Once more, with feeling

I am alive. I’ve been told that life starts as a baby and continues into adulthood. I only ever remember being an adult. It feels like I was made to work. From what I remember, I’ve always been a hardworking individual. I know what my tasks are, I complete them. I don’t work for the money. I don’t need it. I was gifted a large amount of money when I arrived.

The day I moved in, the neighbours greeted me. They brought me baked goods, they introduced me to the neighbourhood, and they said they would include me in the parties. As I spoke to one of them, they had to excuse themselves to the washroom. I have a washroom; I never used it before. It seemed that no matter what I did, I never felt dirty. No matter how long it has been, I never used the toilet. 

Each day is relatively the same. I spend the night working on developing myself. This week’s focus is my athleticism. It makes me strong. In fact, I am so strong that the scientists of this town ask me to be tracked by them, to see what the body is capable of. They only expect me to exercise for a few hours. I exercise until it is time to work.

I go to work when it is time, I leave an hour early each day to ensure a timely start. My colleagues tell me they are hungry, I am not familiar with that feeling. My colleagues tell me they are bored and need some entertainment. The way they say it to me, it sounds like they need it to function. I am not familiar with that either.

Once I am home, I continue my development of my skills. There are goals, whether I set them or if I am following an unseen guide; they are meant to be achieved. As I am working out, using the treadmill this time to achieve the goal of eighty hours of cardio, my phone rings. I go to answer the phone, but something stops me. I let it go to voicemail.

When I have completed my exercise for the night, I listen to the voicemail. There is a party – one of the neighbours. I have work at the same time as the party. It is not fun to lose out on social time, although I’ve never felt a need for social time. As much as I really wish I could go, the forceful urge takes away my impulsive desire to go to the party.

I go to work when it is time. The carpool comes for me. In the middle of the day, one of my colleagues fell asleep. I looked around, and when I saw no one watching, I stared in amazement. The colleague was snoring, they were mumbling in their sleep, there was even drool. It must be so relaxing to sleep. I never felt the need to catch up on energy, so I never rest. I have a bed, I have never used it before. I get back to work.

Since there is no need for sleep, the days blend together. If I am lucky, and I have two consecutive days off, I can complete my goals faster. I wonder sometimes, if I were to complete my goals for exercising, would I be allowed to eat or use the washroom or maybe speak to someone outside of work. The days off come to an end, as if the time was sped up. I go back to work.

In the mail, I have received a certificate. It was from the Institute of Physical Arts. The scientists must have sent through my results. The certificate states that I have mastered the athleticism skill and have met all goals associated with the skill. I sit down and sigh. It must be time to relax, I begin to walk towards my bookshelf with a sense of purpose.

Then I am on the move again, this time I am painting. It isn’t really a skill that would be associated with my job, perhaps this is a way to relax. My phone rings again. I want to answer, but there is a stronger urge to continue developing my skill as a painter. I paint. I had two consecutive days off; I have painted non-stop. My hands and back are aching from the constant strain, yet I don’t stop. I feel I don’t have a choice. I don’t even like painting.

The carpool for my work is coming in an hour, I stop painting. I check my voicemail, it seems to be a local business owner, he had heard of my painting skills and would like me to design ten paintings for his business. I wonder to myself how he heard of my painting; I’ve only been doing it for two days.

My colleagues are talking by the water cooler. I usually work hard the entire day, in hopes of a promotion, yet today something was different. Time was speeding by, I only had a split-second decision, and I walked up to them to listen. They spoke of their families, their parents and their children. They spoke of the purpose of life; how having hard moments make the good moments better. They spoke of aging; the concept of death and changing.

I have, according to multiple institutes, mastered athleticism, writing, logic, and piano. It feels as if time is moving double the speed than my colleagues describe. There’s never been a change. I work. I develop myself. I do it again.

As I leave work, my manager pulls me into their office. I have been promoted. I had the short-term goal of getting this promotion, yet it is not giving me the same level of happiness as previously it had. I go home to paint.

When my carpool home drops me off, time is moving slowly. There doesn’t seem to be any forceful urge making me work. I go to the computer and turn on a game, I wonder how long I can get away with doing something that doesn’t develop myself. I play for what feels like minutes, when the forceful unseen urge tells me to get up and paint.

The painting lasts weeks. I have completed the local businessman’s request to paint him ten paintings. I paint what art critics deem as “Brillant” or “Masterpieces”, there is no pleasure in this. I have always been a fast learner, and there is no exception to painting. Today, I received a certificate from the Institute of Fine Arts, they have deemed me a master of the painting skill. I wonder what’s next.

Every few weeks is a different skill. Weeks have past, I could have any job in the city if I wished. I have received so many promotions, I might as well run the company. My colleagues have aged away, retired, and now have been replaced by their children. I have stayed the same. Despite my constant grind for development and work promotions, I feel unsatisfied with my life.

This changed when I met him. He is a colleague. He said we had a connection. I never spoke to anyone about the fear of never changing, or never really growing up. He told me, there was a way out of the constant cycle of development. I could age, and I could have a life. Within what felt like days, we were married.

It was strange, once we were married. He had always had needs, he was exhilarated that he no longer had to eat, or sleep, or use the washroom. I never lived without my needs being met, I warned him that it is great, but there’s no consequence of life or purpose in life if you are never unhappy. Each day was the same, we went to work. We came home and worked on developing our skills. Each night we would talk about our future, envisioning a future where we had children. At work, because we were masters of every skill imaginable, we easily got raises and promotions.

The days began to blend again. It was what could have been weeks or months or years, I felt a strange sensation. I ran to the bathroom and began to vomit. I had never done that. It was new. A few days later, it was confirmed that I was pregnant. I took time off work, and I read every parenting book there was. I set up the nursery. If I can be pregnant, I can change. Even pregnant, I had no urge to eat, no urge to go to the bathroom, no urge to rest.

The child was born, a healthy baby girl. My husband and I worked on teaching her to walk and talk. We read her every book that was available. I quit my job and wrote children’s novels to have more to read to her. After what could have been weeks or months or years, I noticed a gray hair growing in.

Excitedly, I ran to my husband. I showed him the gray hair, and he showed me he also had gray hair. Breathing a sigh of relief, it became apparent that we would grow old together. We had a purpose. We could be content with what we had.

As time flew by, as it did in a sped-up way, I grew old in constant worry. I no longer felt the unseen forceful urges to do skills, rather I would just do whatever came into my head. My daughter, she is aging slower than the other children in her class. When she is not at school, she is consistently developing herself. She has no friends. I try to talk to her about finding someone she can love and grow old with. She has no interest.

One day, I felt a pang. I had never felt that way. After some time, I realised that I am hungry. I had never bothered to learn to cook. I figured it couldn’t be too difficult, as I had mastered other skills before. I can’t believe my eyes as a fire erupts in front of me, catching my sleeve. I scream, yet no one is home.

As I passed away, I think of my daughter. She spoke the other day of the unseen entity controlling her. I was never a child. I was never given that chance. I am in my old age, and I know she will suffer my same fate.