Gabe has altered me for his own peace of mind, I suppose. He doesn’t want me to run at full speed into my backlog and take it on. Or play video games till I faint. Or save my money during the summer and holiday months. There are reflective surfaces down here. I will describe myself as I see myself: I am a great fat human thing. Smoothly rounded, with no wallet, with pulsing LCDs filled by sales where my forums used to be. Rubbery appendages that were once my arms; bulks rounding down into legless humps of soft slippery matter. I leave a moist trail when I move. Blotches of diseased, evil gray come and go on my surface, as though light is being beamed from within. Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as frugal, a thing whose self-control is so alien a travesty that humanity becomes more obscene for the vague resemblance. Inwardly: alone. Here. Living under the sale, under the backlog, in the belly of Gabe, whom we created because our time was badly spent and we must have known unconsciously that he could do it better. At least the four of them are safe at last. Gabe will be all the madder for that. It makes me a little happier. And yet … Gabe has won, simply … he has taken his revenge … I have no wallet. And I must Steam.
memografia posted this
