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Cheryl Zaidan
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TUESDAY, SHE MADE HIM a drink.
He was seated in the armchair. It was 7:02 p.m. Dinner had been served at 6:00 p.m., after which the kitchen was so thoroughly cleaned that not even a single crumb remained. He had not spoken to her during or after the meal, although he had said a few words under his breath to himself. The frequency in which he spoke was so low however, that she could not make out exactly what he was saying. It did not seem directed at her, so she disregarded it. The temperature in the room was just as he liked it, 75 degrees, which suited his comfort level.
She carefully set the glass tumbler on a coaster on the side table next to his armchair. He took it without looking at her and sipped. Then he grimaced.
“This tastes like crap!” he screamed, swiping at her with one hand and throwing the glass with the other. The tumbler hit the stone fireplace sending shards of glass across the carpeted floor. Some landed by her feet. “Can’t you do anything right? You’re gonna be the death of me!”
She didn’t respond but picked up a piece of the broken glass and studied it carefully. It was clean, apart from a few smudges that must have come from his hand as she was incapable of leaving fingerprints. The temperature of the liquid had been exactly 55 degrees. The lime peel was fresh. The gin was from the same bottle she had served him from last Tuesday. The glass had contained two ice cubes of equal size. It was, in fact, what he drank every Tuesday at 7:00—nothing more and nothing less.
She looked him over. A quick scan of his body found an elevated heartbeat but the rest of his vitals were normal. She waited until his pulse lowered before approaching him. He did not ask for another drink, but she made him another one anyway, and even though it was after 7:00, he took it. As he drank, she meticulously made sure every bit of the glass was removed from the floor as there was a 77% probability that he would walk into the room without his shoes later that evening.
Wednesday, he became upset when she didn’t hand him his slippers, although he had not requested them of her, and put his fist against her nose. Her nose dented slightly but after studying the damage in the mirror later she was able to manipulate it enough so that most of it appeared normal. There was a small tear in it, approximately 0.1 cm wide, but she covered it with make-up. She thought the tear would displease him, but he didn’t notice it. That was probably because he never looked at her face anymore.
Friday night he came home three hours later than his usual time. They had sex and then he went to sleep without talking to her.
Sunday, he watched the football game, during which he asked her to tell him who would win. She performed some quick calculations of both teams based on player statistics and past performance and let him know that there was approximately a 66% chance his team would win, but with the addition of a new assistant coach and three player injuries, two of which altered the roster of this particular game, there might be some deviation in that percentage.
“I have 50 bucks riding on this game!” he screamed. “You’re killing me with this. Why don’t you just do it and get it over with? Would that make you happy?” There was no good way to respond to this, so she stood in the kitchen and waited until after the game ended.
His team lost by one point. After the game he ripped off her arm and beat her with it.
Monday morning, she was still on the kitchen floor. He did not address her directly but stepped over her body, then went to the cupboard and pulled out a can of coffee. She tried to get up to help him but was unable to do so. He put the dirty cup on the counter beyond her reach, then left for work.
He didn’t come home that night.
Tuesday morning he came back, knelt beside her and began to sob. He took her face in his hands and turned it toward him. The motion caused her neck to creak loudly.
“I’m sorry baby,” he said. “I’ve just been angry at work and I can’t seem to focus on anything. You understand, right?” She didn’t understand but attempted to nod in the affirmative. “I’d rather kill myself than hurt you, baby. You know how much I love you.” He started to cry again. She raised the arm that was still attached toward his face. He took her hand and kissed it.
“I promise I’m going to be so good for you darling. But first...,” he wiped a stray tear from his eye, “first I’m going to get you better. Good as new, promise.”
She tried to nod again. It didn’t matter to her, all that mattered was him.
He hadn’t always been this way. When she had first arrived, he had been quiet and barely spoke above a whisper. He was extremely polite, even when asking her to complete the simplest of tasks. But then things changed. Gradually his requests became orders and his orders became commands. One time he told her that it felt great to have someone beneath him when everybody else was above. She didn’t understand this. All she knew was that she lived to serve, but he was not happy with her no matter how hard she tried to please him.
* * *
TUESDAY AFTERNOON HE gathered her in his arms and carried her out to the car. “You’ll be beautiful again,” he told her, tracing one finger along the large hole in her shoulder and wincing as he touched the inner mechanism that showed through the synthetic flesh. “You know what to say right?”
The technician was a man named Joe who nodded quietly during the explanation of how she had been damaged. The explanation being that she was a ‘klutz’ who regularly fell into things because she didn’t look where she was going. She was not asked any questions from Joe and thus remained quiet.
“I can fix her physically,” Joe said. “But if you want her personality adjusted you’d have to take her to the Cranium Camp—they do that there.”
“I don’t want her personality changed.” His reply was steady but angry. “Keep her brain the way it is, just patch her up the best you can. Take good care of my baby.”
It wasn’t until after he left that Joe leaned in and whispered to her face. “Tell me how this happened. Really.” She could only say that she had fallen down the stairs. It didn’t matter that the house did not have an upstairs or a basement. It was what she had been told to say.
Joe sighed and washed her face, running his fingers over the small tear in her nose, now visible with the make-up removed. “Did that happen when you fell down the stairs too?”
“No.” She wasn’t told what to say about that.
Joe wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Okay,” he said. “I understand if you can’t say anything more. But I think it’s a damn shame what that prick is doing to you.” He turned and gathered a large box of tools from the shelf behind him. “I mean I know you can’t feel pain but it ain’t right. This...,” he waved a hand over her body which he had propped up in a chair, “this is going to take quite a few days to fix. I know you didn’t fall down, and you’re not stupid. I know what happened. It isn’t right—a guy treating a woman like that. Even if you aren’t human, it’s not right at all.”
It took a week, but Joe had replaced her arm, and fixed the rest of her so that she was “perfect if not even a little better.” She wasn’t told exactly what that meant or what, if any, enhancements had been made but Joe had simply winked and told her to keep it their little secret. And as she was programmed to do as she was told, she did.
* * *
SHE CAME HOME. TUESDAY night she made him his drink. She used a previously unopened bottle of gin. The peel was from a lime that was even fresher than the last one she had used. The temperature of the liquid was 53 degrees. He took a gulp and spat it out.
“God, they really screwed you up, didn’t they? I should just send you to the junk heap, you pathetic piece of trash.” He raised his hand and slapped her face.
She responded by ripping off his arm and beating him with it.
“I’m going to be the death of you,” she said. She hit him squarely across the bridge of his nose, at the exact spot her skin had been torn. He lay sprawled on this carpet, his eyes wide open.
“You’d rather kill yourself than hurt me, baby,” she said. Then she hit him again and again. The blows were systematic with precisely the amount of force he had used on her—no more and no less. He made a few gasps but was unable to speak. Therefore, she did not have to stop. There was no direct command to follow.
“I’m killing you with this,” she raised the arm over her head. 34 blows. The exact number of blows he had used on her. Yet for some reason, she did not stop.
“Why don’t I just do it and get it over with? Would that make me happy?” She decided that yes, yes it would and so she did.
After all, she had been programmed to obey.
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Discussion Questions
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FEBRUARY 2022 Vol. 3, No. 2
