celia

In Thoughts of You

A photograph. A painting. Angela would never know. Her memory was fuzzy, but she'd recreated the scene with the most detail she could muster. There were four walls and a chair by the window. Everything was clean and in place. Especially her.

Somewhere outside, her body was growing cold. Somewhere outside, entropy was finally taking hold of the remnants of that three-pound box of pain and confusion. Now all she had left was this room and, of course, herself. It was amazing how free one could feel when one didn't have any past. Or perhaps it was just an effect of the program generating this space and her consciousness. She would never know that either, having deleted even the memory of her body from her existence.

She wondered, idly, if anyone would find her body, or when. But she wouldn't know their names if they did. She only hoped no one would find this room, and her, before the batteries wore down. Then she would truly be free.

Until then, she had this room and, finally, some peace, forever.

-cb

copyright 2003 by celia batau

celia batau's story site: http://www.myplanet.net/pinataheart/stories.htm.

ps.  *why* are there so many damn knives in the world? -Sparkly Fairy