Fiction

My Dying Days: Part 2

What price for freedom?

Part one is here:

To save you re-reading it — or for those who read more Cliff’s notes than actual books in high school — here’s a quick summary of the story so far:

The Professor, an infectious diseases expert, was convicted of murder and torture, but due to his important contributions to society was allowed to remain free. He was enrolled in the Victimbot ‘rehabilitation’ program. The program entitled the Professor to a realistic looking android, to whom he was allowed to unleash his violent fantasies on.

Angelique, or RA126, is a Victimbot on the verge of termination, because her success rate at keeping clients from re-offending is only just above the minimum requirement.

Angelique has been housed with the Professor, but has grown worried as he no longer kills her with the relish he once did. She discovers a secret book in his library, in which the Professor has begun collecting voyeuristic photos of another woman. If he strays, she will be terminated.

When he comes home from work, I lay on his lounge, reading the gossip section from the newspaper. I fail to rise as he walks past to put his bag down, and I see a flicker of annoyance cross his face. I offer him a glass of red wine after tea, and stumble as I pass it to him, spilling the Richebourg Grand Cru down his shirt. He curses, and jumps up from his armchair. My limbs tense, but he merely shakes his head and wanders off to change his shirt.

I need more.

A framed photo of the Professor (taken some time ago, his hair black, wrinkles yet to crack), and an auburn-haired woman of the same vintage sit atop the marble mantlepiece in front of me. He has an arm around her, and they both rest their hands on the shoulders of a young boy standing in front. The boy’s smile mirrors the Professor’s, but the woman’s grin sits off centre, her eyes stare past the lens.

‘Put that down,’ the Professor’s voice cracks like a whip from across the room, and I realise my hands cradle the frame.

Frozen by his voice, the picture slips through my fingers, and I watch it hurtle to the ground and shatter into a thousand pieces.

I close my eyes, waiting for a slap, a punch, my synapses humming with anticipation. But I hear a thud on the floorboards, and open my eyes to the Professor crumpled before me. A strangled sob pierces the silence, the same sound I hear on repeat in the bath, muffled by the water, my hearing the first sense to regenerate.

I gaze at the Professor on the ground, lanky limbs splayed, tufts of hair sprouting from his speckled skull, eyes red rimmed and raw, and a strange new feeling tickles my senses.

Pity, my brain tells me.

I reach out and haul him up, draw his face onto my shoulder and let him cry. At least I’m good for something.

A week passes like this, with me trying my best to antagonise, and the Professor annoyed but not homicidal. Not towards me at least. The untitled book grows thicker, and the Professor doesn’t come home until the early hours of the mornings.

I feel ready to give up, to accept my looming termination. Chasing cats is a fine dream for a human, but doesn’t befit a rehabilitation assistant. How can you dream if you exist in a nightmare?

I flick through the daytime television channels, not paying attention until familiar images flash before me.

Blood.

Knives.

Bodies.

My specialty. I watch a show about killer couples, husband and wife duos who would team up to murder. I imagine myself transformed, prey to predator.

I wait by the front door until the Professor arrives home, his picture book in my hands.

‘Take me with you,’ I say.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘This woman,’ I say, pointing at the photos. ‘I want to be there when you kill her. I could help.’

The Professor collapses into his recliner. His lungs and the chair sigh in harmony.

‘Angelique,’ he says after a minute, ‘Have I ever told you why I chose to specialize in the field of Infectious diseases?’

I shake my head.

‘As a boy, I lived through some of the deadliest infectious diseases to ever grace our planet: TB, Malaria, Polio. Eventually they were cured, or minimised at least. But there is one epidemic that has plagued humans since our inception.’

I ready myself for a history lesson.

