Why I Hate Tao?
We are literally in the middle of nowhere. Trees surround us on all sides. It’s like humans were never there. Did Mother Nature just decide to blank us out of existence? My memory flashes back to my sister. I flinch. I don’t want to be reminded of what I left behind in order to live. Those scientists are evil. Why did they leave me with the person I hate most? I hate Tao. His little smirk, those purple eyes that latch onto me like a dog has just found a bone. Just the way he walks makes me blanch. Tao yawns and opens his eyes, crinkled slightly at the ends as if he was laughing at me. “What happened? Why is no one here?” “The Apocalypse happened, stupid. Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re no longer in Kansas,” I mock him.
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“Program.” Five minutes later, we are tied to the chair, left with only our fingers freed from the thick rope the robot tied around us. “Stupid…robot,” Tao chokes out. The robot, in one sweeping motion, slugs Tao in the head. Tao clutches his head in pain, or tries to. “Program.” We both turn to face our computers. Protest. Protest against this robot, who just hit Tao in the head. Protest for freedom. An utter of protest came through my closed lips, but was quickly silenced by the quick flash of a robotic hand. My head stings as I finally surrender to the inferior robot. Days, weeks, months go by in a similar fashion. The robot orders us around, as if we were puppets. We have to sleep together on the floor. Programming no longer has a voice. It used to speak to me, be like my left hand man. It came so easily to my mind, but no longer does. The spot in my mind reserved for programming is now silent. I can’t tell him. I can’t tell the robot or Tao that I can’t program anymore. Tao would tease me, and the robot would simply hit me across the forehead. Stupid. Why? Why can I no longer program? This is not theoretically possible. I can remember it, but I can’t string it together. Does this make me
“Program.” Five minutes later, we are tied to the chair, left with only our fingers freed from the thick rope the robot tied around us. “Stupid…robot,” Tao chokes out. The robot, in one sweeping motion, slugs Tao in the head. Tao clutches his head in pain, or tries to. “Program.” We both turn to face our computers. Protest. Protest against this robot, who just hit Tao in the head. Protest for freedom. An utter of protest came through my closed lips, but was quickly silenced by the quick flash of a robotic hand. My head stings as I finally surrender to the inferior robot. Days, weeks, months go by in a similar fashion. The robot orders us around, as if we were puppets. We have to sleep together on the floor. Programming no longer has a voice. It used to speak to me, be like my left hand man. It came so easily to my mind, but no longer does. The spot in my mind reserved for programming is now silent. I can’t tell him. I can’t tell the robot or Tao that I can’t program anymore. Tao would tease me, and the robot would simply hit me across the forehead. Stupid. Why? Why can I no longer program? This is not theoretically possible. I can remember it, but I can’t string it together. Does this make me