Category Archives: Short Story

Unique Rabbit (Revision)

Had that dream for the thousandth time. Ice cold sweats and the hangover hits my brain like a sack full of babies hitting the pavement. Left the T.V. on the Playboy channel. It’s in black and white. Just to look classy, I guess. They’re both wearing hats like in Casablanca, but that’s about all they’re wearing. Porn directors try too hard nowadays. Why even bother?

I shovel in a handful of Lady Scout cookies from the side of my bed—peanut butter today. Breakfast of champs. I bought a hundred boxes of them from Vanessa a couple years back and still have a whole closet full. She wanted to win some day camp trip or some damn thing so she could go with her friends. The cookies are all I have left of her now. The movie doesn’t turn me on at all but I knuckle off a load anyway. Makes my headache worse but I ignore it. For a second, I think I may be the only man on Earth who’s snacked on Lady Scout cookies and yanked it before getting out of bed. But there’s probably a whole mess of jerk wads like me. It’s a depressing thought. I cram a handful more cookies in my mouth before getting out of bed.

The mattress squeals and I slowly stumble over to the fridge to get some milk to wash it down. Out of milk. Lucky me.

First day back at work after my transfer. Mouth feels sticky. Chief jumps out of nowhere like one of those long-armed monkeys and claps me on the back.

“You look like Hell, Jack.”

“You’re not the prettiest guy either, Chief.” He laughs nervously. The guy’s scared of me. I punched out the chief at my old station the day after I got off personal leave. He told me it was illegal to have a rabbit doll hanging from the windshield of my squad car—obstructing vision while driving or some B.S. I stopped paying attention after he told me to take off the rabbit. That was Vanessa’s plush doll and he knew it. He had the right hook coming. Maybe not the kick in the ribs, but he was out cold by then anyway. In my defense, he was kind of a dick. Still, it could be that I needed those anger management classes.

Been working almost thirty years on the force so they let me off with a transfer to some shitty station all the way across the state, far enough from Brooklyn not to give anyone grief. I took everything with me, even the cookies.

When I was transferred, I pretty much lost all my seniority. I mean, I have it for retirement ‘n all, but I can’t be caught spraying the toilet seat or they’ll can my ass for good.

My new partner’s name is Charley. He’s a squirrelly kid with big messed up teeth (don’t they have a dental plan in this precinct?). I like to take naps on patrol but the guy never shuts up. I think they put me with him just for a lark, but I should feel lucky to still have a job. Yeah, I’m a lucky guy.

“Hey, Jack! I got a good one today,” Charley tells me as we crouch into the cruiser.

“Not today, Charley.”

“How do you catch a unique rabbit?”

“Charley, I’m about three seconds from—”

“Unique up on it!”

I died a little inside. Charley kept yapping.

“How do you catch a tame rabbit?”

“I don’t know, Charley? With a pistol?”

“The tame way! Unique up on it!” Every day with this shit. Charley’s the kind of guy that sends you forwarded messages with pictures of adorable kittens. His parents probably said “H. E. Double Hockey stick” when they were angry instead of throwing an empty beer bottle at his head. No one can stand him, but I don’t think he notices. I think he might be retarded.

“My aunt used to tell me that one.”

“Just ‘cause you had a traumatic childhood, Charles, doesn’t mean you got to lay it on the rest of us.”

“Shut up, Jack!” he sulked, then laughed.

“Just drive, you mook.” The quiet sound of the engine kicking is usually the highlight of my day.

I manage some shut-eye for a while, but I have this recurring nightmare I’ve been having for several days now. There’s this big shadow just taking my Vanessa and violating her and she screams and I want to tear this guy apart limb from limb but I can’t move. I reach my hands out but it’s like I’m chained to something. So I snarl and cry my damn eyes out until he pulls out a knife and that’s when I wake up. That’s when I always wake up, as if the first part wasn’t horrible enough. Never told my shrink about it. She’d probably just give me more pills to swallow.

I’m sweating through my shirt, breathing like a chain-smoking pitbull. Charley’s staring right at me.

