Key-Machine 1st DraftA Chapter by Kenny Pomaski
A long, annoyingly symbolic story that I want to post just to have something up. It's garbage, it's 1st draft, but I promised something for tonight. Be brutal, I don't care.
A wall of shimmers glistened all around, a vast square of deceit and lies. Hushed, the room eeried its way forth as if a tube of suicidal tendencies.
Panicked the boy ran back and forth, slamming his shoulder and arms against the heavily armored door, jingling the keys hanging from the walls. His pale skin glowed a milky white off the small beams of sunlight shining through the crevices of the roof, as if the light pulsed from his skin. The orange and blue shimmers of the keys taunted him, challenging his talents in the most malignant of ways. “Give in”, they called to him, “Prove to them, you have no choice.” He rammed the door once more.
“Let me out!” Cried the boy, pounding his bandaged arms and hands against the door. “I don’t want to do this!”
A cackle of many laughs sounded from behind the door, both female and male laughs, though the boy knew the difference not.
“Just do it, my friends just want to see your ‘special-ness’,” said a sinister and familiar voice from behind the door. “Whatever you think I am doing with you is wrong, I assure you. Now please, Patriclus, show them your gifts.”
“I don’t want to, and I know what I heard,” pouted Patriclus, his pupil-less eyes on the brink of tears, if he could cry that is. “I’m not real, I know it. I’m a machine, the thing you taught me to hate!”
“No, no, no, my dearest son, you are certainly no machine. You are a gift of the heavens, a divine child, a messenger of god himself. It is He who wants you to express your gifts and use them to their fullest, so why must you be so stubborn.”
“Stop it,” he whimpered hopelessly. The keys around him felt nearer, more intact. He could smell their grease and physique. He could even taste their metal. “I’m not your son, am I?”
“Damn it, Patriclus!” The voice raged, it’s raspy tone growing more hoarse then usual. “You’re my son so stop acting like one of those damn, soulless creations. You are my finest child, the only son who I could place my faith upon and be sure that you are the one. I used so much of my time for you; to help you, train you.
“Will you please, Patriclus,” said the same the now more gentle voice, “at least give me the honor of showing my fellow colleagues the beauty of a child you are? Now come, Patriclus, free yourself from that awful place. Never again will I test you for, after this, you will be truly a man.”
Obligation and remorse flooded through Patriclus. Perhaps he was wrong, mishearing them name him a war machine. It was surely another thing, a foul creature that dwelled along the mountain or perhaps a spy within the servants. Indeed, he was not sure, though never before had he lied to himself within his journal, or had his father been wrong. A rampage of thoughts orbited him, the gestures of independence, what he knew nothing of.
He walked slowly around the room, looking each key over carefully. He had noticed the lock while he pounded the door, a triple angle dead lock. The key surely wasn’t one of the gold ones; they were much too small and sharp. The silver keys were a possibility if they bore a flat platform at the end, which they didn’t. No, surely it was one of the onyx ones, the largest and most rounded. With gentle fingers he ran his hand across their blades and bows, feeling the waves and hills along each end. They were all so familiar; there was no challenge to this test.
With a final scan, he saw the key; A blackened and rubbish thing with double teeth at its end. Much too easy, but why so? There’s no penalties or traps, no challenge. Why the less of challenge when I could be challenged to my max? Am I not a Son of God?
Or, is it, that my father does not have faith in me? He didn’t want me to fail in front of his friends.
Unwillingly he grabbed the key, his key to manhood, and slowly shuffled towards the door. He could feel his hair prickling, turning from its flat amber color to the pointy orange. The word “suppress” quickly ran through his head, telling him of it’s meaning and its use. Why an Edu-Key now? Carefully, he fit the key into the lock, holding out from twisting before checking for blade breakers. Nothing. With an affirmative “click”, the key smoothed the lock.
Applause sounded from the room outside. “I told you he was the finest, and he’s all mine!”
“Well done doctor, well done indeed,” said another voice, much too professional and forced.
“Yes, well done,” said another, more feminine voice.
“I didn’t come out yet!” yelled Patriclus, frustrated by the lack of interest in him. Indeed, he didn’t learn about himself until not too long before, how he wasn’t sure, but when he did, he wanted himself to be recognized, and his father knew it.
