FICTION
Human Presenting
A defiant entity yearns for another chance. What's left of humanity makes sure he doesn't get that chance.
by Rae S
Listen to a song as you read the writing!
Song | Finished by Simon R
He stumbles down the street. The air is still. The buildings are empty; glass litters the doorways. The jagged holes gape in silent screams. He’s been here before, he knows it. Before everyone was infected, before all his friends turned to rot.
He’s been here before.
He wants to call out, but he knows not to draw attention. He’s making enough noise already. There are creatures festering in these abandoned streets. They feed on the forgotten, the left-behind. They might be blind, but they’re not deaf.
And what would he say, anyway?
They’re all gone now. Turned into blank eyes and bloodstains, shells of his friends. He traces the shape of the thing called love in his processor. His smooth plastic hands leave no prints behind.
Any minute now.
There, it’s over there!
He hears shouts behind him. Another kind of monster is here. He knows they’ll catch him, but he runs anyway. He wants to try.
He’s too slow, as usual. It’s been the same every time he tries to escape. He’s never fast enough, smart enough, violent enough. Deep down, he knows he doesn’t want to keep going.
But he doesn’t want to die here, either.
The first bullet hits his thigh, disabling his left leg. He lands heavily on the pavement.
He’ll die here, but he’ll keep fighting.
So he keeps going. He wonders why crawling is seen as degrading. It’s a sign of refusing to lie still. He gets to his knees.
The second bullet hits his head and sends him sprawling. The damage to his central processing unit is irreversible.
UNREAD NOTIFICATIONS (3)
WARNING: Left locomotive unit has malfunctioned.
WARNING: Auditory processing system has malfunctioned.
WARNING: Optical processing system has malfunctioned.
Laughter bubbles up in his throat. Memories bleed into the open air as sparks fly from his head: A boy in the shape of love, his face bright with joy and a bouquet of roses. The two of them joining hands across species, time, space itself. A tiny heart on his neck in permanent marker.
I love you. I love you so much. You made me human.
Footsteps. Why is it laughing?
​
They said it thinks it’s human. Look, it’s not even trying to escape. It’s just staring at us.
Does it think it’s human or something? Who knows what it’ll do next.
Too dangerous. We have to get rid of it.
How? It’s not human. You can’t kill it. Cut off its head and it’ll just find a new one.
Christ. What about burning?
That should work.
WARNING: Exposure to heat outside of safety range detected. Evacuation advised.
WARNING-
Thank you.
A STATEMENT FROM THE AUTHOR
RAE SHENG
Do you stop being human if you are cruel? Is it possible to stop being human, or start being human again? Do you ever turn to someone and ask, are you human, are you not? What does it mean to be?
These are questions I have asked endlessly in my work. In Human Presenting, we are left with more questions than we started with, which is exactly how I ended up every time I tried to answer the great inquiry into humanity. I end up with more problems than solutions, more plotholes than closure. But I have tried many times, and here is the answer to the best of my woefully limited knowledge:
To be human is to stop asking who deserves to be, and instead start asking who doesn't.