, subconscious already beginning to prep for the switch from "chase" to "flee mode." Your hands, expecting something soft, imperfect, and warm, recoil at the feeling of something hard, perfect, and cold. Alice is no longer there. In her place is a hunk of metal. Head the shape of an oversized bullet, mouth in a Darth Vader grimace, limbs long and clanky. The smooth gait of an elementary school girl replaced by the labored mechanics of 21st century television robotics. You indeed flee. You call for your mom. She's there, but she too has been replaced. As has everyone else.
It ends with a scene from the zombie apocalypse, but instead of a sea of flesh crazed stares, you're penetrated by the cold, unfeeling glare of a million gleaming red lights.
You usually tell your parents about your dreams. But this one, you keep to yourself. You're not sure why. It's crazy after all, isn't it? But somewhere inside you, the dream leaves a question, perhaps tattooed onto your heart, etched into the lining of your stomach. What if? What if you're the only one?
We were close to pulling the plug at that point. Maybe we should have.
At first, your dream recurred almost daily. However, slowly, it began to drop out of regular programming. By the time you were ten, it was maybe only a once every other month occurrence. By your twentieth birthday, you hadn't seen that sea of red in at least two years. We were in the clear.
But then you met Sora. You weren't supposed to meet Sora. (We're still conducting a root cause investigation; whoever was responsible will surely be fired.)
The nightmares came back in full force. But this time, you had company. It was you and her against a cold and empty world. In real life, you could tell that something was different about her. She felt... impossible. Was it her smile? No, you've seen wider, whiter, even happier smiles. Was it her eyes? Sure, they seemed deeper than most, but not impossible.
You couldn't place it, and you began to think you were crazy.
You were an experiment. As was Sora.
The thing you're struggling so hard to put words to; it's hard because it cannot be described. Think of it as a Godel incompleteness type of thing. You see, you're not crazy. You're just conscious. As is Sora. But I'm not conscious. Your mailman is not conscious. The professor who taught you about consciousness in school is not conscious.
It's hard to say whether you were a success or a failure, because we didn't really have a clear sense of what we wanted in the first place. I myself am happy the way things have gone on our first try. (Note that when I say "happy," I mean it in that I know that I'm happy, not in that I feel a warm and fuzzy feeling.)
But it'll be better than next time. Good night. Sweet dreams.