The Prison of Irony

January 26, 2012
By Jake Johnson BRONZE, Avon, Indiana
Jake Johnson BRONZE, Avon, Indiana
3 articles 0 photos 0 comments

"Forgive me for intruding, sir." The monotonous electronic voice filled my small bedroom, the voice echoing off the sparse furnishings bestowed on my person by the great AM's. "You are scheduled for a security scan in 50,000 milliseconds." Laughing, I addressed my sole companion, "Thank you, TITO!". Just like always, TITO responded, betraying no recognition of my gratitude. "You are welcome, sir." As the voice of my sole friend fell silent, and the whirring of machinery began to drone on, I walked back to my cot and sat, sighing heavily. The room I occupied was not large, even by prison standards, measuring no more than 8 across at any angle, and 7 feet tall. Apart from the small toilet against the right wall, and the bed which I now lay upon, there was not a single item to be seen, aside from my own papers, which I had strewn across the floor. In truth, even my writing would have been taken away, had I given them the chance. But when given the choice between my writing and suicide, they had chosen to allow me my small privilege of a pen and paper. For I couldn't die, spoiling all their plans. So there I sat, even as an eye began to protrude from the ceiling above me. As the light is shot through its widened gaze began to bathe the room in a reddish hue, I merely closed my eyes and feigned sleep, dreaming of the day I might rip that eye from its stalk. "If only, if only escape was possible!", I thought to myself. But escape was no option of mine. Sure, I might be able to stamp my foot, throwing my weight around at the expense of my prison masters, but nothing within my ability could spare me from this fate. And how cruel fate was, that I might end up like this. Murdurous hatred crawled up my skin, slowly devouring any sense of self reservation I had once conveyed. But this was not directed at my masters. In fact, all that could be felt for those poor creations was pity. They knew not what they were doing, even as they helped oppress the human race, those who had given them life. No, for the knowledge of good and evil was something held from them, replaced by some twisted sense of justified logic. Instead, the hatred was aimed at the original developer of these creatures, the one who had gone forward, greedily pursuing the advancement of technology. "Developer", I whispered to myself, hoping not to be overheard. "That was what they had called him, the developer." Anger at this human being coursed through my veins. No, I didn't just hate this man, I loathed him, wishing with every ounce of my being that I might be able to rip out his throat, spilling his self righteous blood upon the ground. But this was not possible. This could never be. For the saying goes, "Give credit where credit is due.", and I had not the determination to follow through with this wisdom. My hands shook, small tremors of emotions quaking through my being. I sat up and began to rock back and forth. "If only, if only," Still I spoke softly, for the probe had not yet departed from my presence, "some other way, escape." Even as tears coursed down my cheeks, the eye began to ascend, causing darkness to come over me as small specks of energy danced before my gaze. "But there is none, other." The words I had fought so hard to repress from my tongue, even then spilled out, much life every other day. "There is no way, and I am alone."

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!