I’m just a tool. [Do-over]

“Hmm… I can’t say I really understand the question.” She tilts her head inquisitively, as if what I said makes no sense whatsoever.

“Like… am I an actual human being to you, or just an object for your entertainment?” A lump wells up in my throat as I ask. I don’t want to ask the question, nor do I want to hear the answer, but it’ll continue to nag at me otherwise.

After a moment of thought, she shakes her head and starts speaking matter-of-factly, a confident expression on her face.

“You’re asking the wrong question, brother.”

“What… do you mean by that?”

“Well… what does it actually mean to see someone as a person anyway?” I can’t say I was expecting the question to get flipped back around on me, and even more surprising is that I don’t actually have an answer straight away. It’s nothing something I’ve ever really thought about in depth.

“It’s.. I guess… to see someone as an equal? Like, to put someone on the same level as yourself.” It’s a philosophical question that I don’t really have a definitive answer to, but I try my best to explain my perspective.

“Well in that case, I guess I don’t really see anyone as a person.”

“What does that mean? You don’t think anyone is equal to you?”

She doesn’t reply right away. Instead, she spends a moment thinking, before a smile creeps onto her face and she leaves her seat. From the large unit filled with books, she draws on of the many entries in her true crime collection and hands it to me. The title reads “Uncaught Serial Killers: The Stories Of Those Kill And Hide.”

“Stuff like this… books, shows, videos or whatever about violence and crime… you watch it purely for your own entertainment right?”

“I… guess so, yeah.” I’m not exactly the biggest true crime fan in the world, but I’ve watched my fair share of Wendigoon videos. I can’t deny a level of fascination with the subject.

“Well, in that moment, you’re not seeing the criminals or victims as your equals. Their actions and their suffering are a means to entertain you, or in other words the things they go through are secondary to your enjoyment, right?”

“…I guess?”

“And even though another person had to suffer or even die for you to watch that video or whatever, you don’t feel guilt because you’re not a person hurting another person, you’re just hearing a story. The victim isn’t a person to you, just an element of story that exists to entertain you.”

“…okay.” Despite how twisted it is, I at least somewhat understand the logic she’s using. I can’t say I agree with it, however.

“And then there’s all sorts of other things. When you’re a boss or group leader, your subordinates aren’t your equals, they’re tools you use to get a job done. When you hire a tradesman like a plumber or electrician, they’re not a person, they’re a service you’re paying for. And when you have a group of friends that you keep around because you find their company fun, they’re not people, they’re an interactive source of entertainment. That’s kinda the way I see the world.” Her words… they’re a hard pill to swallow. On a purely analytical level there’s a logic that’s difficult to argue, but sentimentally it just… isn’t right.

“So… other human beings… they’re just tools to you?”

“I guess that’s a way to look at it. I don’t make a distinction between ‘person’ and ‘tool’ at all. If I need a guy to hammer in a nail, I’m using both the hammer and the guy swinging it. There’s no difference between them, as far as I’m concerned.”

I sit in an awestruck silence. The more I understand her perspective, the less I… ‘understand’ it. What sort of warped perspective leads to a person seeing no difference between a human being and a tool? I simply can’t fathom it. To assign everything, both animate and inanimate, a value based solely on its use to her… I just can’t comprehend.

But I think the thing that unsettles me most is that smile on her face. For reasons I can’t explain, this one has none of the uncanniness usually present in her expression. Most of the time it’s as if she’s imitating emotions, but something about this one looks so convincing. So natural. It makes me feel as if this is the first time I’ve seen her genuinely happy, and I simply cannot understand why.

However, that smile doesn’t last forever, and I’m snapped out of my space thoughts by the growing frustration on her face.

“Y’know, if the answer is gonna freak you out, you probably shouldn’t ask the question.” Her voice is tinged with irritation, which is an understandable response when you try opening up to someone and they simply stare off into space like they’re not listening.