“Jack, are you all right? You were rolling around in your seat. Did you have a bad dream? My dog does that sometimes when she’s dreaming about chasing small animals.”

“You got a green light!” I snap. “Look at the road, not me! Ya weirdo…” While Charles is stomping the gas, I wipe the sweat off my face. I hate those damn dreams, but I’m almost glad for them, too. They remind me of her, what she sounded like, and what happened to her. I don’t want my memories of her to fade in a drunken haze like I did with her mother after cancer slit her throat. And I don’t ever want to forgive that man, either. I want to remember. I have to.

Charley’s glancing at me again. I must have looked scary or something because his eyes are stapled to the pavement ahead of the car. Well, at least he’s paying attention to the road now. The pedestrians are always ridiculous around here. I look back at the road and I can see what looks like Vanessa stepping out in front of the car. Probably the DTs. Just as I squeeze my eyes shut to make her go away, the car screeches to a stop. The shoulder strap almost knocks the wind right out my chest.

“I almost hit that girl!” Charley cries, opening the door without even checking for oncoming traffic. The way we’re positioned has us jackknifed across both lanes.

“What girl?” I snap, opening the passenger side.

Charley is helping a young girl up from the street and apologizing about a hundred different ways. She has a jPod plugged into her ear and she dropped her phone on the street (no wonder she didn’t see the car coming). When she pushes the hair back from her eyes, though, I can feel my balls almost suck back into my stomach. She’d be fifteen by now, the same age as this girl. The same dark hair. The same freckles on her face. The same mole above her collar bone. She even has the same huffy motions when she’s mad.

I’m almost afraid. I saw Vanessa’s body the night she was murder. I ran through the barricade when I overheard it my be her. And it was—I’m sure it was. I know what my shrink would say. I used to see Vanessa all the time and she’d say I was “projecting my desires.” But this is different. This isn’t the profile of some girl walking around a corner. I mean to ask the girl if she’s okay. Instead it comes out as “Are you Vanessa?”

Charley and the girl both give me weird looks. I’m even more certain now. Vanessa gave me those same looks all the time, like I was some crazy old man and she must have been swapped at birth with another kid. “Vanessa? Is that you?”

“Get off of me!” the girl shouts, kicking me, but I’m already hugging her and sobbing like an infant.

Charley is trying to pry me off. There’s a crowd gathering. “Jack, get a hold of yourself.” I’ve seen scenes like these on T.V. where the guy’s finally cracked, so I take another look to be sure. She’s still my beautiful, big-nosed Vanessa with the dark eyes like her mother. But she looks scared as a skinned hare, so I let her go.

“You don’t recognize me? Vanessa, it’s Daddy.” Maybe my memory’s just gone to Hell. Maybe I don’t know what’s real anymore.

“Charley, I’m gonna take this girl in the car. We have to fill out some paperwork.”

“We don’t have to do that, Jack. Are you hurt, miss?”

“No, we do. Remember, code 802?”

Charley screws up his squirrelly little face trying to think. “…a cat in the road?”

“I’m fine! I’m just going to go home.” The girl wiggles her hand in the air and turns to go. Not again. I grab her other arm, trailing behind like a tail. She pulls and hollers, and I grab her other arm.

“Jack! Just let the girl go!”

“Get in the car, Charley.” Vanessa makes a small kick at my shin. My grip on her arms must be hurting her, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let go this time.

“Jack, I need you to calm down and let the girl go. We’ll talk about this later. I won’t tell the chief on you or nothing. Okay?” He smiles and nods like a dashboard bobble head.

“Get in the damn car, Charley!” I can see people gathering around in the corner of my eyes. They’re probably thinking police brutality, the way the girl is screaming. Someone is holding up his cell phone, probably taking video.

“All right, but I’m calling this in to the chief.” My asshole jumps into my stomach. I pull out my sidearm. “Get in the back, Charley. You too, Vanessa!”

Charley does what he’s told. Vanessa struggles a bit, but I manage to push her into the back of the squad car, holding her head to make sure she doesn’t hit it going in.

