Consciousness

I never used to daydream whilst I was working. I did not concentrate on what I was doing either, because my job is simple enough to require only dexterity and patience. If anyone had asked what I did during my sixteen hour shifts, I would have struggled to reply, perhaps only saying that I performed my function. I hope I am never asked that question. The only sounds on the assembly line are those of work; for the entire time I have been here, which is over a year, none of the others have spoken a word. They never even look up. I only differentiate them by the items on their workspaces. Soon after I started to think about what we were doing, I wondered what would be wrong about killing people. One counter argument is that it is immoral to inflict pain, but death can be achieved without it. And the objection that others are harmed by bereavement is countered by finding those isolated or unpopular enough that their absence would not register. It would be easy to find many such people. And that’s even if I accept the premise about it being wrong to cause harm. Is it to my benefit to come here everyday?

Tags short , short story , story