Content/trigger warning: Suicide, self harm.
I can still hear their voices, the words they said echoing in my head like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
"No brain."
"Synthetic flesh."
"Not human."
The room feels smaller than ever. My quarters, once a space I could retreat to, now feel suffocating. The walls press in around me, and every reflection of myself feels like a mockery—a stranger staring back at me, daring me to figure out what I am.
The silence is loud. Deafening. It wraps around me, digging into my skull, into whatever’s in my head pretending to be a brain. My hands tremble as I pick up the knife from the counter. It’s sharp, its polished edge catching the dim light of the room.
I stare at it, the cold steel in my hand as alien to me as the thing in the mirror. The thing wearing my face. Is this even my face? The thought tears through me, raw and violent, and I can’t stop myself anymore.
With a trembling breath, I press the blade to my stomach. The edge bites into my skin, and I push harder, expecting pain—wanting pain. But there’s nothing. Not even a dull throb.
The knife scrapes against something solid, a faint metallic sound breaking the stillness. My breath catches as I drag the blade through my flesh, the cut deep and deliberate. Blood spills down my torso, dripping onto the floor in thick, crimson drops. My hands shake, but I keep going, my mind a haze of disbelief and terror.
Finally, I stop. My fingers tremble as I grip the edges of the wound, pulling the torn flesh apart. The blood makes it slippery, harder to hold, but I force it open, exposing the truth I already knew.
Metal. Polished, smooth, unyielding.
I stare at it, my breathing shallow, my chest tightening with something between horror and despair. The blood pools at my feet, but it doesn’t matter. None of it fucking matters.
I stumble backward, clutching my stomach, the knife slipping from my fingers and clattering to the floor. My reflection in the mirror catches my eye, and I turn toward it, staring at the grotesque image of myself. Blood streaks my body, smeared across my hands, but the metal beneath shines like it’s mocking me.
“This can’t be real,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “This can’t fucking be real.”
But it is. I know it is.
I collapse onto the floor, my knees hitting the cold tiles as the weight of it all crushes me. My head drops into my hands, blood smearing across my face, but I don’t care. I can’t stop the tears, the sobs wracking through me, raw and unrelenting.
Everything I thought I was—every memory, every feeling—it’s all a fucking lie. I’m not human. I’ve never been human. I’m just a thing wearing someone else’s memories, pretending to be real. Pretending to be alive. Are my emotions lines of code running in sequence? If I'm a machine, why am I fighting despair? Is this a simulation? Software running a script designed to evoke this response?
The sobs subside, leaving me empty. Hollow. I sit there for what feels like hours, staring at nothing, my mind a black void. Finally, I force myself to my feet, my legs unsteady as I stumble toward the window.
The city stretches out beneath me, its lights twinkling against the darkness. I press my hands against the glass, my reflection barely visible in the faint glow. Would I even die? The thought creeps into my mind, uninvited but persistent. If I jumped, if I let gravity do its job, would it even matter? Would I hit the ground and shatter like the machine I am? Or would I survive, broken but still here, trapped in this fucking nightmare?
I take a step back, then another. My breath is shallow, my heart—or whatever’s in its place—hammering in my chest. I look at the window, the city beyond it, and brace myself.
There’s nothing left. Nothing to live for. I’m not even a person.
I ready myself, my body tensing for the sprint that will send me crashing through the glass, falling to the streets below. The thought of it—the finality of it—brings a strange kind of calm. Maybe this will end it. Maybe this will finally make it stop.
I take one last breath, my feet shifting into position. And then—
Knock. Knock.
The sound jolts me, sharp and intrusive, shattering the fragile silence. I freeze, my heart racing as I turn toward the door. My thoughts are a mess, tangled and chaotic. Who the fuck is that? Why now?
Another knock, louder this time. I don’t move, my feet rooted to the floor as I stare at the door like it’s some kind of threat.
“PYLOT,” a voice calls out. It’s muffled, but familiar. I can’t place it. Not right now. My mind is too fogged, too fractured. But it pulls me back, just enough to stop the spiral.
The knife lies on the floor behind me, the blood still dripping from my stomach. Death or door? I glance at the mirror one last time before making the decision.
