There's nothing worse than the tick of a clock in silence.
Have you ever heard it? Have you ever stopped, and listened? When there's nothing but that constant sound, dragging on. No background hum or buzz of the TV. No whisper of the fridge. She never understood the attraction to such an old thing. All worn wood and fragile dusty glass, and inside, the beat of that ticking, mechanical heart.
If you've never heard such a sound, you can't imagine how it drives a man crazy. It's just like the sound of dripping water in a cell. The colder it gets, the more your senses shut down, leaving you with only a few others. The less senses you have, the more maddening and overwhelming they become.
It's so dark. There goes sight.
It's been days. Taste is pointless.
It's achingly cold. Touch was never important.
The stench is growing on me. Smell was a fragment of the mind.
All that's left is sound, and the only sound is that steady, maddening drip.
Do you understand now?
I'm not crazy though. I just.. see more than they do. Hear more. So many senses were shut down. So much changed over those days. They made me this way. They thought they made a mistake... they did. But not the kind of mistake they thought they made. What they created was exactly what they asked for, but they didn't expect it quite like this. I'm different, but only a little. So they shut me out. They call me a mistake. That it wasn't supposed to be this way.
They don't need to speak, because I can hear.
The real mistake they made... was thinking they could fix it. Thinking if they hid me away, that they could find a way to change what they'd made. The longer they let me live, the more I grew. This is what they asked for, but they don't want me anymore. They don't want what they made. They don't... want to be responsible. Guilty. Their conscious is begging them. They want to be free of it.
I freed them.
Is it wrong? They wanted it. Wanted to wash the blood from their hands. Wanted to be free of being responsible. They couldn't recover. Even if they got out, what they did would always haunt them. So I made them free. I released their chains on their guilt. On this world. I even freed myself.
Their blood is red. It's different from what I thought it would be. The way it sits on my hand is strange. Their voice is silent now. Are they happy? Angry? I want to think they're relieved, but I can't hear them anymore. They've gone to that place, the one I can't follow. This place is cold, dark, and that dripping noise wont leave me alone. The way the blood drips down into a pool at the bottom of the stairs. It's guiding me out.
Don't ask me how many years passed since I got out. I'm not sure. I watched, I listened. Cities were built around me, then fell again, and I sometimes wonder what they wonder. Their voice becomes mine and we share that same question. Why are we here? What are we for? My purpose... Is this it? I want to think it is. I want to believe that I have one. That there are voices only I can here. Voices that are blocked, words they can't say. Maybe they're physically incapable. Maybe its society. Whatever the reason, I am here. As the world ticks on, I still keep going, helping how I can.
It's not always in the same way. I'm not doing this to be cruel. Not everyone needs the same kind of help. Some need freedom from this world. Just like them, the ones who made me. Some need simple things. A blanket, a bit of food, someone to hear. Some need to see me, and some don't. They all need something. Everyone needs something. There's just no end to the helping. But...
Nobody ever wondered what I needed. Not even me....
Not until he happened.
Nothing lasts forever. Not cities. Not people. Not even myths or stories or art or war. Not even me.
My name? I had a name once... I think.. but I can't remember it now... So I'm okay with this. The name he chose. That name... the first one anyone's ever asked if I liked.
I like it, because he asked if I like it. My name... is Nakir.
The first stitch was made that day.