I start driving to the sounds of a sobbing girl. Vanessa sounds a little different from what I remember, but that’s probably puberty. Charley wastes his energy reassuring her, then me. I spend a few stoplights sweating over where to go now that I’m a kidnapper. I pull off onto the 40 going east.

“Where is he taking us?” the girl asks. She’s afraid, and reasonably so, but it’s good to hear that she’s not crying. Makes my stomach rot to hear my girl cry like that.

“I don’t know. Jack, where are we headed?” Charley’s back to being Charley, now that I don’t have a gun pointed at him. “Back to Brooklyn. Maybe she’ll remember who she was.”

“My name’s Madison. I don’t know a Vanessa.”

“CAR 67. CAR 67. WHERE ARE YOU? WE’RE GETTING REPORTS ABOUT A POLICE OFFICER PULLING OUT HIS PISTOL ON 34TH. CHARLEY. JACK! RADIO BACK AND RETURN TO HQ IMMEDIATELY.”

I pick up the radio but the girl starts screaming and bawling as soon as I do. Lying to HQ wouldn’t buy me any more time if they can hear her screaming. I click it off. They’ll be trying to track me soon if people are calling in about my exploits downtown. What am I doing? My parents must have shaken me like a pinball machine when I was a baby.

“I’m sure we can work something out with the chief. I mean, you’re a cop and it was mistaken identity. You won’t press charges, will you, Madison?” Dear God. He thinks I’m some sort of psychopath or something.

“No. I won’t. Just let me go home.”

“How old are you, Madison?” I ask gently.

“…fifteen,” she sniffles.

Same age. Same looks. By all rights, this “Madison” is my daughter.

“Then it doesn’t matter whether you want to press charges. You’re a minor, so your parents are my judge, jury, and executioner.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair. I’m the one being kidnapped,” Madison says.

“Kidnapped? No. No. Look, we just need to get to a doctor I know. He can do a blood test to tell if you’re Vanessa’s twin or if you have amnesia or something. It’s the only other explanation I can think of. Maybe I’m your real Daddy. Don’t you want to know if you’re my daughter? Don’t you want to know if you had a sister?”

“I don’t think I do. You said that she was dead. I mean, it doesn’t seem like there’s any point.”

“But she’d be your sister. I mean, don’t you want to know?”

“I’m sorry. I just want to go home. I want to go back to my family. My real father is probably worried sick about me.” The car is quiet for a few minutes until Charley opens his yap.

“Hey, Madison. Want to hear a joke?”

“Charley!” I snap. “The girl doesn’t want to hear your stupid jokes!”

“Why did the woman divorce the grape?”

I growl in frustration, swerving around all the slow cars that drive five miles per hour trying not to get a ticket around the squad car.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“She was tired of raisin kids.” Madison doesn’t laugh or say anything about how lame the joke is. She just sits there in the back and I can almost hear her thinking it over. What’s there to think over a joke that stupid?

“That’s pretty harsh. So, she didn’t like the kids just because of the way they looked?” She’s taking this way too seriously.

“No. It’s just a joke—a play on words.” Charley reassures her.

“I mean, she’s tired of having kids who are raisins so now she’s going to just abandon her family?”

“I don’t know… I never thought about that. Jack, what do you think?”

“Don’t give two shits. Just you and Vanessa keep quiet. I’m gonna call my doctor friend on the cell phone.”

“My name’s not Vanessa. It’s Madison.”

I try calling but it’s his voicemail prattling on about appointments. I throw the phone in the empty passenger side. Am I going crazy? Is this girl even here? No, she’s got to be. I have to be sane. Maybe she is a twin sister that my wife gave up. They say everybody’s got a double somewhere in the world. Or did that rapist murdering fuck not really kill Vanessa? Maybe she has amnesia from the trauma? But then whose body did I see? Somebody else’s. Must’ve been. I mean, that body was almost beyond recognition. Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe forensics made a mistake.

“Jack! Sirens!” Charley shouts. Not that I’m complaining about the warning, but whose side is this numbnuts on? Does he really think I’m gonna pull over? I turn on my own sirens and step on the gas. Maybe they’re not coming after me. I click the radio…

“…67! PULL OVER! REPEAT…”

…so much for that.

