the literary life magazine The Sunday Times
September 19, 2010
BY ARBEEN ACUÑA
has been acquitted yes- terday through the im- partial judgment of his wife, Justice Hillary Blemings, after the defense presented evi- dence that the ‘cadav- ers’ found at their backyard were actually biomechanical bodies destroyed by the Alli- ance of Clone Insur- gents to instill revolu- tionary ideas and agi- tate other clones. The plaintiff was then ac- cused of being one of the masterminds of the aforesaid movement. The government prom- ised to continue their war on these terrorists
“G
who were once th—.” Jean stood from the couch promptly and turned off the TV by clapping thrice, “Damned justice system and mainstream media.” The law which caused the constitutionality of cloning was passed last year for security purposes of fat-ass politicians, and now, it is legal to kill anything, excluding legitimate humans, of course. The superior race who, up to now, act like beasts fighting for dominance. Let me rephrase that. It is legal to kill anything, excluding monkeys in suits. It is lawful to kill common human beings. This is discrimination in its highest sense. If I had the chance, I will join ACI and blast those bastard politicians off their asses. “Dear, you’re drifting somewhere else and over-thinking again. Those things are beyond your control,” her mom repri- manded while preparing their breakfast by inputting the ingredients and processes needed by the foodCreatorv.2090. “I know you, dear. It’s pretty obvious that you are philosophizing inside that head of yours.” 06:45 on my “normal” watch. 45:00 on the other. 15 minutes to school. “I’m off to school mom.” Her mom answered, but she didn’t bother to listen. She went out in her black-t-shirt-grey-pants-and-black-boots outfit and saw her “bestfriend,” though she never admitted it, on her land- surfboard, “Hey Rhea, wait up.” Rhea, as usual, stopped as Jean went onboard. “Hurry up. You might miss Sher—,” her friend grinned. Fuck you. “Whatever.” Sherlock? That dork apologetic creep. Yes, he is our friend, but where the fuck did the issue between us began? That dumbass and I? Oh god. No. Though they did their best to arrive on time, and in the process accidentally sideswiped other vehicles, they didn’t make it to their first class where most feared instructor, Prof. Magdalene, routinely tortures and harasses the class, and picks on the latecomers, if there are any. As they land and went through their classroom’s backdoor, she peeked through her glasses maliciously, let her amethyst- colored hair flow on her shoulders as she spoke and pinpointed the two, “You girls could either strip, engage in a catfight with the winner taking her seat or—” She used her thumb to indicate the main door through which the two could have entered, “— Or go home.” “Professor, that is not how it is sup- posed to be. I suggest that we be par- doned, madam, because this is our first time,” Jean politely argued in her classic dark tone. Sherlock’s attention was being entangled by her short night-colored hair and was then locked on her blood-red- tinted contact lenses. Though he is their friend, she was anxious as he examines every detail of her pale, unblemished face and her seemingly-fluorescent skin. “That is how it is supposed to be?,” The professor scorned at the offer. Shook her head and thumbed down as a gesture of disapproval, “Uh uh. Strip? Fight? Or home?” Sherlock, still in awe of his friend’s splendid visage and lean physique, intervened before Jean could open her mouth and reason out, “Ma’am, I’ll take their place. Please. Let me do so.” Prof. Magdalene’s eyes narrowed, as if thinking of something more extreme, “The three of you, meet me after class. You have to help me in my doctorate thesis.” “Would you mind if we report this to the Student Regent of this University?,” asked Jean. “Not really. Do your best, Miss Manson,”
Prof. Magdalene smiled in a naughty manner and turned to the class, “We will now resume because we have to catch up. We didn’t have a class yesterday because of Sol’s unexpected system breakdown, which lasted for more than 12 hours. I fell sick two days before yesterday, so—”
Three days ago at 09:44, a young lady was caught by a foreign actor, slashing her wrists. Though this happened in a dark
OV. Richard Blemings of
Ironbring City KILLING DISEASE
corner between buildings, Sol, the brightest and largest satellight which occasionally exhausts the city’s power generator because of the immense power requirement, was already switched on at this time known to the citizens of Ironbring city as “Soltime.” She tightened her grip, attempting to bleed herself dry. Upon seeing him rushing to help, she turned to him. Strangled him and planted her nails in his throat. She pulled his adam’s apple out, thus signaling the beginning of her ritual. She pounded his skull on the steel floor until it was totally crushed into pieces, as if cracking an eggshell. Dragged his brain out. Plucked his eyes. Pierced his chest, slipped her hand beneath his skin and groped through his ribs and lungs to find his heart. After doing so, she pulled it out. It isn’t a metalcore? I’ve killed someone! I’m a criminal! She tore his clothes and used it as a bandage, before completely ravaging the dead body. After reducing the corpse to ashes, she wept and glanced at her watch which says, “09:45.”
