TetrarteT

They put you down onto your knees, letting you hit the ground as hard as possible.

They grip you tightly, twisting your muscles, as they hold you down. There are hundreds of them. A few. Millions. Two. Dozens. One. They, it, he, she, casts that look of absolution at you, congratulating themselves on bringing the miserable existence of those like you to an end. Even without eyes, they would revel in the image of how hopeless you are.

They are machines. They are gods. They are demons. They are poltergeists. They are those who once were. They are those who will be. They are humans like you. They are humans not like you. They are something beyond description. They are something that should not be described. They have won.

They look at your prostrate body, laid before them, expecting something else. They know to expect it.
Taking that last action in the death throes of helplessness has proven to be quite popular with your kind. A hastily constructed insult. An empty promise of future defiance. Humor. Pleading. Dejection. Insightfulness. Aggression. Submission. Resignation. Silence.

They look upon the last of humanity, having bled it to its slow demise. Having wiped it away instantly. Having enslaved it in heart and mind. Having consumed every last morsel. Having taken them all to paradise. Having sent them all to damnation. Having wrought an end that cannot be conceived. Having created an end that doesn't seem like finality at all.

They look upon you. Your mind. Your body. Your soul. Your miasma. Your regrets. Your joys. Your humanity.

You.

You think of the people who threw their lives away to bring back humanity from the brink of death in the times before you, to a great machine, to a cleansing breath, to an enormous storm, to a single man.

You think of the people who realized fantasy in a dream, in a box, on a phone, on a wall, by the sea, by the moon, through a mirror, through a screen.

You think of the people who built safe havens for their fellow man on every path life travels down. Buildings, roads, vehicles, toys, songs, technology, dimensions, worlds, the kin they left behind.

You think of the people who once were human, or were never human at all, who extended their hand to you all out of friendship, out of pity, out of need, out of curiosity, out of greed, out of boredom, out of sympathy, out of apathy.

You think of the people who sought to grasp that which stands before you, bringing themselves down as they clambered to surpass the others, stubborn as oxen. Those who sought to control. Those who sought to destroy. Those who sought to utilize. Those who sought to learn. Those who sought to profit. Those who sought to save themselves. Those who sought to help. And the lengths and commitments they all made to reach their goals.

You think of the world with the presence of the horrors. The horrors of the world without them. How they claim to hate you. How they claim to love you. How they claim to fear you. How much they need you. How much they want you gone.

You think of this adversity. This symbiosis.

You see how inevitable this terminus is.

You see how what you are, what those like you are, can bring such attention to yourselves in such an unfeeling universe.

You are human, regardless of size, regardless of limbs, regardless of eyes.

You are human, made of will, made of drive, made of stubbornness.

You are human, flawed, sinful, shortsighted.

You are human, and here, kneeling before your end, your spirit still stands tall.

As the proverbial and literal knife is brought across your throat.