I feel refreshed, gunning it past the cars as they make room for us, at least until I reach a barricade of squad cars at the tollbooths—toll roads bust my balls every time. I hammer on the breaks, and I can feel the tires on the right side leave the ground and crash back down to the earth.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and raise my hands in the air until officers raid the car, pulling me out on the hot pavement to feel me up a while until they’ve got my gun and they’re satisfied that I’m not keeping C-4 tucked under my balls.

Charley’s getting the pat down, too, though not nearly as rough. Madison’s standing there, looking every bit like my sweet Vanessa. She tries to smile at me, I think, but all it looks like is pity.

In spite of myself, I’m a little relieved. I don’t know who this girl is. I really want to know. But even if she’s not my daughter, she’s still alive and okay. Maybe better than she was with me. I can see a sliver of the moon even in the middle of the day, the taste of peanut butter in my mouth. Vanessa was always such a forward, rational thinker (she got that from her mother). She was always telling me to let things go.

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Filed under Session XXIV, Short Story

Sadie’s Blog

Sometimes, at 3 or 4 in the morning, when I’m all alone, I think of drowning. At first it seems like a peaceful way to die—nothing but water all around you, damping out the noise of the world, covering your senses like a blanket—but then I think of the actual dying part. I mean, think of it—you’d try to breathe and breath wouldn’t come, and then your lungs and chest would start collapsing, shrinking, and you’d try to breathe but only water would come in, and you’d start choking and all the veins would bulge in your head and it would hurt. So. Much. And the water. The water tries to come into you, take over you, and death tries to make you nothing, take you from yourself. You’d think, “No!” No. I don’t want to be water! I don’t want to stop being! And that’s when you’d lose consciousness. Your brain loses function, the neurons stop jumping, your body loses it warmth, and you shit yourself. The water seeps inside and changes you, warps you into some swollen doll, and you sway at the bottom of the ocean like some corpulent buoy or float to the top like a long-forgotten diver with flesh like cottage cheese. The fish would probably eat at your crap-filled clothes, ‘cause fish’ll eat shit like that. Heck. They’d probably eat your cottage cheese face, too. And when all’s said and done, you’ll probably get fished out with a hook by some fisherman and maybe someone would spew chunks into the water—the fish would probably eat that shit up too. Fish are disgusting. Anyway, it kind of loses its appeal when you think of it that way. I’d probably never drown myself. And I know she loaded up her pockets with a bunch of rocks, but Virginia Woolf must’ve had some serious willpower. I wish I had that kind of strength.

Posted 2/2/08 3:58 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I’m having trouble sleeping again. No big news, right? The sun does look so pretty in the morning, though. I just wish I could see it when I wake up. I’m so useless! I mean, why can’t I function like normal people? I’m going to get to bed before my mom wakes up and yells at me.

Posted 2/3/08 5:42 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Mom and I fought again today. She says she’s going to take away the computer when she gets home. She thinks I’ll sleep better then. Sometimes I just hate her. And I’m not being an emotional teenager. I hate her like a knife in the eye. Sometimes I wish my dad were still alive. Maybe my mom wouldn’t be such a bitch then.

Posted 2/3/08 6:30 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I’ve started cutting myself again. Mom said she’d let me have the computer again. She doesn’t know what to do when I “act out” so she just caves. She’s so pathetic. Every night she tells me that Jesus loves me. I hate when people say that. It’s like they’re using Jesus as a crutch to feel the love they’re incapable of. But the truth is, I couldn’t care less what she does. I’m just so tired. I hate myself for it, and I hate myself for making my mother cry. It always feels like there’s all this tension building up inside of me, and when

I make that first cut, it all just melts away. I’m afraid that I can’t stop. I’m afraid someday I’ll just decide to go for the veins. It doesn’t sound so bad, anyway.

God, I hate myself.

Posted 2/6/08 7:47 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

We keep gauze around the house all the time. I know how to bandage myself up and I always wear a sweatshirt or long sleeves, so it’s not a huge problem at school. I used to just let myself bleed and Mom would take me to the hospital, but we don’t have the money for it. She works cleaning people’s houses and has started going to school to be a nurse. I don’t know why she still pays for the internet. Maybe she’s afraid of what I’ll do without it. I can hear her praying for me in the next room. She does that every night before bed.

