DING !
Then silence.
9
Judgement
The sound comes first.
Not the bells. No, not this time. Instead, there’s a hiss of cooling metal. A sigh, almost human. My eyes flutter open, and it takes me a moment to adjust to the warm light. The factory is long gone. Everything is quiet.
The snow is no longer falling, and I can’t tell if I’m dead or if this is me actively dying. And if so, is this what it feels like, the moment the machine stops, and you realize you were the robot all along?
Devoid of humanity.
Of compassion.
Is this the miracle of Christmas that’s clawing its way up my throat, splitting its way through my soul? Swallowing me whole with cheer, I shake my head. “Get it together,” I mutter, clutching the side of my head as I sit up. The ground beneath me is not tiles, but glass. Beneath it, the furnace still burns, orange and endless.
Ash floats in the air like lazy snowflakes begging to live.
The table from earlier stands before me—polished wood, three boxes stacked neatly on top. The words past and present are crossed out in thick red ink. Only the future remains unchecked. Neno appears behind me again, startling me with the silence that only death can manage. This time, his form flickers in and out.
Young Neno. Older him. All blend.
Glitching like a virus needing to be expelled from the game, he turns from human to shadow. His coat is gone, and in its place hangs something more ceremonial, dark and heavy, stitched with silver threads that catch the dying light.
“This is the part where you make your case,” he says calmly. My brows knit together as I wet my plump lips. “My case?”
He nods once, slow and deliberate. “Every man begs at the end, Mr. Porter. Even the ones who swore they never would. What would you beg for?” He arches a thick brow, closing the distance between us, the bulge between his legs pressing against the white silk that covers his lower half.
Neno looks ethereal—a beautiful ghost of retribution—as he grows closer to me. I want to laugh, maybe cry. Shit! I might do both, but my throat is too raw for any sounds, and my eyes are all cried out from the years spent isolated in my own grief.
“There’s nothing to beg for,” I rasp. “You’ve already killed me.”
He tilts his head, confusion clouding his features. “Killed you?” Neno tsks, shaking his head as his hand glides up my bare torso. “You did that long before I ever showed up.”
With a snap of a finger, the sound crisp and loud, the glass beneath us lights up, turning into a screen. Scenes play like home videos, people I recognize only by the way their mouths shape my name. Emily, clutching a box of toys as she escorts out the previous workers. Friends of hers, I’m sure.
The driver from sector B, frozen stiff in his truck. Mouth wide open, lips chapped and frosted. Eyelids open and glazed over, staring into the nothingness. Another scene plays out, a woman begs to see her father, and I give my clear dismissal. I look away, my heart beating frantically within the confines of my ribs, each beat a reminder of the pain.
Of mine.
Of theirs.
Of all of it.
My vision clouds, my eyes stinging with warmth as something fills them. When a tight pinch pulls me from my spiral, I bite down the moan—the scream his touch elicits from me, his candy cane breath brushes against my skin.
“Fuck, Mr. Porter, we could have had it all,” he croons against my skin, his warm and wet tongue slowly gliding up my cheek, lapping away at my tear. “Your anguish tastes delectable, Toy King. ” Neno takes a deep inhale. “You turned people into inventory, even me.”
A moan rips through the air. Neno’s on top of me, his delicate hands splayed out on each of my pectorals, as I piston my hips upwards.
“Why?” he whispers in my ear, nipping the sensitive flesh, my dick twitching from the sensation. “Was it greed? Fear? Or just easier to forget about compassion?” Nip. “Love?” Nip.
Each soft bite sends tingles down my body and heat to my core. I open my mouth to speak, but the feeling of his lips against my skin has me lost to the pleasure that only he provides. My body recognizes his, bending to his command. I was always a sucker for Neno.
“Hard work pays off, buddy.” My father’s mechanical voice has my eyes fluttering open, the loop has more tears streaming down my face, and Neno moans at the sight of it. The sound continues with painful loops, mocking me until I can’t stand it. I slam myfist against the glass, but the image beneath me doesn’t break. One of me, the day I found Neno’s dead body being pulled from the lake. Officers later called it a suicide, Neno killed himself Christmas morning, holding a printed version of the email I sent him hours prior. I shudder at the sight, still the image doesn’t change… doesn’t break. For a moment, it remains the same until it fades, changing into a memory of a small boy standing in front of his father, mimicking his stance as he gently pats his head.
