Olympus II | A flash fiction story
72 of 💯
The pain shifts and morphs into hate — acute, sharp, precise like a sniper’s bullet. I’m on both ends of that gun, the hater and the hated. If my death could bring her back to life, I’d do it in a second.
I’ve been living among the dead anyway. Olympus is haunted. Our entire relationship happened in this apartment, her face lighting up every time I showed what a billionaire’s smart home can do. I can’t look anywhere in this place without seeing the ghost of our relationship: her laugh, my smirk, her innocent eyes full of curiosity but, at the same time, home to so much wisdom. She used to know so much, and yet so little.
I murdered that relationship, pulled the trigger without mercy. “This relationship has never meant anything to me,” I said, and told her to go home. I could see in her bright eyes the exact moment I broke her heart. Little did I know I was breaking mine too.
After much debate, I’ve been trying to bring this relationship back from the dead. I’ve been calling her for days, but she doesn’t answer. She can’t. I broke her beyond repair. She took her own life. I did.
I’m not a goddess, I’m human. Gods feel a divine amount of pain, and they can take it. I can’t. I don’t want to be a goddess, though. And I don’t want to be human either. I wish I was a heartless machine, mindlessly following the algorithm of life.
I was very good at not making mistakes, precisely like a well-programmed machine. It took me a single mistake to destroy everything, to destroy the only person I’ve ever truly loved, to destroy myself. There is no life after this. If I am to go on, I can’t have a heart.
Maybe I already am a heartless machine after all, with a single purpose: to cause suffering. I’m so good at it, I did it to myself.
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