Posted 2/6/08 10:28 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

There’s only one person who makes school bearable. Dizzie and I are kind of friends but not really. We don’t really hang out. I mean, she has her own circle of friends, which is mostly her band. Somehow, they straddle being cool and being outcasts. They kind of float around among the stoners, the band geeks, and other assorted freaks. Sometimes we talk at lunch. She’ll start drumming tables and people’s heads and then stop at me to chat before moving down the drumline. I don’t know why, but I think she likes the freak in me, and she’s the only person who’s made me laugh so far. Only once. Still, that’s a good record she’s got going.

Posted 2/7/08 4:25 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Currently Listening: Alien She by Bikini Kill

Ugh. Having the ol’ period again. Whoop de doo. These are cramps that would take down a bull elephant. No lie. Mom says it runs in the family. It must be so easy having a penis. I know it’s a cliche, but boys have no idea. And then when the subject of period comes up, they flip a bitch. It’s ridiculous! I won’t silence myself for them!

Posted 2/8/08 6:57 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Sometimes I have the weirdest dreams. This middle-aged woman set herself on fire. She was smiling. And then she started shaking all over. She opened her mouth like she was about to scream and I woke up I was so scared to hear it. Then, I heard the scream in my head after I woke up. It was the most haunting thing, like the sound a cat would make if you used her ribs to sharpen knives. But the weirdest thing is, I read an article today about Kurdish women setting themselves on fire. I don’t know if I believe in “the power of dreams” like my mom does, but I do think sometimes that I, in my “moments of non-being,” know things that I don’t know when I’m conscious and aware. Maybe I just know how people respond to all this pain in the world. I mean, think about it. You’re trapped. Your parents have abandoned you since you married. Your husband hates you for being ugly and barren. He beats you. Daily. Everyone in your community is blind to it. They just stare ahead with those dead, vagrant eyes. You feel tired and invisible. What can you do? How can you make yourself heard when no one will listen? How can you be redeemed when you feel like trash, like your role in life is to be discarded and forgotten? You light the kerosene stove for dinner. There’s no way out. Maybe. Maybe I’ll light myself. The only way. There’s no way out. And then you do it. Woosh. Pain. Unimaginable, hold-a-hot-frying-pan-to-your-face pain all over your body. Your hair and clothes ignite. Your skin bubbles and melts. Your eyes boil out of your skull and the fire climbs into your mouth as you scream. It feeds off of you, turns you into a shrieking bonfire. When your husband breaks down the door, he finds a smoldering corpse, like a doll made of ashes. The only part that still looks human is the blackened shape of a person and those teeth. You wear an eternal grin, a result of your lips melting from your face. I could never be as strong as that.

Posted 2/9/08 11:23 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Currently Watching: Reign Over Me

I accidentally told Dizzie about my blog. She wanted to read it but I told her it’s private. She didn’t push. She went back to her friends. I feel bad. I mean, Dizzie has always been really cool to me. But there’s a limit to how much freak someone can take. All the other girls hate me. I can tell. The talk behind my back, about how I’m an emo bitch, crying out for attention. Yeah, like your low-rise jeans and insect glasses aren’t a cry for help. At least I don’t write sob poetry about my boring life over a Lindsay Lohan background. I can’t tell Dizzie. She’d line up with the rest of them. I can’t give up what little things I have that hold my sanity together. I need this blog. And I need her.

