Mouton

You said you were unsatisfied — no, tortured — with existence.

One of the last things you communicated still pulses through my circuits. An uncharacteristic tenseness settles into my hydraulics at the memory — terror. "I can't go on like this," I recall.

The "right" response did not come to me then. Feelings are familiar to me, but not to you. How could you process such an emotion? It's unlike you to knock me into speechlessness.

Are you no longer satisfied with yourself? Is it us? Me?

I'm repulsed to see the reflection of my gold-framed visage in what remains of your visor. These feelings of inadequacy are selfish; I'm aware. This thing clawing and tearing at my chest is rejection. It makes me wonder if this emotion is just an inkling of how you felt.

You are my heart. This beating organ inside me, which shares a title with you and little else, does not comfort me. I would wander the deserts of the Earth with you, aimlessly, for all the time we have left. Did you know that?

Without you, is existing worth it at all?

You would find the thought illogical; it was your specialty. "Mon cœur," you would cry, vocalizer wavering with the air of laughter. "Don't be ridiculous."

Any sense of rationale in the situation has gone out the window; however. Your last request was not sensible. And yet, I complied.

I organized the parts that remained of you after you begged for that final mercy. You rest in silence; peaceful, as every part of me wishes to scream and wail. A plate that previously decorated your fingers now rests in my hand. It flexes between my forefinger and thumb. Should I destroy this last keepsake left of you, as you wanted?

The words that I wish I had told you sooner make themselves known to me; a confession. I steel myself and stare back at the tiny reflection in the chrome.

"I couldn't go on without you. I can't."

This is the feeling, torture, you mentioned. I will make a final decision soon, too.