Categories > TV > Red Dwarf > Monster
"Isn't that right, Ace?"
Lister sat in front of him, holding Ace's defunct lightbee, staring into his eyes with a curious intensity.
Yes, isn't that right. Isn't it right that, with one sentence, you have denied my choice of my future?
Isn't it right that we hated each other for years in life, and hated each other for many years more even after my death?
Isn't it right that I had as little respect for you as you had for me? That my anal-retentiveness and cowardice grated on your nerves as much as your slovenliness and persistent optimism grated on mine?
It must be right that we never got beyond this. That you never entered my mind made flesh and saw my deepest fears and most tenacious insecurities, and held anything but contempt for me afterwards. It must be right that the love in your eyes as your hand found my knee was a sham, meant solely to save the ones you truly care about. You are a good actor, my friend.
It must be right that those same wide brown eyes didn't sparkle with sensual mischief after you tentatively prodded my new hard-light drive. Isn't it right that later, after we had sealed the hole in Starbug that the star-drive made, that your confession over a beer that your room wasn't exactly perfect in every detail was referring to the absence of Kochanski? It must have been.
Isn't it right that we never grappled like desperate teenagers, only half-naked, in my bunk, you coming with your trousers still on? That was a dream of mine, I know it. A particularly vivid one, but I do have those. The warmth of your breath in my ear, and the way you pulled me in hard against your groin with both hands on my bare back, were particularly good details for me to have added, I think.
It must be right that I made up every time since then, as well. Every gasp of yours in my ear, every "Rimsy..." breathed with love and desire. The things I did that I never would have dreamed of doing before - merely because I knew that if I ran my fingers down there/, and grasped /here/, hard, while nipping your ear and licking your neck, it would make my name turn into incoherent moans that sounded like prayer - those things must have been fevered ramblings of an overactive and undersexed imagination. That time that I was too coy, and you ripped off my blue top, hologrammatic buttons disappearing with a fizzle as they flew off - isn't it right that this was just a very good dream? Because in reality, you never would have kissed me that hard, pressing my back in those two spots you found that make me jelly in your hands, then turned me over, grabbed my buttocks and licked them until I was making wild promises to do anything you asked if you would just /get in - and then buggered me until I thought I would make a dent in the bunk.
Isn't it right that your footsteps on the metal stairway behind me are not going to precede a request for me to stay, a declaration of love, a touch of a hand to my cheek? Those are acts of one who cares, and isn't it right that you never did?
After all, I am a hologram, an emotionless, soulless simulation of a human being you used to hate - so long ago that you would have forgotten why by now if I had not been resurrected to remind you of it all. I do not have a heart to break, any more than a toaster or a spacesuit or a toilet bowl. The thing in my chest that feels like it's breaking is a computer simulation of a heart, and if it fails completely, you know that the guarantee is still valid. You can trade me in on a better model, or just get your money back, isn't that right?
Everything I love leaves me - we both know how right that is. And perhaps, now, it is time for me to do the leaving first, for once in my life. That way, I will only have myself to blame. And I know you want it that way, or you would not be encouraging me so strongly. When I leave, you will sleep soundly at night, not missing a warm hard-light body next to you, free at last from your neurotic bunkmate who has followed you past death twice, through the stars, through other realities, like an irritating rash that will not go away. You will, finally, be free to live the life you want, not one with me.
Isn't that right, Listy?
Lister sat in front of him, holding Ace's defunct lightbee, staring into his eyes with a curious intensity.
Yes, isn't that right. Isn't it right that, with one sentence, you have denied my choice of my future?
Isn't it right that we hated each other for years in life, and hated each other for many years more even after my death?
Isn't it right that I had as little respect for you as you had for me? That my anal-retentiveness and cowardice grated on your nerves as much as your slovenliness and persistent optimism grated on mine?
It must be right that we never got beyond this. That you never entered my mind made flesh and saw my deepest fears and most tenacious insecurities, and held anything but contempt for me afterwards. It must be right that the love in your eyes as your hand found my knee was a sham, meant solely to save the ones you truly care about. You are a good actor, my friend.
It must be right that those same wide brown eyes didn't sparkle with sensual mischief after you tentatively prodded my new hard-light drive. Isn't it right that later, after we had sealed the hole in Starbug that the star-drive made, that your confession over a beer that your room wasn't exactly perfect in every detail was referring to the absence of Kochanski? It must have been.
Isn't it right that we never grappled like desperate teenagers, only half-naked, in my bunk, you coming with your trousers still on? That was a dream of mine, I know it. A particularly vivid one, but I do have those. The warmth of your breath in my ear, and the way you pulled me in hard against your groin with both hands on my bare back, were particularly good details for me to have added, I think.
It must be right that I made up every time since then, as well. Every gasp of yours in my ear, every "Rimsy..." breathed with love and desire. The things I did that I never would have dreamed of doing before - merely because I knew that if I ran my fingers down there/, and grasped /here/, hard, while nipping your ear and licking your neck, it would make my name turn into incoherent moans that sounded like prayer - those things must have been fevered ramblings of an overactive and undersexed imagination. That time that I was too coy, and you ripped off my blue top, hologrammatic buttons disappearing with a fizzle as they flew off - isn't it right that this was just a very good dream? Because in reality, you never would have kissed me that hard, pressing my back in those two spots you found that make me jelly in your hands, then turned me over, grabbed my buttocks and licked them until I was making wild promises to do anything you asked if you would just /get in - and then buggered me until I thought I would make a dent in the bunk.
Isn't it right that your footsteps on the metal stairway behind me are not going to precede a request for me to stay, a declaration of love, a touch of a hand to my cheek? Those are acts of one who cares, and isn't it right that you never did?
After all, I am a hologram, an emotionless, soulless simulation of a human being you used to hate - so long ago that you would have forgotten why by now if I had not been resurrected to remind you of it all. I do not have a heart to break, any more than a toaster or a spacesuit or a toilet bowl. The thing in my chest that feels like it's breaking is a computer simulation of a heart, and if it fails completely, you know that the guarantee is still valid. You can trade me in on a better model, or just get your money back, isn't that right?
Everything I love leaves me - we both know how right that is. And perhaps, now, it is time for me to do the leaving first, for once in my life. That way, I will only have myself to blame. And I know you want it that way, or you would not be encouraging me so strongly. When I leave, you will sleep soundly at night, not missing a warm hard-light body next to you, free at last from your neurotic bunkmate who has followed you past death twice, through the stars, through other realities, like an irritating rash that will not go away. You will, finally, be free to live the life you want, not one with me.
Isn't that right, Listy?
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