Posted 2/10/08 5:44 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I keep thinking about Dad. He and my mom were high school sweethearts. Probably not a good idea but they went with it. I was an accident, and they married because of me. Probably another bad idea, but who am I to judge? Dad went into construction. Mom did, well, pretty much what she’s doing now. She didn’t get the nurse idea until after Dad died. Depression runs in my family down my mom’s side. She had postpartum pretty bad with me. Dad had to take time off of work, which was not really possible with the financial situation. He was quite the self-sacrificer, my dad. My mom tries to be more and more like him every day. But, it’s a weird thing I remember this now. I remember him telling me a few months before he died: “My mother was into the whole feminist thing, but I never understood it. She never had any girls, so she’d always tell me over and over again at the most random times, ‘This doesn’t apply to you boys, but don’t be a martyr. If you ever have a little girl, you pass on that message.’ I always thought it was a weird thing to say, but she’d say it anyway. Constantly. Then she’d pinch my cheek and tell me to go out and have fun playing football. That was her way of saying not to worry, to just be happy I had friends and that I was a kid. I think she always wanted a girl, though.” Then, he’d shake off the old cobwebs of his memory and pat me on the leg, saying, “Go have fun and play football, or whatever.” And he’d laugh and laugh. My dad had that kind of booming laugh that came deep from the gut. The man had lungs like bellows. He always smelled like sun and asphalt… dad was doing road construction on the highway at night when a car went speeding through and hit him. Maybe he wasn’t being careful, I don’t know. They wouldn’t let me see him in the hospital. I was 11. I cried and cried and it’s been hard to cry since. There wasn’t anything noble about his death. He just died. In a stupid accident.

I didn’t mean to write so much tonight. I need to settle down and get some sleep.

Posted 2/11/08 4:32 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I talked to Diz today and told her I’d play ball. She just raised a pierced eyebrow at me. “You win. I’ll post my stupid blog.” She had this big stupid grin on her face, looking all smug. I tried not to smile, too, but she’s like a virus sometimes. So, every post from now on is going to be posted for everyone to read. Well, not forever. I’ll just try it out for a while. No biggie. Okay. OK. You can do this, Sadie. Here goes nothing!

Posted 2/11/08 5:09 PM angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

So. This is my first public post. I mean, how’s it going? This is kind of weird. I don’t know what to say. Okay. Let me start over with something familiar.

“And then a Plank in Reason, broke, / And I dropped down, and down – / And hit a World, at every plunge, / And Finished knowing – then –” -from poem #280 by Emily Dickinson

All right. Now that you know how weird I am, I guess I’ve broken the ice. So, school is pretty lame. I like English class, though. Obviously.

Listen to me! I can’t do this, Diz. I’m sorry.

Posted 2/13/08 4:38 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

Comments: np sadie lady! chillax 4 a while. eat your wheaties and get back on it k? Love that Em D. Keep her comin sadie the sadist! ur hardcore! jk! pretty sweet peptalk right? lol catch you in school, grrl ;P

Posted 2/13/2008 7:55 PM by DizzyGrrrl16

Thanks for the pep talk, but please don’t call me Sadie the Sadist again. It’s embarrassing. Anyway, since you requested more:

“I’m Nobody! Who are you? / Are you – Nobody – too? / Then there’s a pair of us? / Don’t tell! They’d advertise – you know” -From poem #260 by Emily Dickinson

Mom’s never around, but I get the house to myself a lot. I just like to hang out, watch movies, and surf the internet. It’s cool having someone read my blog. Thanks, Diz.

Posted 2/14/08 5:15 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

Comments: sry, Sade. u know the Marquis is my idol! btw, did u call me a nobody?! JK. i was doin some serious teletubby giggles after reading that. Keep rollin with it, Sade. ttyl!

Posted 2/14/2008 7:31 PM by DizzyGrrrl16

Why did I agree to do this? What should I write about? How much I want to kill myself? Well, can’t do that! Mom’s been hiding the damn razors again. Can’t even shave my damn legs! I’m just not strong, not like her. And I’m not brave enough to live like you. And I’m not so resolute as to die like Virginia Woolf. What should I do? Dad? What should I do? I’m sorry, Dizzie. I’m so sorry.

