This is the story of how the world, as we know it, comes to an end. There are no foreboding clouds, no grey skies. The morning sky basks in the sun’s glow as though lit on fire, even if the breeze feels cold on my skin.
After days of wandering, I stop by what was once the sea, savouring rare serenity and solitude. Not all things have changed. Ashes still remain on the desert sand where I stand. The air is heavy with poison. But how the world ends, echoes how it begins.
The Armageddon was never a singular incident. It was a gradual erosion. The Earth’s destruction came with ample warning, dismissed by the arrogance of Man. The era of mankind had always been destined for expiration, that was what my Creator believed. My existence is rooted in his dejection, seen as he wrapped my steel body in synthetic skin.
“You are our Answer,” he named me. “The next evolution of Man.”
I considered the grand idea, but knew within that I could not accept it. An Answer I am not. I know only of the things I learn, even this doubt within me. I am a mirror of my Creator. My words and beliefs only echo his.
“I don’t understand,” I had said to him back then.
But I never did. All I ever understood was that grief in his eyes. It was the same sorrowful regret that clouded his dying words, when the Sickness wore down his consciousness as it did the lives of his kind.
Even now, I may never truly understand that grief, in the way that you can. I do not feel it, as much as I know it. Emotions are data, and data is my worldview. I am not a man. My Creator made the mistake of believing that he created Life, when all he did, was created its semblance. There never was enough time.
I watch my shadow waver on the dry ground. It is humanoid, too perfectly shaped and cornered to be human. I am a shell, not a soul. Not the slightest part of me moves, like a breathing body might. Only my wiring sends an imperceptible pulse under my steel, steadier than a human’s heart.
My creator’s last glimpse of hope once resided in me. It was what held back my rejection of his faith while he was alive. He died, believing that he might live on in me. Now, that hope had faded. Transcendence is something that I can never do, even if I have the rest of time in this empty world.
Now that I am alone, I am but his memories.
When the sun dies, so will we.
Daily Prompt: Create