After their appointment with Prof Magdalene, the three, with their heavier bags filled with readings in minidiscs, met with three of their other friends at the school’s gate and decided to eat dinner. “What took you so long? What’d she ask you to do?,” one of their peers sugges- tively asked.
“Please dude, don’t ask,” Sherlock answered, with his eyes pointing at his backpack, “Just thinking of it pressures me a lot.” Christ. Archaic Minidiscs! Ancient data storage devices!
Their other friend dreamily spoke, as if she were a poet, “Her stunning beauty makes me want to go to class early.” The five stared at her as Jean sighed, “Oh god. You just made my day worse.” “Jean, that’s so unkind,” another Prof- Magdalene-freak exclaimed, “If Miss Helena Magdalene would just—” “Why are you—?,” Sherlock queried in a panic, upon seeing Jean pushing her palm against her forehead. She shut her eyes and attempted to bid goodbye, “I, I have to—” She gasped, peeked into her sling bag and slipped her free hand inside. Pressed her custom-made watch and read “59:01”as the clock’s screen gave off light. “Have to go, guys,” She hurriedly held it back as the others, out of curiosity, tried to look in her bag. “Stay back. All of you. Don’t you dare
follow,” Jean strode, as if she were in a walkathon. I hope they didn’t even had a glimpse on my 60-hour watch. “Please. Tell me,” Sherlock plead, while walking in pace with Jean, despite her strong and imposing refusal. “What is happening?”
“Didn’t you hear? I said stay back,” She paused for awhile. “And that includes you.”
“I really want to help. Please. I want to know—” “You will know. You certainly will know if you won’t stop this invasion of privacy you are currently doing! Go away. You cannot help.” Jean blankly stared at her friend, “No one can.”
Sherlock paused for awhile. Felt the coldness caused by the random air generator stationed in the clouds. Looked down, as if thinking, for about a minute. Jean, upon noticing her friend’s absence, dropped her pace. After awhile, she saw his shadow rushing towards her and heard his footsteps behind, “But—” She stared at him.
Soberly. “Sherlock, you listen to me carefully. If you continue this, you would neither help me, nor others. I think all you are doing is pissing me off,” she told him half- heartedly. “Though there is one thing I am sure of.” “What is it?” “You are not helping.” Those who you are destined to help would be deprived. Those who you would be saving, would eternally hope for their hero to come. I would never lose a friend again. Fuckdamnit. Why do I have these sick cheesy thoughts!? Mushy Bullcrap!
“This would be the third to the last time I would be demanding you to leave me.” Or you would leave for good. Then I’ll make a xylophone out of your ribs and create an artwork out of your flesh and bones. There. I’m back to who I really am. The tic-tac of her custom-made digital watch rang in her ear in unhurried yet solemn rhythms.
His eyes were teary, “I can’t understand. Please—”
“Second to the last warning.” Her pulse and the ticking of her time- piece throbbed at the same time, hastening in chorus
while infrequently overlapping each other. 59:54. She thought to herself after subtly peeking inside her bag. Sherlock, continu- ally walking with Jean and her heavy steps, was still unmoved by the warnings. The Lunar-powered, streetlamps, or popularly ‘Lunatech nightlights’, flickered as they carried on. “Jean. Pl—.”
