Black mirror

The forgotten ones

He's seen too much for one lifetime, felt time's cruel erosion, a slow chisel on a stone heart. In the quiet moments, when the sun dips low and shadows stretch long, he remembers the world as it was, not as it is. The year is a meaningless number now, but they call it 2129—a future that promised so much yet delivered so little.

The room around him is a sterile box, clean lines and artificial light, but to him, it's a cage. The air hums with the quiet whirr of machines—those cold, obedient servants of a world too fast for the old and weary. He sits in the center, an island of flesh and bone amidst a sea of steel and silicon, watching the screen before him flicker to life.

To the machines, he's just a series of data points—a pulse, a breath, a mind slowly unraveling. They tell him he's sick, but he's not sure. They tell him they can help, but their help feels like control, a way to mold his thoughts into something more... manageable.

The machines know his needs before he does. They monitor his vitals, adjust the room temperature, dispense the pills with robotic precision—each task a gesture of care, but hollow. They move around him in silence, never pausing, never hesitating, their efficiency a stark contrast to the sluggish rhythm of his heart. But they don't talk, they don't comfort. They don't care, not in the way he craves.

He remembers the days when care meant a warm hand on his shoulder, a voice to reassure, a presence beside his bed, even if it came with its own burdens. He longs for the imperfection of human touch, the awkward fumbling of a nurse who was too tired, too rushed, too human. The bruises from rough hands, the sharp words of frustration—they were proof that someone was there, that someone noticed his existence, even if it was just to curse it.

Now, all that surrounds him is the sterile, clinical hum of machines, indifferent to his suffering. Their precision is flawless, but their touch is cold, unyielding. He is a task to be completed, not a life to be cherished.

The loneliness wraps around him like a shroud, suffocating, inescapable. He'd trade this perfect care for the warmth of another soul, even if it meant the sting of neglect, the pain of being a burden. Anything to feel human again.

His memories are brittle things, scattered fragments of a life that once was. He grasps at them, but they slip away so easily. He tries to picture her face—his wife, his love, the one who held him through storms and sunlit days alike—but the image is blurred, fading. He remembers the way she laughed, a sound that once filled his world with light, but even that is distant now, like an echo lost in the vast emptiness of his mind.

His children, too, are ghosts to him. He recalls their small hands in his, their laughter ringing through the house, the way they once looked up to him with eyes full of trust. Now, they are grown, with lives too busy to remember the man who once was their world. The visits stopped years ago, replaced by calls that grew shorter, more infrequent, until even those ceased. He hardly remembers their faces, only the vague outline of what they once were to him.

And the grandchildren...were there two or three? He can't be sure anymore. Their faces, once bright and eager, are lost to the fog in his mind. He remembers their giggles, the way they ran to him when he arrived, but that's all. Their voices are quiet now, lost somewhere in the static of time.

The last person he saw was a man in a crisp suit, all business and no heart. The man had talked about efficiency, about how the machines could care for him better than any human ever could. These machines could never fail him. There were promises of comfort, of ease, of a life well-lived in his final days. But he hadn't mentioned the loneliness, the cold isolation that would come with it. He hadn't spoken of the way the machines would replace not just the care, but the very warmth of life. The hope to live a few extra days soon became unbearable, now with a growing desire to wither.

The man's face haunts his thoughts, his unnervingly wide grin exposing perfect white teeth that gleamed with a predatory brilliance when the papers were signed. His smile, dark and meaningless, promised a brighter future that never materialized, like his glowing teeth when he smiled.

Instead, he was plunged into this abyss of silence and desolation, betrayed by a figure who saw him only as a contract, not a human being.

He exhales, the breath rattling in his chest, and closes his eyes. The machines continue their tasks, unaware, uncaring, as his body finally gives in. There is no pain, no fear, only the quiet release of letting go. He slips away, unnoticed by the world, failed by humans, his final breath a whisper lost in the sterile hum of technology.

Weeks pass before anyone realizes he's gone. The machines, once so efficient, fail to report the end. His body lies there, in the stillness of the room, alone as it had been in life. The isolation that defined his final days extends into death, the silence wrapping around him like a shroud.

The machines failed him, too.