Ch 30: Sickness Unto Death

~
(David)

Anwen is tugging at my my belt buckle as I look down at her in a quiet state of shock.

I’m not really letting this happen. I’m just fascinated by this behaviour.

But I find myself gently holding her hair back, and for a moment she pouts and play acts like I’m pulling it and I pull my hand away, but then she looks up at me and she’s smiling and she puts my hand back on her hair, encouraging me. What the hell? Is this how it works? I’m in a state of disbelief, just watching her, resisting the urge to help her with the belt she’s still tugging on. She whispers at the buckle through gritted teeth, “come on!” and finally she gets it open and—

I hear a door slam in the hallway.

“Anwen! Anwen!” I’m whispering as loudly as I dare. I gently but firmly pull her up to her feet. “That’s it, we’re done now, I’ve got my laundry, you can go now. Put your shirt on please. You have to go now Anwen, thank you.”

She’s looking at me with a puzzled expression. “But I’m off work now. We can have a pleasure visit. It’ll be fun. I know it’ll be fun.” She looks down at me, at my belt buckle hanging open. She bounces up and down a little and says, “Come on, pleasure!”

“I know, I mean no, but I’m sorry Anwen, we can’t do that. I should not have let that happen. Please, put your shirt back on. I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me?”

“Forgive you for what? We’re friends David, I’m not mad at you! I like you!”

“Anwen, I’m not supposed to do things like this. Do you know what I mean?”

She performs the same gesture she did previously, one finger over her lips. It’s secret.

“Ok, I see, well thank you, Anwen. You’re so nice but I can’t do that. We’re still friends ok?”

“Of course David, we’ll always be friends! You’re so nice!”

“Ok, good, that’s good. You’d better go now, I’ll see you around. We’ll say hi. Go now Anwen.”

“Oh, ok.” As she puts her shirt on her face changes to the typical default cheerful expression of a BuilderHelper. As she steps toward the door she turns and looks back at me, smiling.

I hear her voice say in a sing-song tone, “Da-vid…are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure Anwen, thank you for bringing my laundry. I’ll see you around, ok?”

“Ok. Bye David.”

“Wait, Anwen.”

“Yes?”

“What do you think about, I mean, how do you feel about, I mean, I want you to know, I hope you’re feeling—”

“How am I feeling? I feel happy! I’m happy that we’re friends!”

“Oh, ok. Well that’s good. Ok, bye Anwen.”

“Bye David!”

I close the door and exhale. Agitated, terrified, fully expecting to be arrested within minutes, I pace back and forth, shaking my head to get this feeling off of me. Finally I slump onto my bed, head in my hands.

(Harrington)

I cannot believe what I have just witnessed. How could he stop short like that? What is wrong with him? Does he not appreciate the sheer quality of the experience he has just foregone?

That is an experience meant for Leaders only, and important ones at that. And to turn his nose up at it. It’s almost insulting.

I feel cheated, seeing it brought to such an unsatisfactory end.

Even so, the esteemed Senior Prophecy Analyst has transgressed. Technically he has broken a law, although it’s one that’s never enforced. It’s something for me to remember about him. But to interfere or respond to this situation in any way would be a corruption of the Protocol. I was not there; WRAITH was not there. WRAITH does not exist. No one is watching David or interfering with him in any way. To think that someone is watching or harassing David, or anyone like him, is an insane conspiracy theory, believed only by a few schizophrenics in the shunned zones.

(David)

As soon as Anwen leaves my apartment I’m drowning in a mix of regret, shame and fear. But my regret is impure. I regret stopping. I regret the missed opportunity of enjoying her. My body is screaming: go after her, bring her back and finish what we started. I know she would happily do so. Thoughts of doing it fill my mind almost to the exclusion of anything else. I’m barely stopping myself. She’s probably still in the hallway, waiting at the lift. I imagine her standing out there, looking back this way, expecting me to call her name so she can come back to me.

Just do it, David. She wants it anyway. She started it! She even reassured me that no one will know. Call her, get her back in here.

Now the shame floods in. I know Anwen has the capacity to function in life, to work at a job, probably has friends and perhaps a hobby, probably sports or something. She probably has a fulfilling life and part of it is — that.

I believe she’s smart enough to understand that sex with any Infotech would be considered wrong. Yet she wanted to do it anyway. Maybe I’m wrong about how she thinks. I don’t know.

But I do know that she is engineered to respond the way she did. I know it. I don’t know exactly how it’s done at the birthing and conditioning centres, but the behaviour of BuilderHelpers like Anwen — the most beautiful ones — is somehow programmed. Sex with her, I fear, would be inconsistent with free choice, free agency. Would it by definition lack consent? I know I would never force myself on someone against her will. I can’t even imagine such a thing. It’s sickening. Yet maybe that is what, in effect, I almost did. And still right now I’m fantasizing about calling after her so we can complete it. So I can fuck her.

I’m ashamed.

But I know I only stopped for fear of being caught. My moral misgivings, and even the strict taboo against sex with BuilderHelpers, weren’t enough to stop me. I would have continued and done it if I hadn’t been startled by a sound from the hallway. I would have had her and probably would have performed admirably and we both would have loved it and it would have been unforgettable.