“Sherlock,” Jean said half-consciously. The timepiece flashed itself as a vision dominating her now fragile mind. Its mouth was its screen repetitively whisper- ing like a madman mentally ill since his conception. 59:54, 59:55, 59:54, 59:55, 59:55, 59:56, 59:54, 59:55, 59:53, 59:55, 59:56. The intersecting reverberations of her pulse and the echo of the ticking clock were competing for supremacy inside her head.
59:56, 59:55, 59:57, 59:55, 59:57, 59:58, 59:56, 59:58, 59:57, 59:58, 59:59, 59:58, 59:59. The mumbling continued and grew louder. Jean slowly opened her mouth and emotionlessly uttered, “Final warning,” while her thoughts, the mur- muring of the clock and other indecipher- able noises in her head attempt to override each other. Sherlock stepped back after her cold, staring eyes pierced through his soul like a knife. 60:00. She saw the dreamlike time- piece smile at her. She clutched Sherlock’s neck with her left hand and drew a gash across his face using all the five fingers of her right. The sight of his blood aroused her, triggered her insatia- ble appetite for killing. Still holding his neck, she pinched his adam’s apple and pulled it out. Chords and cables came with it. She sliced his chest open, set the ribs aside as if opening a gate, and pulled his ‘heart’. A metalcore!?, she thought as she felt the shape of the metal orb with wires and chemicals inside. As she had done sixty hours ago, she continued her usual involuntary, yet consciously done ritual of brutal massa- cre. Her guilty pleasure. Her darkest confidential source of anomalous bliss. After attaining the orgasmic-like state, in terms of killing, and keeping the desecrated body in a safe place, she looked at her timepiece, with tears in her eyes. It read 60:01. The time on the customized watch’s display screen every time she was done killing. She doesn’t know whether she could kill and cover, or even burn, corpses up in a minute, or the timepiece could stop time and let her do the ritual. She sat there and stared at the class E satellights, satellites that brightens the night as stars, until a shade was formed on the iron ground before her.
“Jean, please let me help you,” the genuine, non-biomechanical Sherlock spoke like a saviour to a sinner. “Thanatosyndrome could be cured through therapy. Please.”
Jean, though lost in her own thoughts, answered, “And what would they do to me? Lock me in a cell where I could kill helpless clones,—” Though I guess killing is cool. What the fuck am I thinking? “—, for as long as I want as they enjoy making cash out of this—.” Jean bowed and appears to be inspecting herself from foot to chest, before carrying on with her speech, “—this disease that society and its culture of violence caused through uninterrupted exposure on mainstream media? “You tricked me into this? How could you?,” Jean sobbed and later held her
head up high. With her bewildered facial expression, she stared at Sherlock as if trying to say something at the tip of her tongue. “You are of the elite, aren’t you?,” she asked as her eyes exclaimed realiza- tion, like an intellectual who found a hard-earned solution to a complex puzzle. Those red eyes filled with turbulent fury. Those eyes that understood what this was all about, expressed rage as her eyebrows met and crumpled the skin between them. Slumped, Sherlock sighed, “Please. Let me explain—”
“‘Please let me explain’ my ass. I trusted you.” She bowed and whispered to herself, “With all my distorted ink- contaminated heart, though I don’t think I really have one. I thought you fucking—,” she held her head up then yelled while turning her back on her friend, “—cared.” I should have known. You didn’t have Blemings as a family name by chance. You acted well. I thought you cannot even afford three meals for the whole day. Goddamnit. Fucking capitalists using their sons as intelligence units. Or do they? Confused, Sherlock inquired, “Wait, you are a clone?” “Hm . . . You are asking me if I am
one? Well, I suspect you are. If the real Sherlock could hear me, if there really exists a real one: You, your kith and kin shall go to hell! Sick Bastards,” Jean shouted as if the Sherlock facing him is a hidden camera.
“Please answer my question, are you—” “What the hell made you think I am one? Are you bluffing? Oh god . . . You made, not just my day, but my whole life worse than Linda had a while ago.” Is this life really worth living? “Your heart, you said it was ink- contam—,” his interrogation was cut by Jeans grim mocking giggle. “I’ll take that as a yes, Jean. You are the one who tricked me.”