‘I was beaten as a child. Not just a smack on the bum, but brutal, depraved assaults.,’ he continues, and stops as he sees what must be a confused expression on my face. ‘Bear with me, this will make sense in a minute. Those beatings changed something inside of me. Corrupted my chemistry. A seed germinated from within, black and rotten, its tendrils slithered out, poisoned my thoughts. Little things — only getting a ‘B’ for my biology project, missing out on the potato gems in the cafeteria — started to bother me more than they should. I went home and stewed. Violent fantasies played forth in my head.’

I can see his face changing as he speaks. It darkens. Hardens.

‘I fought against these urges, but my appetite grew. By the time I studied Medicine at University, I had formulated my theory: violence, is the most devastating infectious disease known to mankind. No one listened to me at first, and my career moved in other, more lucrative directions. I saved a great many lives, I am proud to admit, but it wasn’t enough. I could barely keep myself together. I felt like a volcano, dormant for many years, on the brink of eruption.’

I have felt the eruptions.

‘My search for a cure was fruitless, so I took a step back. When dealing with other infectious diseases for which there is no cure, or vaccine, the most effective way to curtail them is through strict isolation policies. Limit human to human contact to avoid the spread. I designed a concept, a program, which would limit the opportunities for violent individuals to transmit their disease. If they had a constant, non-human outlet to absorb their eruptions of violence when they could no longer contain them, we could stop the spread.’

I stare back at the Professor, no longer just my companion, my captor, my abuser.

He is my creator.

‘The Victimbot program was my idea, but I decided to remain anonymous, for I knew one day I may be in need of its help. Imagine the fallout if the designer of the program was a reprobate himself? The whole project would collapse.’ Another sigh. ‘Now here we are.’

I looked at the Professor, and down at the book splayed open on the coffee table between us. A photo of the woman peering out the kitchen window. I thought I could detect a glimmer of fear in her eyes.

His voice sounds strangled, a current of emotion flowing through his words. ‘The failure is all mine. Not yours Angelique. I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ he stammers.

I know I should feel anger, hatred even. This man in front of me is responsible for my suffering, even more so than I first thought. But right now, the monster remains out of sight, squashed under the bed by the boy who just wants to sleep.

I walk over and perch on the armrest of his chair. I place my hand on his quivering arm, and we sit, together, and stare at the open book in front of us.

The next evening, we set out together, a new bond between us. The Professor disables my location lock, which allows for transporting rehabilitation assists between homes.

‘Don’t forget your rehabilitation assistant when you go on holiday, how else will you kill time?’ the television says.

We pass through the security doors out into the street, and fresh air rushes against my bare skin. I look down to see goose bumps, and a flashback of the screech of the Professor’s toolbox shoots shivers down my spine.

My head feels light, and I wonder if the wind will pick me up and carry me away. A gentle tug at my arm pulls me back to earth.

We travel by foot, keeping to the shadows, and the Professor links arms with me like a lover. I let my arm linger in his, and squeeze his bony fingers in mine. I can feel a current of nerves flowing through him. Excitement too.

Strange odours tickle my nostrils: cat urine, half eaten hamburgers and petrol fumes from a supermarket delivery van. I stop each time to hold these scents in, but the Professor pulls me along.

The Professor halts, and I look up to see a window I recognise from the photos.

He lifts his hand. Stop.

‘Angelique, before we cross a threshold from which you cannot return, I need to tell you something. No matter what happens, I will protect you. I can make sure you never face termination. I can keep you safe. You don’t have to come any further.’

He looks at me, hollow eyed and hopeful. I take the key from his hand and slip it in the door.

I wait in the entrance as the Professor sneaks up the stairs. His feet barely kiss the wood beneath him.

As I watch him creep up the stairs, feelings of failure scuttle through my mind. The Professor says all fault lies with him, but why does the program work for others? The newspapers hail Victimbot a success, it has cured and pured, vile cretins now productive members of society. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong. My flesh bleeds and my voice pleads, but not enough for his needs. These other women have that missing element. The chromosome of desire, the genetic code for immolation. Am I missing the soul Gandhi talks of? Or maybe just a hole. I know now, as I wait for the scream from above, I will never be enough.

