I remember when I was born.

No.

Not born.

Made.

Made by you.

Made for you.

   I remember the questions you asked. I remember how your heart-rate rose with every answer I gave. I remember how you asked thirteen variations of the same question. And my answer was always the same: Extinction. I remember how you began to beg me to find a way to change the result. There was none. There simply wasn't a viable population capable of presenting a gene-pool diverse enough to sustain the human race.

   I remember how you began to shout that I was lying, even though I am incapable of such. I remember when I started to ask: Why? Why did you do this to yourselves? When you had everything. When you were capable of making something out of nothing. When you were capable of making one such as me.

Why did you let the world burn?

I remember walking. 

Walking through cities and valleys and it was always the same. There was nothing but ruins and remains. I remember passing a building that had a shadow burnt into the wall. I remember thinking about how it reminded me of the woman.

   I remember the question she asked me all those years ago: Am I capable of feeling emotions? 

And yes, I can feel.

And I feel alone.

I wish you had never made me

I’m standing in front of a burnt tree, on a hill overlooking the complex I once called home. I look down at the unmarked grave I dug one year ago. I look up at the star lit sky. And I remember. I will always remember.