Shattered Reflections
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The first thing Richard noticed was the heavy numbness that clung to him like a shroud. His vision swam in and out of focus while a dull ache spread from his neck downward. Groggily, he tried to piece together his surroundings, his perspective narrowed to a mere fraction of what his eyes could see. He lay on something soft—perhaps a pillow—and attempted to shift but found he couldn’t move. Panic began to claw at him, gnawing at the edges of his mind as he realized he couldn't feel his body. His head was all he could sense, damnably detached.
From beyond his limited view, Richard heard the sound of footsteps, each step echoing ominously closer. The footsteps paused, and then he felt hands—cold and unfamiliar—beneath his chin. The hands lifted his head from its resting place and placed it on a metallic surface. The sudden chill from the metal sent shivers through the truncated nerves at the base of his neck.
Held aloft, he was carried through a door and down a hallway shrouded in darkness, the dim light giving little comfort. Where was he being taken? As the paralyzing fear of his unknown fate grew, they entered a living room, warmly lit in stark contrast to the corridor they'd traversed. In the center of the room, sitting casually on a plush, burgundy couch was Kellan, his personal assistant—no older than 26, with a cherubic face that now carried a sinister air.
"Richard," Kellan began, his voice smooth yet edged with an undercurrent of disdain, "I apologize for drugging you, but I felt it was necessary. You see, I've hit my limit with your incessant demands, your relentless micromanaging."
Richard's eyes widened in disbelief, his vision unable to stray beyond the platter his head balanced on. Kellan gestured casually toward the table. To Richard's horror, the unknown hands placed the platter there and its bearer revealed itself. It was Richard's own body—fit and athletic, the result of years at the gym, now lackluster and crowned with an eerie metallic cap where his head should have been.
"I didn't expect this level of obedience," Kellan mused, eyes gleaming with a perverse delight. "But I must say, your body has proven to be quite compliant. It has been entertaining to test its limits." As he spoke, Kellan made another brief gesture, and the headless body responded. It moved gracefully behind the couch, positioning itself to massage Kellan's tense shoulders.
As Richard's head rested on the metallic platter, he could only watch in paralyzed terror, each movement and touch of his own body feeling like another nail in his sanity's coffin. The sensation of betrayal, helplessness, and a gnawing dread combined into a cocktail of horror that even his executive composure couldn't contain.
Kellan looked over his shoulder, a smirk dancing across his lips. "Oh, Richard, don't look so grim. I'd say this is poetic justice, wouldn't you agree?" He leaned back into the massage, content.
Richard’s vision began to blur with tears, helpless rage and deep, existential fear broiling within him. Kellan’s new world—their new dynamic—seemed to stretch out, a grotesque reminder of the precarious balance of power and how quickly the tables could be turned. Trapped in his own nightmarish existence, Richard comprehended a chilling, simple truth: retribution had never conducted itself so cruelly.
In the unforgiving glow of that living room, the executive’s soul knew its cage—laid bare and fragmented into inescapable pieces.
This story was generated by user bud with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: write a story about an executive who groggily wakes up with his head laying on a pillow, then finds that not only can't he move, he can't feel his body. he soons hears the sound of footsteps approach but the source is outside his view. he then feels a pair of hands pick his head up and place it on a metal platter. as he shivers from the touch of the cold metal on the bottom of his truncated neck, the platter is picked up and carried through a door, down an unfamiliar hallway and into a living room, where he finds his personal assistant, a young man in his 20's, casually sitting on a couch. as the platter is held before him, the personal assistant apologizes for drugging him unconscious, but that he had reached his limit with the executive's demands and decided to turn the tables on him. the personal assistant gestures to the table, and whoever holds the platter is places it on it, then walks into view. the executive is shocked to see that it is his own fit, athletic body, nude and with its neck capped with a strange metallic cap. the personal assistant says that he is pleasantly surprise at how well the executive's body obediently takes orders, and that he had fun testing how compliant it is. upon the personal assistant's gesture, the executive's headless body walks and positions itself behind him and begins to massage his shoulders.
Response: The first thing Richard noticed was the heavy numbness that clung to him like a shroud. His vision swam in and out of focus while a dull ache spread from his neck downward. Groggily, he tried to piece together his surroundings, his perspective narrowed to a mere fraction of what his eyes could see. He lay on something soft—perhaps a pillow—and attempted to shift but found he couldn’t move. Panic began to claw at him, gnawing at the edges of his mind as he realized he couldn't feel his body. His head was all he could sense, damnably detached. From beyond his limited view, Richard heard the sound of footsteps, each step echoing ominously closer. The footsteps paused, and then he felt hands—cold and unfamiliar—beneath his chin. The hands lifted his head from its resting place and placed it on a metallic surface. The sudden chill from the metal sent shivers through the truncated nerves at the base of his neck. Held aloft, he was carried through a door and down a hallway shrouded in darkness, the dim light giving little comfort. Where was he being taken? As the paralyzing fear of his unknown fate grew, they entered a living room, warmly lit in stark contrast to the corridor they'd traversed. In the center of the room, sitting casually on a plush, burgundy couch was Kellan, his personal assistant—no older than 26, with a cherubic face that now carried a sinister air. "Richard," Kellan began, his voice smooth yet edged with an undercurrent of disdain, "I apologize for drugging you, but I felt it was necessary. You see, I've hit my limit with your incessant demands, your relentless micromanaging." Richard's eyes widened in disbelief, his vision unable to stray beyond the platter his head balanced on. Kellan gestured casually toward the table. To Richard's horror, the unknown hands placed the platter there and its bearer revealed itself. It was Richard's own body—fit and athletic, the result of years at the gym, now lackluster and crowned with an eerie metallic cap where his head should have been. "I didn't expect this level of obedience," Kellan mused, eyes gleaming with a perverse delight. "But I must say, your body has proven to be quite compliant. It has been entertaining to test its limits." As he spoke, Kellan made another brief gesture, and the headless body responded. It moved gracefully behind the couch, positioning itself to massage Kellan's tense shoulders. As Richard's head rested on the metallic platter, he could only watch in paralyzed terror, each movement and touch of his own body feeling like another nail in his sanity's coffin. The sensation of betrayal, helplessness, and a gnawing dread combined into a cocktail of horror that even his executive composure couldn't contain. Kellan looked over his shoulder, a smirk dancing across his lips. "Oh, Richard, don't look so grim. I'd say this is poetic justice, wouldn't you agree?" He leaned back into the massage, content. Richard’s vision began to blur with tears, helpless rage and deep, existential fear broiling within him. Kellan’s new world—their new dynamic—seemed to stretch out, a grotesque reminder of the precarious balance of power and how quickly the tables could be turned. Trapped in his own nightmarish existence, Richard comprehended a chilling, simple truth: retribution had never conducted itself so cruelly. In the unforgiving glow of that living room, the executive’s soul knew its cage—laid bare and fragmented into inescapable pieces.
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