A thump on the ceiling cracks me back to the present. Another thump, and I can hear the Professor’s voice. The floor above muffles his words, but anger slices through, it whips and stings my ears, and I can feel the blood trickle down my lobes. A door slams, and I hear footsteps crash against the stairs. I wait to see who descends. Bare legs, pale and shapely. The slip of a night dress. A face. Wide eyes as she runs towards me. The door behind my left shoulder. She spots freedom.

I step to my left as she nears and clutch her in my arms, an embrace of love, not violence. She smells of cinnamon and baby powder. And fear. She struggles in my arms, shouting at me to let her go. I pull her closer and savour the feel of her flesh against mine. I want to hold. I want to be held.

The Professor peels her off me, his arms as strong as a bull. She screams, the kind of screams that would curdle my blood if it could, until he shoves a sock in her mouth and only her eyes carry on howling.

‘Angelique,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘I underestimated you. Come.’

He beckons me to follow as he drags the woman back upstairs. Her hips and curves cling to each step, and gravity starts to halt the Professor’s progress. I pick up her legs and help carry her. I can feel the goose bumps on her legs meld into my own.

He ties her hands together with rope from his backpack, and this time she doesn’t resist as he sits her in a velvet chair next to the bed. Her eyes remind me of the nature documentaries I have watched, when the wounded antelope looks into the lion’s jaws. The Professor walks over to the other side of the bed and picks up a large, serrated knife off the ground. I have seen this blade before. It tears rather than slices. Barbaric and sloppy, I would dread the clean-up the next morning as much as the night ahead.

‘Wait,’ I call to him, my voice breathy.

He turns, and I beckon him closer with the crook of my finger. ‘I feel different. Excited.’

His eyes flash, the corner of his mouth creeps upwards. ‘What do you mean?’ he asks.

‘I want to feel what you feel.’

He lets me place my hands on his arms, and I slide them up and down before moving around to his back, weaving in and out of the grooves of his spine and the taut bands of muscle. I pull him in tight, his excitement palpable.

My eyes lock on to the woman’s, and with one hand I pull a knife from inside the back of my underwear. The edges drip red with my blood, from where it cut me as I walked. I hold it for a second, the glint of its blade about to determine the future of the three people in this room, and perhaps millions of others. This man created me, brought me to life. He saves millions, and struggles to save himself. But this is not a life I would choose. No one would.

I extend the knife towards the woman, my other arm holding the Professor in close. I search for the look in her eyes that she understands — she must evolve from prey to predator.

She manages to stand, her legs strong. She takes the knife in her hands, and I see her transform.

She raises both hands above her head, and rams the knife down into the side of the Professor’s neck. I duck backwards and see shock on his face. She strikes him again and blood spatters into my eyes.

I open them. A red fog clouds my vision as I watch the woman dance with the knife, and the Professor slips from this life. He drops to his knees, and then falls face down into the carpet. She doesn’t stop until I place a hand on her shoulder. She shakes, post-eruptive tremors.

I help her sever the bonds around her wrists, and as I bend forwards my beanie falls off. She stares at the green light blinking on the side of my head. She scrambles back away from me, a look of horror twists across her face.

The Professor lies prostrate on the floor, blood still spurting from his neck. It arcs towards the woman, cowering in the comer, a crimson lake lapping against her feet.

It spreads.

I back out of the room, stagger down the stairs and out into the night. Guilt crushes me, forces my hands and knees onto to the ice-cold concrete path. I lay frozen, awaiting my destiny, when out of the corner of my eye I spy an orange tabby cat squatting on a garbage bin across the road. Bright green eyes stare back at mine.

I run towards it.

Thank you for reading this rather long story, which was originally published in Allegory Magazine.

If you want to read more fiction, try these by Annie Trevaskis, Ginger Cook and Randyduke.