“S-sorry… I just… I’m finding it difficult to understand your perspective. When you say there’s no difference between a person and tool… I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Well think how I feel, man. People always talking about emotions and shit that I don’t even feel. You think I want to not be able to care about other people? You say it’s hard to understand why I see no disconnect between person and object, but can you imagine how hard it is for me to understand why you do?”

“I… I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.”

I look down at the ground to avoid her eye, as if the very act of looking at her was a grave sin.

“We told you she’s nuts”
“She doesn’t care about you at all”
“Clinging to someone who sees you as no different to a tool or an animal. Pathetic.”
“You two deserve each other. You’re both sick. Twisted. Evil”

“Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up…”

I clasp my ears shut again, closing my eyes as tight as I can, but the voices echo into my mind.

“Taro boy and the psychobitch, what a pairing that is”
“Just as vile as each other. Neither deserves to live”
“They’ll make such a great couple. They both treat people like dirt”
“The schizo boy and the psycho girl. These scum were made for each other.”

They just get louder and louder, every word making me shake and quiver.

“Please go away please go away please go away please go away.”

It’s no use. They keep getting louder and louder until I can no longer make out any of their words. Eventually my head is filled with nothing but their incoherent screams

“-ro. Taro, you hear me, man?” I hear another voice, this time into my ears instead of my brain. It’s faint, and I don’t really understand it. “Taro, you got pills with you, man?”

Pills? What’s that voice talking about? “Your schizo pills, you still got ‘em with you right?”
Schizo pills… right, I take those…

“Right… pocket.”

I think that’s where I left them, anyway. Why does the voice care though? Is the voice the one rooting around in my pockets?

“Taro bro, you gotta open your eyes and do this yourself man. I can’t keep force feeding you these things.”

Open my eyes? I guess I can do that…

As I lift my eyelids, my sight is engulfed in red and black. The decrepit corpses of the ghosts, covered head to toe in blood, fill every inch of my sight. Behind them, though, I think I see a person holding some pills and a glass of water.

“You gotta take ‘em, man.”

Take them… something tells me I should trust the voice. I cautiously retrieve the pills and bottle from the hands attached to the voice, and haphazardly throw them back

“You can’t hurt me you can’t hurt me you can’t hurt me you can’t hurt me…”

I must whisper it to myself a hundred… no, a thousand times before the voices start to die down. Slowly but surely, I reclaim my head, and the screaming that fills my brain is reduced to barely a mumble.

Taking my ears off my hands and slowly opening my eyes, I start to remember the situation I’m in.

“Hanji…”

“You good now, man?” Sat closer than I remember her being, Hanji is there in front of me, presumably waiting for me to come back to Earth. She mostly looks bored, but there may be a hint of concern on her face. It’s a little hard to tell with her.

“I… I guess that conversation got a little too much for me.”
I try to put on a composed act, but my heart is still thumping at a million beats per minute, and the anxious pit in my stomach is still too deep for me to say I’m anywhere near calm.

“You’re white as a ghost, dude. I’d say it was more than just a little too much.”
I look down at my hands, and realise she’s not really exaggerating. Most of the colour has drained from my skin.

I try to think of something to say, but there’s nothing. How do you talk to someone after having a full blown panic attack in response to them opening up? She must be hurt. I certainly would be if someone reacted that way after I told them about my PTSD. She probably hates me now. No, she definitely hates me. She’d be stupid not to hate me. I would hate me. I do hate me. I can only imagine how much she does.

I’m pulled out of space and back to Earth by Hanji getting much closer, almost to the point that our faces are touching. She must be so pissed off. Is she gonna attack me? Shout at me? Tell me I’m a terrible person? I’d deserve every second of it if she does.

“Hey, Taro…” our noses only some ten centimetres from touching, she talks. She must be about to berate me. I’m ready to accept every word. I stay silent as I await the oncoming anger.

“Let’s fuck.”