The speakers of the old
record player emitted a low whisper as the needle teetered on the inside
rim of the spent forty-five. A clock hand hung on the edge of striking
midnight. On the very edge of sleep, Drake reclined in the armchair
before the open fire.
The
wires inside his body hummed gently as they began to break down, their
functional lifetime almost at an end. A long lifetime – unnaturally
prolonged for nefarious purposes – could almost be forgotten in moments
like this one.
His
holiday was almost over. In the morning he expected the technicians to
touch down outside his cottage to rewire him for some new task. Drake
would remember little of the coming weeks and months. The machinery
would take over, and automatic reactions which were imprinted deep
within his circuits would replace a genuine consciousness.
Within
his head this gentle moment would replay as he committed unspeakable
acts. As he had done many times before across years too numerous to
count. All other memories had faded away, and all Drake had left to
dwell on were moments like this one. They remained with him through all
the horror, like the hiss of the needle after the music on his records
reached their end.
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