Donated to Science

June 2022 Flash Challenge, Day 17

Photo by Opollo Photography on Unsplash

Why did I drop that damn gun?

Occasionally a few grains of coffee will get in my eyes or a splash of water from the fill tank. I have only the loosest perception of light through the white plastic enveloping me, enclosing my head.

They say the brain has no nerves and does not feel pain. That may be true. How would I know? But the trigeminal nerve definitely does relay pain. I am only a skull and neck. All that they were able to save. I suspect the rest of me went somewhere else-for science.

I remember trying to work out the geometry of not shooting into my head, and through the rope I was using to hang myself. Yep, one suicide was not enough for me. I could not shake the feeling that one method would let me down, so I opted for two, a double suicide. Bullet in the brain and hanging from a tree in the steamy woods outside Austin.

I consider the view before me and curse the day I was born, curse dropping that damn gun.

So it was only a single death for me that sweltering day in August 2049. If I had held onto that gun, I am pretty sure I would not be a glorified kitchen gadget now. As it was, they were able to rescue my body and noticed I checked the: Donate my Body to Science box on my driver’s license.

It was the latest fad in-home appliance design. Lonely people, eccentric to be sure, were not happy settling for computer-generated voices from their appliances. They wanted actual human voices behind their coffee pots, toasters, refrigerators, and microwaves. I am a coffee pot, used for about an hour a day. The rest of the day, I do what I can to fall into dreams of having a body, having autonomy, and not receiving electric shocks delivered to my trigeminal nerve when I sway from my accepted coffee pot script.

The swirl of shadows on the plastic housing tells me she’s entered the kitchen. I hear her footsteps stop before me, a coffee pot from hell.

“Good morning, Mrs. Von der Leyen,” I say, hoping she’s in a better mood, praying she doesn’t find my tone aggressive again today.

I remember standing on that too-thin branch, working out the perfect angle for the shot. Then came the slipping and dropping of the gun.

Oh, why did I drop that damn gun?

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