The Ones Who Watch

My muse sits on the ascetic bed, stroking her luscious auburn mane and staring at the crumbling wall. I sit and observe, utterly entranced by this heavenly figure. AdultFemale#9657, my Catherine, was a ray of light in this world populated by disgusting grey-faced creatures. With an infinite gulf of circuitry between us, I rest back in my chair and take in all the visual delights Catherine provided me. Her cherry lips, so plump and tempting; the disarming blue eyes, inviting pale neck. The heart-shaped locket which frames her neck. Observing her, I feel so alive, more than I felt was possible in this lugubrious world. I touch the glass screen with my putrescent hand and sigh with delight.

As little more than the property of my Goaoe masters, I spend my days wasting away in the hypnotising glare of the screen. We watch the feculent thralls crawl through the smog-hidden streets, drudge in the salt mines, and rot away in their vile hovels. Forever watching and categorising. They call us the Ones Who Watch. Those who kept something of our humanity. The lucky ones. But they're wrong. Life on the wall is a gruelling task: Earth is no longer the paragon of pulchritude you see preserved in the old photos. Now, evil-looking seas churn their red water onto the grimy, exanimate green beaches. Above a perpetually black sky threatens to suffocate us. What little charm that remained went into the creation of Catherine.

It was during my shift on monitoring screen A457-B23 that I first saw her, stood in a tiled mess room, drinking the mandatory medicinal fluids. She caught my attention instantly: a beauty amid a sea of faceless, grey blobs. The heart-shaped locket around her neck first caught my eye. A symbol of life and purity in a miserable wasteland. Like a golden Olympian stood amongst emaciated slaves. A thousand exotic workers could build a thousand fantastical idols and fail to capture even an iota of her piety. How could one such as I ever hope to hold her in sweaty, passionate embrace? Whisper saccharine sentiments into her soft, delicate ears, as her warm bosom nestles against my misshapen arms? I knew I had to get her away from their prying eyes. Oh, so many eyes, always watching, ravenously consuming whatever precious elegance remains in this crestfallen way of living.

I went about my work. I watched the gibbering masses flounder and die. Gave acquiescence to the Goaoe, with their crimson flesh (taut to the bone) and lips eternally pulled back over the rows of teeth, revealing a cruel smile. Catherine remained ever the enigma; an ethereal figure completely detached from the harsh reality. She was a ‘Comfort Woman’ and belonged to the Goaoe. I watched as they defiled her with their vile slug-like forms. My eyes fixated on that heart-shaped locket of hers; I rocked in torment as their odious feelers explored her lissom body. But throughout this terrible existence she shone brighter than the dying stars which litter the sky. I too endured and waited for my opportunity.

The sinister sea hits at the beach and I look out the window. Something primordial roils within its unholy bowels. Perhaps another species will rise from its putrid depths, as the Goaoe before them, and lead us to salvation. I turn to the monitor forever locked onto the lighthouse at D253-F34. Catherine’s new home. She was too precious to leave out in that ugly, peccant world, I had to save her. Instinctively I understand that she’ll never love me, but it matters not. She’s mine to watch now. My muse sits on the ascetic bed, playing with her locket and staring at the crumbling wall. I sit and observe, utterly entranced by this heavenly figure. Outside the mounting waves bombard the cliffs with righteous indignation. My mouldering hand rubs at her image and I’m overcome with euphoria; one final pleasure for the One Who Watches…