Roses X Guns

An Introduction to the Past

Author's note: Yes, there are techincally two prologues, if you want to call them that. owo

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     My name is Bernard R. Abaddon. The R doesn’t stand for anything. That was just a terrible joke my father made when my mother couldn’t decide on a proper middle name. His sense of humor was always tasteless, and no, I’m not explaining the joke. In any case, this is my first entry in the journal I myself invented. I don’t trust the standard voice-to-text machines that the market tries to resell as something vintage and exotic.

     The reason why I decided to do such a thing is simply because I have no one else to vent my feelings to. There’s not a single neighborhood or development within short distance of my home, and the people that I do come across wouldn’t understand. Maybe they will find this someday, maybe they won’t. In all honestly, I don’t really care. I suppose it is appropriate to use this as if I was speaking to someone either way, so don’t be surprised if I act direct about my opinions.

     I shall start from the beginning. My childhood is nothing worth mentioning because it was just like anyone else’s growing up at that time. I am part of a dying breed that has been theorized to become extinct in time due to recessive genetics. You won’t find a monstrous non-human like me as often as you could long ago, and part of my childhood was spent coping with the fact that everyone thinks I’m different. As you may have guessed, my parents passed on while I was at a young age. Prejudice can do that to people when the minority in question begins to dwindle and disperse. Then again, the only people that do care merely see me as part of a percentage of suffering orphans. They’ve never seen my face, yet they assume they know exactly what I went through and try to sympathize with me. I will never appreciate those people and their fake kindness.

     Still, I grew up perfectly fine. I wasn’t miserable or depressed, but I didn’t need to be when I had better things to do. After I graduated from a well-known university, I wanted to pursue a career in robotics, but I was quickly rejected on several occasions. However, rather than let that get to me, I went with a greater alternative. I chose a place outside the city where I would not be disturbed, and built myself a home. It was a tiring process that took a very long time, nevertheless it was certainly worth it to do it myself instead of just buying one that had who knows how many problems.

      After settling in and arranging everything to my liking, I finally got to work on my new business. It may not seem like it, but I’m very good with my hands. I started out with robotic maids that were no larger than a thumb, whose purpose was to get at hard to reach places without moving objects around. They were the daintiest little creatures, with soda cap shaped heads, silver stick bodies, and beady black eyes that took up most of their head. They sold off better than I expected, many people giving me wondrous feedback on how pleased with how useful it was. It turned out that they could lift up to one hundred times their weight and could accomplish so many other tasks that the customers threw out their large, bulky androids for more. I was so inspired, I went on to invent more incredible devices, and to this day, I have never had to pay a single bill or have a defective robot returned to me. Ah, but enough boasting.

      Someone once asked me if I was lonely living up on the cliff. I will admit that I do crave a little human interaction every once in a while, which is why I go out to purchase my necessities rather than order them online. I don’t have to walk too far, and I do fairly enjoy the exercise. When it comes to nature, if you’re a city child like me, it’s something you either come to appreciate or recoil at with disgust. Obviously I am the former. Don’t feel bad if you’re the latter, I understand. Without any control or boundaries set to it, it could be seen as something horribly foreign. The animals aren’t behind glass, the flowers aren’t in clean, decorative pots, and the trees grow wildly without anyone around to trim them to perfection. It might be due to my animalistic instincts, but I call it home.

      Besides, I don’t need machines moving back and forth to get work done. All I need is my workshop in my bedroom, where all my materials – copper, wires, iron, silver, bolts, skeletons, programmers, data chips, etc. – are neatly organized. People seem to be truly fond of my products because of the homely yet surreal feeling of owning a handmade item. Those gears can twist and churn all they want in those factories, but without the touch of a human hand, they won’t be warm. Heh, when I think about it, maybe I should have majored in the arts instead. I could have been a moderately decent songwriter or script writer if I tried. Then again, no one cares about the face of someone working in the background, but rather the faces that present themselves on stage. I take it back, it wouldn’t have been worth it.

      Anyway, now that my introduction is out of the way, I should consider what exactly I should go on about in my future entries. I did say that it was to express my inner feelings, yet when thought about on a deeper scale, it’s clear that I was being somewhat vague. While I could talk about my day-to-day experiences, there’s nothing particularly interesting that occurs on a regular basis, and I want to try and use this frequently. I’d prefer not to have this become an autobiography either, so I’m not going to spend my time going very deep into my past.

      … Oh, there is one thing. It’s something I try my best to forget, but for the life of me I can’t seem to let it go. Although… it’s a long, painful story that could go on for several entries, mainly because I would never have the strength to tell it all in one shot. I might be able to put it all behind me if I at least attempt it. All right, then it’s settled.

      I should explain. This may sound strange, but all of my life, I can never say I felt many emotions. I have been angry, depressed, apathetic, and proud, but that’s about it. People always try to pursue happiness with purchasing objects that claim to accomplish this, yet I can’t grasp the concept of why. What is happiness? Is it when you smile? In that case, everyone is happy when they’re taking a picture, which makes no sense if it’s for something like school. Is it when you laugh? If so, then why does something like a bitter or sarcastic exist? Is it when you feel warm and fuzzy inside? Then you should be happy when you’re ill with a high fever, yet it’s quite the opposite. Is it when you fall in love and feel loved? Maybe, because as a person with no lovers, friends, or family members to speak of, I can’t say I know this from experience.

      Well, that’s half the truth. It would be the full truth if that one thing hadn’t ripped out my beating heart, stomped it into the dirt, and left it out in the freezing cold to wither away. The funniest part about it is that it was the closest thing I ever felt to happiness. It was close, so close that I could nearly graze my fingertips against it and absorb all of its warmth. However, I never did, and the day I lost it forever was the day I would never try to reach out to anything like that again.

      What was that thing, you may ask? It’s a bit complicated to answer. I had been avoiding using pronouns up until this point because while it does revolve around a single person, there were numerous people involved that lead to the incident. Some people I had encountered, others I had never seen and would never know the names of. It might not make much sense now, but it will eventually.

      This is about a woman who I first met at the birth of spring, and last saw at the death of autumn.