The machinery watched over us, the workers, in hateful love.
“Someone has to oil the gears!” it had said once.
The youthful old men of the town were dropped into the pits, ground up into a paste, to be fed to the masses at supper time.
I was locked inside myself, another night of sleepless dreams and a shot of rum straight into my brain.
“Were are dead yet?” the machine asked, chugging away.
“I don’t believe I am but I could be mistaken!”
I arose from my spot, my dinner, lunch, whatever it was, left untouched on the table.
“Doctor Grace will not like to hear you didn’t touch your meal! It was your favorite too, broken glass sandwich with a glass of souls!” the nurse said frowning as I tried to move towards the couch.
My soul was dying, I could feel it, slowly but surely, and soon, maybe a thousand years from now, I would catch up and die.
“Tell the good doctor I was not hungry this evening, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps later on I shall, no, I will have a cup cake!” I replied.
She sighed and moved away to check the other patients.