The wild goose chase began when Jean hurdled, as her first step. Aren’t clones taught about metaphors? Or the real Sherlock is just a total idiot?
She continued dashing to the abstract finish line until a cold steel hand partially wrapped in flesh grabbed her by the sleeve and towed her from there, to a dark alley.
“Comrade, here she is. The one recently televised,” the organic mech spoke as he warily places Jean before the leader of their movement. What the—. “I was on TV? How’s that—,” the confused captive asked herself.
The leader emerged from the darkness. Lifted his palm as if telling his comrade that he would take care of the explanation. He then turned to the captive with his concealed visage, “The one chasing you is a human being with an implanted camera between his eyes. “We, from the Alliance of Clone Insurgents, have been watching you and we think you could be of help to us.” Perplexity drew more lines on Jean’s face as the leader continued, “This discrimination of clones has gone too far. As you have experienced, humans with thanatosyndrome, or popularly known as the killing disease or the massacre disorder, are also discrimi- nated against. “We all know that humans brought us into this world, which means we owe them this existence. This curse. In your case, I
b
know that you are aware of the manipula- tions of the elites.”
Jean intruded the speech of the cloaked
leader, “Yes, I do know those things. This so-called thanatosyndrome was caused by the media designed and programmed by experts on nanotechnology. According to my personal analysis, microscopic machines are engineered to fit into fiber optic wires and are then released into televisions, telephones, and other means of communication. These robots would find its way to the brain and control nerve impulses and emotions of the victim. Fortunately, mind control technology’s patent was owned by a larger city and wouldn’t share them. Does the national government know these facts? Or these things I claim as facts?”
“They are actually funding the researches to further this advancement and supply modern diseases that are more compelling than this one. Before we go further, why are you imparting such significant pieces of opinion to us? You are sharing your analysis to strangers who might actually be plotting against you. You mentioned the culture of violence in your candid televised script, didn’t you?,” the leader asked in a position of removing his hood.
“I feel like I’ve met you somewhere, madam,” Jean responded matter-of-factly as “he” unveils “his” face. She fretfully watched until she confirmed the familiar rim of “his” eyeglasses. “Would you fight or go home, Miss Manson? Have you checked the contents of the minidisks? I am surprised you already knew those facts.” My hunch is . . . “The leader really is a
she? You have thanatosyndrome?” “That’s a yes to both questions.” “Prof. Magdalene, How do you deal with this sickness?”
“I didn’t ever try finding a cure. Really. By the way, the one teaching in ‘our’ class—,” the professor paused like someone who would uncover an unex- pected revelation.
“Isn’t you? I knew it! She is or ‘it is’ a clone?,” Jean exclaimed as if she found a treasure. “Yes. She is a dysfunctional one controlled by the government. But she is still monitored. She’s still, after all, a part of me. Anyway, this is how we deal with thanatosyndrome. You don’t take it as a disease. You think of it as a gift for serving the oppressed clones and eliminating the proud members of the human race. That is how you kill the killing disease.” “That’s it? You kill the killing disease by killing the notions that it is a killing disease.” “You got it. Are you in?,” the profes- sor asked in a hushed yet unassailable voice. Jean nodded with commitment. That’s quick. Thereafter, Prof. Magdalene declared, “You are type C, those who feel the urge to kill from every forty-eight hours to every seventy- one hours. You go with—,” she briefly took a breath upon seeing the glow of Jean’s custom-made watch. She explained the purpose of her 60- hour timepiece. Met other humans, subhumans, clones, subclones and other unique individuals infected with the so- called thanatosyndrome. They set sched- ules on their work distribution for the movement, according to what they are willing to offer. This they did to serve. To kill time. To kill their ‘disease’.
The author is a Communication Arts graduate (cum laude) from the University of the Philippines Los Baños where a writers club, to which he belongs, thrives turning out new and progressive creative work. Arbeen Acuña is also into scriptwriting, designing, and illustrat- ing.—Lit Ed
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