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We must, by law, keep a record of the innocents we kill.
We are instructed to write down not just our deeds but our feelings, because it must be known that we do have feelings. Remorse. Regret. Sorrow too great to bear. Because if we didn’t feel those things, what monsters would we be?
The growth of civilization was complete. Everyone knew it. When it came to the human race, there was no more left to learn. Nothing about our own existence to decipher. Which meant that no one person was more important than any other. In fact, in the grand scheme of things, everyone was equally useless.
The ending of human life used to be in the hands of nature. But we stole it. Now we have a monopoly on death. We are its sole distributor.
“But remember that good intentions pave many roads. Not all of them lead to hell.”
With nothing to really aspire to, life had become about maintenance. Eternal maintenance. Could she possibly find greater purpose in the gleaning of human life? The answer was still a resolute “No!” But if that were the case, then why did she find it so hard to sleep?
And the scythes, Earth’s grand bringers of death, began to file out into the rotunda for donuts and coffee.
The lettuce elevated to a place of honor.
“Welcome to life as a god,” Scythe Volta said to him, while behind them the building burned to the ground.
“I think all young women are cursed with a streak of unrelenting foolishness, and all young men are cursed with a streak of absolute stupidity.