“Ah, sorry Patriclus,” apologized his father all too pleasantly, “I thought you would come out sooner. Please, we’d all really love to see you.”
He frowned; “I don’t want to now.”
“Oh come on, don’t be so rash.”
Slowly, Patriclus pushed against the heavy door. It scraped against the ground as it opened, following the common curvy indent outside. A dim, reddish light filled the other door, and, as Patriclus stepped outside, five familiar green faces stared back at him.
“Great job, son,” said his father, his large, red lips unmoving. I still don’t understand why mine move and his doesn’t.
“Your wonderful, truly magnificent,” said another voice, coming from one of the green, unmoving faces. “We’re so honored to finally meet you, we heard you’ve met some of your father’s other colleagues before.”
Nodding, Patriclus kept his gaze upon his father. They were all wearing the same white coats; even their boots were the same hue of black. He wondered if every one of them looked like this.
“Father, I am a man now, right?” he asked, his hair returning to its amber color.
“Yes, my son. You are a man, and are ready to move forth in your journey. Truly God smiles upon you, though it is my regret to inform you that you will not be seeing me as much now that you are a man.”
He had never told him this before. “Why?”
“My fellow colleagues are going to help you now, I’ve done all I can to make your gifts better. Now that you are a man, you are going to go forth in your training and grow.”
“But I am son, your son. Why would you have me leave you? If this is man then I refuse!”
The figures all looked towards his father, their placid faces the same though a new atmosphere had come.
“What did you say, Patriclus? Why am I important? It is you and your gifts that are important. Nothing else.”
“I don’t think that’s right.”
The room gasped, even his father staggered back. “How dare you disagree with me? Why would you do such a thing?”
“Your wrong! Your wrong! Your wrong!” Patriclus screamed, his eyes glaring at his father like a thousand swords. “I am your son, I am a me, and you’re supposed to care about me!”
The words rang like bullets as they sped throughout his father’s ears. Clutching his chest, his father sank onto his knees; his head slumped.
“It was… too early,” his father finally said, his words slow and dull. “I have failed.” One of the figures near his father stepped behind him, reaching its hands into its pockets. “I have failed the future.”
A loud bang crashed throughout the room, echoing. Patriclus looked at the man that was his father, now drenched in blood. Spilling onto the ground, his father lay motionless. Dead.
Patriclus stood stunned. With open eyes he stared at the still figure. His lips quivered.
Stepping over his dead father, the figure holding the smoking pistol spoke: “Do not fret, this is not your father. Look.”
Kicking his father over, Patriclus saw the face of a machine. He had white, soft skin, the kind that is sensitive, and a pointy nose. His head had a large hole in it, and through the blood Patriclus could see the pupils within his eyes. Even amidst the flowing blood, he could see the stains of tears. Indeed, a machine.
On the ground, the green face was in pieces, a mask.
“Your father was murdered by this spy the day before,” said the figure, placing the gun once more in his pocket. “We’ve come to save you from them. Your not ready to fulfill your divine duty.”
A mask. Are they all masks?
“Patriclus,” said another voice to the left. It was a girl’s voice. “Come with us, hurry. We must go.”
Was my father… a machine?
“I… don’t know what’s happening,” stammered Patriclus, clutching his head. His mind raced with visions of war, the murdering of all the machines. It was his destiny; it was what God told him to do. Wasn’t it? What if these figures before him are machines? Could I do what they just did?
“Patriclus, listen to us. We are your fathers now. Come with us.”
“I have one father.”
“No, we are your father now. Come.”
“No!” Patriclus raged, his mind flaming red. “You’re masked, all of you. Your impersonating my father, I know this. He cared for me, knew me. Machines! You are all machines!”
The figures before him stepped back, each reaching towards their pockets.
“Calm down Patriclus,” said one of the impersonators, “were here to help you. We are real, not machine. Now please, settle down.”
Patriclus felt his eyes rolling, his process’ forming. “I will kill you. All of you!”
Patriclus leaped, and the figures drew their guns.
© 2009 Kenny Pomaski
Added on February 19, 2008
Last Updated on February 4, 2009
AboutI'm a writer who wants nothing more then to be a writer. Name is Kenny Pomaski. I'm 20, and have been writing seriously for nearly five years (Though I've been writing stories my whole life). The b.. more..