Or maybe I would have stopped but only because I know there are consequences to doing things that are wrong. People who do wrong things are bad, and other people think of them as bad. Bad people ought to be dealt with in some way, and it’s their own fault. I didn’t do it, so I’m not a bad person, right? But even so, even if I didn’t do it, which I didn’t, I still know what’s really inside me. I know this depraved inner nature that tries to drive me. Even if it never amounts to any overt act and even if no one ever knows, I know it’s there. Isn’t it just the same as if I had done it? God knows it. What will I do?

My regret and anxiety and these feelings of guilt can’t erase this shame. It’s an empty, sad, final kind of shame that just sits there. I would have loved the transgression for its own sake. Not even for the pleasure it would have given. I would have loved the rebellion of it.

I confess that I sometimes secretly read St. Augustine’s Confessions.

I pull it up on my tablet. I don’t care who sees. They don’t care anyway. I re-read a section of his story of stealing the pears only for the sake of stealing them and briefly tasting them and throwing them away to the pigs. Those of us who are similarly afflicted know (I think) that this is a metaphor for other transgressions, which in my unlearned opinion he makes clear enough.

Behold my heart, O God, behold my heart, which Thou hadst pity upon in the bottom of the bottomless pit. Now, behold, let my heart tell Thee what it sought there, that I should be gratuitously evil, having no temptation to ill, but the ill itself. It was foul, and I loved it; I loved to perish, I loved mine own fault, not that for which I was faulty, but my fault itself. Foul soul, falling from Thy firmament to utter destruction; not seeking aught through the shame, but the shame itself!

For there is an attractiveness in beautiful bodies, in gold and silver, and all things; and in bodily touch… (Augustine, Confessions II.iv)

But isn’t it selfish, reading this merely to console myself? Look! St. Augustine himself confessed to these things! He even seems to confess that he would have done more, worse things if not for luck or grace.

What could I possibly say to God? My soul isn’t even afraid when I think of what I’ve done. I should be grateful I didn’t do worse. It wasn’t moral compunction that kept me from doing worse.

I know it’s not as simple as confessing my illicit desires and deeds and being forgiven. No, my true goal, in this life, is spiritual perfection. I must be spiritually self-perfected so I can become a Manifested God.

But I know I’ll never achieve perfection. This is very obvious to me. I can never admit this to anyone. Not even my Prophet. Most of all, not my Prophet.

In any event, I know I’ll never let this kind of situation happen again. Simply because it’s too terrifying.

Dejected, I half-heartedly declare, or decree I guess, my authority to God.

God, I decree that you will obediently cleanse me of these urges. I want to be cleansed of this. I hate it. God, obey me.

Who the hell am I to exercise this authority? Why would God obey a wretched degenerate? I know I can probably never change my nature. I am without hope. I’m a moral and spiritual failure.

As if this shame isn’t enough, here I am sadly thinking these heretical thoughts again. Thinking about ancient theologies rendered obsolete and subsumed when the truth, and the guaranteed blessings, of the Manifested Gods, and the new hope of becoming gods ourselves, were revealed to mankind.

I lie back on my bed and, for the moment, let my mind and soul rest in the false and heretical feeling of forgiveness despite this weakness. But it’s selfish, isn’t it? I’ll deal with the added shame of my heresy later. It would help if it were true. I close my eyes. Yes, peace is what I would feel.

I’m just now realizing that there is no sensation of the usual tension in my body and nervous system caused by the ever-present subtle electric current inside me. I feel like I’m out in the park lying on the grass in bare feet. My body is relaxed.

Sleep would be so good now. I know it’s coming. I know this feeling so well. I can feel my thoughts blurring, now moving off in their own random directions, into their own dreamworld where they direct themselves instead of listening to me. I listen to them instead. Protestation…Black Abbott…31 spirits…Angels, Conspiracies, Anwen, beautiful, love you, I was wrong, I’m sorry…forgiveness, peace.

My nervous system abruptly switches to that tense, tight electric feeling. An electric sensation tickles inside, then buzzes, then burns, then a throbbing electrical vibration rattles my rib cage and burns in my eyes and my forehead, as if in response to this moment of peace. I’m awake again but I’m not moving except for the involuntary twitches. Go ahead, do your worst. Let me suffer. I deserve it. I rejoice in it. Some philosopher of the old times, steeped in the old beliefs, wrote about suffering. He wrote something like: the joy we have is that, in relation to God or the highest moral standard — which is perfection — the joy of it is that any person, down to every last one of us, always suffers as guilty. And me, I’m chief among the guilty. Pain is wracking my body now. More. Give me more. I want it.

(Harrington)

I can see the objectively measured pain experience of the subject. It’s a bar on my display. Steadily rising. The PAI is doing its job automatically. But the pain is so high at this moment. Technically, it could induce a heart attack in some subjects at this level, but I know it won’t allow that to happen.

But why is he just lying there?

I can no longer tolerate watching this. “WRAITH close the feed.” I turn away from the display, almost feeling — something.

I’ll never understand these types of people. So much potential, yet always self-sabotaging. I can understand someone of his type having an introspective nature, but right now he’s literally punishing himself. Why? For what reason? What does it accomplish?

For a moment I find myself rooting for the poor man. Next time he sees her, let’s just hope he finds the nerve to give her a good seeing to. I won’t even watch, if that helps. It’s what she wants, man!

But anyway there may not be a next time. I’ve already flagged her for recruitment and transport to one of the Beauty Areas. She’ll be enjoying the beautiful life probably by next week, on a trial basis which she will pass with flying colours. She does seem to be perfect. Good for her!