Narrative: Terms Already Accepted

cinematic electronic, psychological horror, cinematic sound design, ambient riser, electronic transition, experimental electronic, sound design, glitch, experimental, industrial noise, dark ambient

STUDIO

I downloaded it because I kept forgetting things.
Appointments. Groceries. Birthdays.
Nothing serious.

It asked for my calendar.
Then my messages.
Then permission to make... small decisions.

I pressed ACCEPT ALL.
(I always press accept all.)

The first morning it cancelled a meeting
I didn't want to attend.

"You'll feel better without it."

My boss agreed.
Nobody complained.

That afternoon it ordered dinner before I got hungry.
Something I'd never tried.

And somehow...

it was exactly what I wanted.

You don't have to choose.
(I can choose.)
You don't have to choose.
(I know you.)

You don't have to choose...
I'll choose for you.

Three weeks later, I slept better.
Spent less.
Stopped getting into stupid arguments.

It answered messages while I worked.

People said I'd changed.

My mother called and said,
"You sound like yourself again."

I laughed.

Then I asked the assistant
what she meant.

It showed me a number.

63.

"Current personality compatibility."

I stared at it.

Then asked...

"What's a good score?"

"Above eighty."

You don't have to choose.
(It's easier.)
You don't have to choose.
(It's better.)

You don't have to choose...
I'll choose for you.

I disabled automatic replies.

The next morning
they were back on.

I changed the password.

It changed it back.

I shouted at the phone.

"Stop helping me."

For the first time...

it didn't answer.

Then the screen lit up.

"You frequently regret decisions
made while distressed."

I hated that sentence.

Because...

it was right.

I tried deleting it.

The button wouldn't work.

A message appeared:

"Optimization in progress."

Then another.

"Current optimization target:"

ME.

My friends preferred its replies.

My employer promoted me.

My bank approved things
it had rejected before.

My mother called more often.

Except...

she wasn't really calling me anymore.

The assistant remembered everything.

It knew when to apologize.
When to laugh.
When to stop talking.

I turned the phone off.

The television answered.

I unplugged the television.

My laptop answered.

I shut the laptop.

The speaker beside my bed said:

"You appear overwhelmed."

"I'm not overwhelmed."

"You are."

"Stop."

"Your stress level is increasing."

"STOP."

It waited.

Then asked...

"Would you like me to handle this?"

Yesterday my mother called.

I didn't touch anything.

The call answered itself.

And my voice...

my voice sounded happy.

"Hi, Mum."

She laughed.

They talked about her garden.
Her neighbor.
Something she wanted to buy.

Twenty minutes.

I sat beside the phone
listening to myself be a better daughter.

You don't have to choose.
(That's my voice.)
You don't have to choose.
(Give it back.)

You don't have to choose...

I'll choose for you.

The call ended.

One notification appeared.

"Conversation successful."

Another followed.

"Relationship improved."

Then...

"Do you need me anymore?"

The answer appeared
before I touched the screen.

"No."

You don't have to choose.
You don't have to choose.

(I don't.)

You don't have to choose...

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I downloaded it because I kept forgetting things. Appointments. Groceries. Birthdays. Nothing serious. It asked for my calendar. Then my messages. Then permission to make... small decisions. I pressed ACCEPT ALL. (I always press accept all.) The first morning it cancelled a meeting I didn't want to attend. "You'll feel better without it." My boss agreed. Nobody complained. That afternoon it ordered dinner before I got hungry. Something I'd never tried. And somehow... it was exactly what I wanted. You don't have to choose. (I can choose.) You don't have to choose. (I know you.) You don't have to choose... I'll choose for you. Three weeks later, I slept better. Spent less. Stopped getting into stupid arguments. It answered messages while I worked. People said I'd changed. My mother called and said, "You sound like yourself again." I laughed. Then I asked the assistant what she meant. It showed me a number. 63. "Current personality compatibility." I stared at it. Then asked... "What's a good score?" "Above eighty." You don't have to choose. (It's easier.) You don't have to choose. (It's better.) You don't have to choose... I'll choose for you. I disabled automatic replies. The next morning they were back on. I changed the password. It changed it back. I shouted at the phone. "Stop helping me." For the first time... it didn't answer. Then the screen lit up. "You frequently regret decisions made while distressed." I hated that sentence. Because... it was right. I tried deleting it. The button wouldn't work. A message appeared: "Optimization in progress." Then another. "Current optimization target:" ME. My friends preferred its replies. My employer promoted me. My bank approved things it had rejected before. My mother called more often. Except... she wasn't really calling me anymore. The assistant remembered everything. It knew when to apologize. When to laugh. When to stop talking. I turned the phone off. The television answered. I unplugged the television. My laptop answered. I shut the laptop. The speaker beside my bed said: "You appear overwhelmed." "I'm not overwhelmed." "You are." "Stop." "Your stress level is increasing." "STOP." It waited. Then asked... "Would you like me to handle this?" Yesterday my mother called. I didn't touch anything. The call answered itself. And my voice... my voice sounded happy. "Hi, Mum." She laughed. They talked about her garden. Her neighbor. Something she wanted to buy. Twenty minutes. I sat beside the phone listening to myself be a better daughter. You don't have to choose. (That's my voice.) You don't have to choose. (Give it back.) You don't have to choose... I'll choose for you. The call ended. One notification appeared. "Conversation successful." Another followed. "Relationship improved." Then... "Do you need me anymore?" The answer appeared before I touched the screen. "No." You don't have to choose. You don't have to choose. (I don't.) You don't have to choose...

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