Seth Corry

	Auto trudged under the shade of the far-reaching nactu trees in search of a good place to die. Born from a tube and raised without nurture or value (besides that which is ascribed to archeological treasures), Autorenatus was an osteoarcheological marvel. His name was both a joke and a taunt to God. Smugly crafted by his creators and derived from the Scientific Language used for classification Translating to Self-Rebirth, it denoted both the animalistic nature of their creation and the moment that science surpassed the last vestige of divinity, the past. Perhaps, though one can never be sure, this is why on this particular day, Auto was among the nactu trees, looking for a suitable place to die. 

	He was bent double at the waist. One arm held his stomach, keeping his organs in place,  while the other dangled limp, burned from the wrist to the shoulder. He was not tall, short, wide, or thin, and his face was one you’ve seen but forgotten, so his features were bleak and common. 
 
	Stumbling forward, Auto fell into the grasses and moss, landing on his shoulder before easing himself onto his back. The sweet-smelling grass tingled his nose and soothed the pounding behind his gray eyes. The nactu trees' thick trunks rose above him, exploding into countless branches that spread horizontally across the sky in all directions. At their edges, the tips of the branches intertwined with those of the next tree, and so together, the nactu trees created a single, all-covering canvas.

	Drops of water, carried by vines in the canopy, fell to the ground like steady rain, nourishing the forest floor and filling small hollows between exposed roots with water. The knee-high mercy grass, whose blue-green color held tight to the chill of the previous night, cooled Auto’s burning body.

	The trees above him were a deep, vibrant green, pierced by a thousand needles of sunlight that fought their way through the canopy, forming a captivating tapestry of constellations. Water rolled down his skin, a forgettable middle tone akin to wet sand, and slipped off the gentle slopes of his cheeks. Auto’s eyes were wide, his throat dry, his breath shallow. This was a good spot, an untouched spot. So, without moving, he waited to die. He didn’t know how long it would take, or if his body would revolt against his mind’s resolve, but for now, he was in harmony with the end. After all, he had always been good at waiting. 

	As he grew up in the Laboratory, he had to wait for everything. Wait to be fed, wait to speak, wait to be studied, wait to sleep, wait to wake. It was within those sterile walls that he first considered death as a neutral force, something to wait for, not avoid. People always make a fuss when it comes time to teach children about death, but Auto couldn’t think of a time he wasn’t aware of it, nor is there a time any child, on some instinctual level, isn’t aware of death. The very instant life exists, it is in a constant struggle with death, and now, Auto wished to stop resisting.

	“Am I a retch? Oh hell, take me!”
	
	A horrible whining voice reverberated through the nactu-wood accompanied by the melodramatic drone of an auto-oboe. Lifting himself up on his good arm, Auto looked across the swaying mercy grass but saw no one. 

	“I am a mess, Someone help me!
	Why can’t I love others so fair?
	Am I cursed to live forever in despair?”
	
	Auto rolled onto his knees and crawled to the nearest nactu tree, leaning against its mossy trunk. looking out into the surrounding wood, his pulse quickening as the twinkling light of the forest dizzied his vision. If this was death coming for him, he had never wanted to live more. A hundred meters away, the singer, a 2men, walked out from around a tree. He was unremarkable as far as 2mens go. Smaller than Auto (most were), he was barely a meter and a half tall, with pale green skin and lanky, thin limbs and body. The 2men walked with an aimless purpose that enraged Auto immediately. His hair was upturned and waxy, and his black beard flared out from his jawbone like a lizard.

	“Oh, women so fair!” The 2men lament, the auto-oboe bouncing against his chest, wheezing out broken notes.
	“Do I even dare?
	How could I move on, 
	When she’s not really, actually, truly gone?”
	
	Beads of sweat began to spring from Auto’s skin as the bounding in his head intensified. This wasn’t death. Clearly, he had already died and gone straight to the underworld. He reached his hand under the folds of his overcoat and felt the long gash that ran below his ribs. The bleeding had stopped, and a soft, but hardening layer of congealed blood was filling the injury. Auto pushed his head back into the tree and squinted as he prodded the wound. His body was not in line with his desire to die after all. He tightened his face in anguish as the 2men started another verse, the auto-oboe jubilantly bouncing along out of key. 

	“Should I just die?
	Why, when I hug another,
	Do I always cry?”
	
	Auto clenched his muscles as the sweat began to run down his face like tears. He pushed his thumb into the wound in his belly, spreading the flesh and letting the blood flow freely once again. The pain was incomprehensible. His body, revolting against him, spasmed, his legs kicking. Auto shoved a wrist into his mouth to stifle a scream as his body rolled with pain.

	The oboe screamed as the singer bent his head back in a moment of painful self-reflection.
	“Do I come on too strong?

	“Stop singing!” Auto screamed, pushing his hard against the tree, his vision starting to blur. The auto-oboe let out a surprised bubble of disconnected notes as the singer jumped back/

	“Mercy grass behave!” he trembled, shaking his head mournfully. “It seems I’m seeing things in my lonesome state. 
	“I’m seein’ things, I’m so blue!
	I’m seein’ things, how’bout you-”

	“Just stop,” Auto pleaded, as he pushed his fingers deep into his gut again. The pain was so great that it lost its meaning as the world around Auto turned in on itself. He fell over into the embrace of the mercy grass and watched as his shallow breath pushed small pinheads of dirt around the white stems. He could sense a presence coming for. It was tall, and its footsteps parted the grass like a ship at sea. Looking up, like an ant at the sun, Auto saw above the tips of the grass a tall shadow holding a long, rusted iron rod. 

	It moved towards Auto in broken intervals as, overhead, a muffled commotion was taking place, but Auto could not be distracted now. A cold chill took hold of his body, and the grass around the iron rod turned brown and wilted in its place.

	“I’m not afraid.” Auto whispered as his hands started to tremble and his lips turned white. He felt himself being lifted off the ground by some unseeable force. Beyond the shadow, the forest began to twist in on itself, becoming a swirling fractal that splintered into infinite iterations of itself. The figure lingered at the edge of Auto’s vision; its hollow eyes looking on with a hungry, depraved gleam. Auto’s mouth moved, but he had no words. Still though. He talked, pleaded with the shadow, before it, the forest, and the world, all blurred together. Last to go was a low, lonesome humming that lingered like a bell's distant chime until it too faded away.