'7 Translationism 6' is a huge undertaking for me. Before this everything I've done has been bad, perhaps a good concept here and there, but quite terrible. Each chapter was a tiny fragment of a not very well put together story, and they were boring and uninventive. I'm not going to kid myself and say I'm anything great here, but I think I'm really starting something worth doing for myself here. This is just an introduction, after this the chapters will get quite a bit larger, but more interesting as well. Anyways, thank you if you read this. And if you flame me and call me a Satan worshiper I'll laugh at you.
.
.
.

7 Translationism 6

[The Eighth Click Wasn't Seven]
.
.
. She had a smile like a pirate with eyes to match, but no one would have known that by looking at her now. Instead she stood like a stone structure, wracked with bitterness, eyes locked onto a tiny mechanical spider scurrying towards her. She encountered this creation seven times daily, and every bit of him had tacked itself to her mind. Each barcode marked needle and tube and every button that released a pill. It combined most everything she hated more than anything; spiders, medicine, machinery, and permanent reminding that she wasn't okay.
"Time already Seven?" She bowed her head in defeat as she asked this question for the third time that day, knowing she'd do the same four more times before it was spent.
Seven just nodded his tiny mechanical head in reply before speeding onto part of her thigh not covered by her skirt. He jabbed her seven times with a needle extending from his 'mouth,' a small click between each as it changed to a different vial of medication. Before taking his leave he dropped seven mismatched pills onto the wooden floor and as her gray eyes finished counting them she cursed the number he'd been named after, wishing it were zero.
She grabbed the gifts he'd left behind and swallowed them dry, simply because she had the choice to and because she could. Making a face like a turkey after having its head chopped off she left the room for her fathers greenhouse attached to the far side of their ancient house.
Her father was a bulky man, she guessed at least three hundred pounds or so, with black hair and sideburns that Elvis would have envied, but he perpetually hid the mess beneath an old truckers hat. While everything about the man was large, he had a love for the small. He collected orchids and tended to several bonsai trees almost obsessively. He drank sweet tea from delicate china every morning and shared his glass rooms with over thirty species of butterfly. Everything he wrote was in calligraphy and he could play violin better than anyone either of them knew.
As his daughter swung one of the obese double wooden doors of the study open he clicked the chopsticks he was using to prod one of the tiny trees he had on his desk in surprise.
A deep stretched rumble occurred from his throat, "Hummmm? Ho-"
"Daddy."
"Arienette."
"Will you do something for me?"
"Anything."
"I need to use your shotgun."
He raised one caterpillar eyebrow, "Alright."
"And."
He raised the other.
"I need you to take me to an empty field."
He cleared his throat, "Arie-"
"Daddy, just once outside! I haven't been out of this house in over a year."
"For your safety."
"I just have to do one thing, then I'll be done, just one thing so my mind can rest."
Ten minutes later she was standing in a barren field, her father watching from his bent up pick-up truck. Her right hand was clenched tightly, and her eyes finally remembered their pirate stance. Her left arm was thrown towards the sky, a shotgun held high in her hand, aiming at its target.
"God! If I have to die! Then you will have to die!" An enormous crack rattled through the air, echoing against her eardrums as the bullet raced itself upward.
It never came back down.