AMKent books

Part 5

The Philosophy of Silence; 2

He stands in front of the piano, placing his hand on the wooden lid and gripping until it creaks. He is like me in every way, his skin thin and dry with the fibres of his lean muscle fully visible. The same formation of veins wrap themselves around his knuckles and down his forearms. His bicep tendons the same length, his chest flat and sharp, his genitals hang, he is truly me from external aesthetic alone. Nothing misplaced. Nothing improved. Let us see if the spirit is the same.

“The hive sends a zygote split.”

The second hand of the clone grips the piano lid.

“I harbour your cruelty, and together we shall commit dual suicide through the violence we so deeply cherish.”

I stand from the piano.

“How soon you revealed yourself. To kill me would be killing two, as I am not alone in this shell.”

We both stand opposing as if there was a mirror between us, the clone lets go of the piano and stands back.

“What is it you want? You are nothing to the hive, I am here to mock you and nothing more. You seriously provoke what can unmake you? Look how easily replicated you are, down to the structure of our atoms? You understand that whatever delusions you stimulate yourself with are nothing more than noise from a broken mind.”

The sky illuminates with the screams of mechanical flashes and wounded unfortunates trapped in an endless cycle of a circus of torment for the holy. Now, I have an imitation lecture me on my insignificance to a God that plays with its food. Has it become negligent? Can God, so far above the primal etchings of biology, afford attention deficit of its child’s revolt in such abundance? If we are so simple, If I am so inferior, then surely that makes God a bad creator? The artist of merit, the true architect of ones soul creates something better than themselves. Not so vastly worse, pathetically inferior. A bad artist, a mediocre God where even its subject grows tired of it. I shall reply to this mockery, then begin to rectify this unworthy use of materials.

“I am going to create an ark, one that can leave the infinite. I will make it with the binary of God, I will use the pattern of creation and trace it back to its source, and then I shall have the beginning of my ark.”

And now I see the dread on the face of the clone, it lunges at me and gouges my eyes, drives it thumbs into my ear canals. The struggle is even, but it gashes my genitals with a rock, driving the jagged stone into my broken pelvis and then my head. It contorts my arms and drives my hinges free with great snaps, I am too incapacitated to resist, but it matters not. The rock is brought down with such terrible force into the joints of my arms, my neck caved, my face a twisted abstract of bone and peeled skin. Ferocious pounding into the centre of my chest causes my ribs to collapse, my lungs punctured, my airways a congealed mess. My figure is annihilated, as it should be.

Yet, we are still here.

Yes, we are. The clone stands above my mangled body, exhausted, his hands skinned and gashed from the bones of my body and the friction from the force ruining it.

“You are dead, but, you are not?”

I take him. Not by force, by replacement. His body becomes mine. Mine is left behind. A new body, barely damaged. In doing so I send Gods mocking tulpa back and now look over my original biology.

What a crude instrument you are.

This is more than instrumentality, my decrepit companion.

No longer bound by death through the body does not equal godhood.

You will see. I have learnt much from the awful grace of God.