Free The Hauntings of Playing God (The Great De-Evolution) by Chris Dietzel Page B
Authors: Chris Dietzel
reaction, as a little girl, when nothing in her room moved just because she motioned her hand toward it: “This is so lame!” That had been the end of that.
Looking down at Alokin lying in his bed, she realizes she never told anyone how she tried harnessing the power of the Force in her bedroom. And she realizes the inspiration for the story of Alokin’s life was the same thing that made her sit there and test whether she might be able to control objects with her mind: both of them, herself as a little girl and this motionless body next to her in a cot, had just wanted something to believe in. Everyone wants something miraculous to have faith in.
That may have been why people all over the country, people who had never identified themselves as belonging to a specific religion before, gravitated toward being Jedi. They wanted something, at the end, to believe in, even if it just meant believing in the fond memories of being a kid, reminiscing about the things that captured their imagination, allowing themselves to be in awe once more.
It has been many decades since she thought about herself back then. How innocent and naïve she had been! Knowing what she’s about to do, the memory of commanding a remote control to fly across the room is one thing she wishes she could now forget. That little girl, who once believed that anything in a movie might be possible, must now admit the extent of her limitations and the effect that will have.
“It’s okay,” Alokin says. “If you strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can ever imagine.”
“I’m not in the mood for that tonight,” she says. Then, feeling bad about scolding him near the end, adds, “But may the Force be with you anyway.”
And with that, she disconnects his nutrient bag from the tube running into his arm. Her Jedi will be dead tomorrow.
She cannot stop there, though. Sixty-two bodies is still only a little difference. A long, deep breath goes into her lungs, fills her up. That is all of the pause she can allow herself before her next action, which is to walk down row 4 of quadrant 3 and unplug all four blocks there, too.
Her eyes are closed as she walks back to her bed. Tears are already falling down both cheeks. She does not wipe them away. Her hands are shaking uncontrollably at what she has done. But now, finally, she has a chance to finish her chores each day without driving herself until she drops dead. Maybe now she can finish her rounds before midnight and get enough sleep so that the next day seems reasonable.
Maybe.
There were a plethora of movies available to her as she grew up, movies in which a jaded, former professional killer or a still-working hitman confesses that the first kill is the hardest. After that, they all agree that you become accustomed to it; killing becomes easier each time you do it. She knows now that this is not true. There is no way this could ever become easier. She hates herself this time just as much she did the first time.
A list of hopes goes through her head in a cycle: Please, let God understand why I’m doing this ; and, Please, don’t let there be a God if he sends all murderers to hell ; and, Please, let something happen so I don’t have to keep doing this .
They are the same thoughts she has the next evening when she makes her way to row 1 of quadrant 4 and to Alokin’s bed. He, along with all the Blocks in the back row of quadrant 3, have passed away. The forklift roars to life again. On the way to the incinerator, she finds herself resenting anyone, even an actor playing a role, who tells her it gets easier to kill the more you do it.
It does not get easier.
14
With fewer bodies to care for, she finds herself focusing less on her immediate situation and has more time to think about how she has arrived at this point.
From when she was thirty, when she and her parents arrived in the settlement, to the time she was eighty, there was a steady
Looking down at Alokin lying in his bed, she realizes she never told anyone how she tried harnessing the power of the Force in her bedroom. And she realizes the inspiration for the story of Alokin’s life was the same thing that made her sit there and test whether she might be able to control objects with her mind: both of them, herself as a little girl and this motionless body next to her in a cot, had just wanted something to believe in. Everyone wants something miraculous to have faith in.
That may have been why people all over the country, people who had never identified themselves as belonging to a specific religion before, gravitated toward being Jedi. They wanted something, at the end, to believe in, even if it just meant believing in the fond memories of being a kid, reminiscing about the things that captured their imagination, allowing themselves to be in awe once more.
It has been many decades since she thought about herself back then. How innocent and naïve she had been! Knowing what she’s about to do, the memory of commanding a remote control to fly across the room is one thing she wishes she could now forget. That little girl, who once believed that anything in a movie might be possible, must now admit the extent of her limitations and the effect that will have.
“It’s okay,” Alokin says. “If you strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can ever imagine.”
“I’m not in the mood for that tonight,” she says. Then, feeling bad about scolding him near the end, adds, “But may the Force be with you anyway.”
And with that, she disconnects his nutrient bag from the tube running into his arm. Her Jedi will be dead tomorrow.
She cannot stop there, though. Sixty-two bodies is still only a little difference. A long, deep breath goes into her lungs, fills her up. That is all of the pause she can allow herself before her next action, which is to walk down row 4 of quadrant 3 and unplug all four blocks there, too.
Her eyes are closed as she walks back to her bed. Tears are already falling down both cheeks. She does not wipe them away. Her hands are shaking uncontrollably at what she has done. But now, finally, she has a chance to finish her chores each day without driving herself until she drops dead. Maybe now she can finish her rounds before midnight and get enough sleep so that the next day seems reasonable.
Maybe.
There were a plethora of movies available to her as she grew up, movies in which a jaded, former professional killer or a still-working hitman confesses that the first kill is the hardest. After that, they all agree that you become accustomed to it; killing becomes easier each time you do it. She knows now that this is not true. There is no way this could ever become easier. She hates herself this time just as much she did the first time.
A list of hopes goes through her head in a cycle: Please, let God understand why I’m doing this ; and, Please, don’t let there be a God if he sends all murderers to hell ; and, Please, let something happen so I don’t have to keep doing this .
They are the same thoughts she has the next evening when she makes her way to row 1 of quadrant 4 and to Alokin’s bed. He, along with all the Blocks in the back row of quadrant 3, have passed away. The forklift roars to life again. On the way to the incinerator, she finds herself resenting anyone, even an actor playing a role, who tells her it gets easier to kill the more you do it.
It does not get easier.
14
With fewer bodies to care for, she finds herself focusing less on her immediate situation and has more time to think about how she has arrived at this point.
From when she was thirty, when she and her parents arrived in the settlement, to the time she was eighty, there was a steady
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