My name is Alan Bridges,
I don’t know how old I am,
and i’ve spent the past 100 years of my life trying to end it.
Humans have always been trying to improve life- make it longer, more comfortable, more luxurious- it was only a matter of time before they achieved the ultimate goal: immortality.
I can’t blame them, though- I’d be a hypocrite. I signed up for the experiments voluntarily, after all.
I don’t remember how old I was when I got approved. Life kind of turns into a blur when you lose your concept of time. I couldn’t have been older than 30.
I remember the morning of: I got a phone call, around 4 AM. The voice on the other end was automated, strangely apathetic to be sharing such great news: My first appointment for the W.I.N.G. experiments was scheduled for that same Friday at 2 pm.
The process went as follows: I was injected with a whole range of chemicals I don’t remember the name of over a course of 6 months. The end goal was to give me flawless cell division and a nano-technological implant that would stop me from hurting myself, accidentally or otherwise.
At the time, I couldn’t even imagine a scenario in which I’d want to bring my life to an end: I wouldn’t have signed up and gone though the countless physical exams running up to my acceptance otherwise. I was thirsting after a taste of indestructibility, a taste of what it meant to be a true superhero. In hindsight, that was a stupid thought- especially for a 30-something year old.
It didn’t take very long for the magic to wear off. I romanticised the idea in my head: immortality, being the most perfected human on earth.
I couldn’t have anticipated the amount of death I’d witness on the way.
Phone call after phone call after phone call, they were legally mandated to inform me: another patient has passed as a result of the experiments.
I must admit, I was afraid. My fear of death was the thing that pushed me to strive for immortality in the first place, and hearing that my attempts to avoid it might become the cause of my demise terrified me.
Another patient has passed as a result of the experiments.
I could almost reiterate the whole message by memory at this point, intonation and all. Even words as horrific as that become meaningless when you hear them that often.
Though, I couldn’t have been more relieved to receive that one anticipated call:
The experiment was successful.
I got my wish. My wish of being perfect, immortal, indestructible. Flawless. Life became paradise: to live without fear that time is running out, to live without fear of an accidental death.
I was fascinated by the effects of the nano implant at first: to stand at the edge of a cliff or in front of traffic and be physically unable to jump, even if i wanted to. It felt like I was going against my programming everytime I tried out of pure curiosity.
Though, once again, my dream was cut short.
It wasn’t called Weaponized Injectable Nanobots Guardian for nothing- my contract required me to perform certain tasks for them, no questions asked. My young and naive self had taken that as a downside I was willing to take, in exchange for perfection.
I guess I just hadn’t expected it to be so soon, and against my will, no less.
I complied at first: packing my bags, shaving my head, going into the army, just as they’d asked- Their promise still rang in my ears: 4 years of service, then complete freedom for, well, eternity.
But war is way different when you’re living it then when you’re a bystander.
They started off soft: bootcamp, non-violent tasks, learning to use my hands in combat and eventually, other weapons. But, as I should’ve anticipated: It escalated.
Plastic training targets turned into enemy soldiers, then innocent citizens, eventually even children. But please, please understand: I never wanted this. I tried so hard to resist, I did.
Have you ever imagined how it would feel to get possessed? To completely lose control over your body, yet still see and feel whatever you- or rather, something else- was doing from your perspective?
I’ve lived it.
I guess I missed the small font in the contract, or simply chose to ignore it. The nano implant wasn’t just there to protect me- it also functioned to keep me compliant. And, what happens when I don’t comply, you may ask?
It takes over. To this day, the memory of the feeling still haunts me. Being pushed away from the control room, locked behind iron bars in my own head, while an AI took over. I saw the terrified faces, felt the blood spatter onto my boots, heard the gut-wrenching screams of people, innocent people, whose lives I was bringing to an end- and for what? But it wasn’t my fault, was it?
My service was cut short by W.I.N.G. completely bringing the project to an end.
The experiments had failed. One by one, all of the surviving subjects had died. By side effects, I’m assuming, but either way- I was the only one left. One of a kind, bound to life forever by a contract I couldn’t break.
I was discharged, and briefly, life returned to a shadow of what it once was: calmer, more careless, almost the paradise it had been. But even I didn’t expect it to last at this point.
My suicide attempts started slow. I tied knots, nooses, prepared poisoned food, even hired a hitman on myself at some point. Though I think I knew even if I was able to swallow the bite, pour down the acid, step into the line of the killer’s bullet, pull the trigger- It wouldn’t make a difference.
One of my attempts, I don’t even remember which one, landed me in the hospital. I don’t remember if someone else called or I checked myself in out of pure desperation.
I just know they were baffled.
They asked for permission to do tests, and apathetically, I complied. I complied like i’d been trained to, like I was a fucking dog. One day in that bed turned into two, then three, then weeks, months.
I started struggling after a while, but it was far too late. Their fascination by my condition overtook their concept of bodily autonomy and I was strapped down.
The chemicals burned in my veins, more than the experiment ever had. I hoped they’d get bored eventually, however long that may take- I had time. My hopes were based on the thought that I was truly indestructible.
But technology had advanced past the point of my seeming immortality.
Slowly, the torture had its effect. My vision went blurry, then disappeared in one eye. My hearing became muffled, until it disappeared completely, along with my sight. The left side of my body went numb, regained feeling, just to be completely paralyzed again. The right side soon followed.
I don’t know which chemical did it. They never told me. But they’d found it. My weak spot. My Achilles Tendon.
As an atheist, I never really considered the possibility of going to Hell. Now, though, I’m pretty sure I’m living the closest thing possible to it.
It’s dark. It’s silent.
The only thing I’m sure I still have is my voice: evident by the now chronic ache in my throat from overuse, from screaming in fear and agony in the hopes that someone, anyone, was listening, could help me.
And so I’ve been repeating my story, this story, over and over again. First, silently, as a mere thought. Then out loud, in whispers, then in panicked screams.
I don’t know if anyone is listening. For all I know, I could be in a coffin 6 feet under by now.
But if you’re reading this, or hearing it, or whatever, you’ll know that I failed.
My name is Alan Bridges, and I made a mistake.
My name is Alan Bridges, and it is dark.
My name is Alan Bridges, and i’m afraid.
My name is Alan Bridges, and if you were to, somehow, walk into my room, whatever state i’m in, and there’s an off switch
I beg of you. End it.