Posted 2/14/08 5:25 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I swallowed my pride and talked to Mom. She told me to pray. I told her to try again. She sat down – crumpled, collapsed, imploded – and put her face in her hand. I felt this deep revulsion for myself, this emotion in the pit of my stomach like wanting to cry and throw up at the same time but with cathartic/purging release. Nothing new. But then she told me to sit down. She was smiling and crying at the same time, and she started stroking my hair. She told me how beautiful I am, and how much I look like my father. “I’m nothing like him.” She sighed. She kissed my forehead. “Your father was a bit of a loner, too. He kept hoisting everyone’s problems on his big shoulders. And whenever anyone tried to help, he’d just push them away. He loved you so much. The man would have walked on water for you.” “Yeah, right.” She put on her amused Mom voice: “Yeah, really. Now, come on. Pray with me. Your father is probably being a big grump up in Heaven. He needs somebody to talk to.” I kneeled down by my mom’s bed and tried to pray in front of that ghastly crucifix. Then I thought, if you put a lot more weight on Jesus, he’d look a lot like my dad. Kinda weird, but I felt a little more comfortable with him on the wall. We all ended up sleeping together, wrapped up in a polar bear comforter. It was nice.

Posted 2/15/08 4:23 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Diz, we need to talk. Rather, I need to talk. And I need you to listen. If you’re not okay with that, it’s fine. I’ll live with it. I’ve been alone for a long time, anyway, and I don’t expect you to mold yourself around my lifestyle. I don’t want you to sacrifice anything for me. Not even your time. It would hurt too much. Understand? Okay.

The truth is, I’m messed up. I think about death on a daily basis. I think about killing myself, about other people killing themselves. I hate myself. I cut myself just to see my own blood. I cut myself just to inflict pain on myself. Because I’m a bad person, because I hate my mother and she’s done nothing but good for me. And I also hate my dad for dying like he did. I can’t talk to anybody. I don’t have any friends. All I do is sit on my computer and surf around, maybe writing something of my own every once in a while. So, I’m going to bare myself to you. I’m going to set all my entries to “public” setting. Read them or don’t. But only do it if you really want to. I don’t want to hold you back.

Posted 2/16/08 4:07 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

It’s been over a day. I’ve seen her at school, but I don’t think she’s talking to me. I probably scared her off. Talking to myself again. I’m so freaking pathetic.

Posted 2/18/08 4:49 AM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

Comments: omg! sry! took me 4evr to post! i was readin all ur entries and ive bin rly busy with stuff. actually i lied. only read a few mths back. Still grrl thats sum wickedness fo rlz. i told you bout my band right? ***BAYSIDE SEX DEVIANTS*** prty cool ya? we kick hella ass but our lyrics all kinda sucK with a capital K ;P anyway, we meet on Saturdays. c u then???

Posted 2/18/2008 7:11 PM by DizzyGrrrl16

Mom was ecstatic to find out I was going to hang out with “friends” this weekend. I told her I hadn’t even met any of them except Dizzie. She kept on grinning and washing dishes. Then she started singing “Strangers in the Night”! Ugh. Sometimes my mom’s like a virus too.

Posted 2/19/08 8:28 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

Currently Listening: In the Garage by Weezer

Guess I haven’t written in a while. Every writer needs a room of her own and I guess every band needs a garage. It’s not where I saw myself even a month ago, but I’m enjoying the company. I still stay up late but I don’t have as much trouble getting to sleep. Even Mom’s happy, but I’d never tell her too much about the “Bayside Sex Deviants.” She’s much happier not knowing, I’m sure. Dizzie’s bandmates are pretty cool people. I’d never really talked to them before in school. They were sort of inspired by riot grrl bands like Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, and Voodoo Queens. Dizzie says they’re also going for the “stage presence of The Clash and the sexiness of The Ramones.” No small feat. It’s kind of weird writing music. Not all the lines have to make sense. It’s kind of hard to explain, really. I suggested that Diz and I collaborate on writing a punk ballad of the Marquis de Sade. We’re using Dead Kennedys as a model to work from. Diz is really excited about it. I’ve never been complimented for having a “disturbed mind” before. It’s a strange feeling. Kind of embarrassing, actually. But I’m happy, too. Mom thinks it was the praying, and maybe it was, but I feel saved in Dizzie’s eyes. Sometimes it’s just enough to belong.

Posted 2/25/08 4:32 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

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Filed under Short Story

Unique Rabbit

Had that dream for the thousandth time. Ice cold sweats and the hangover hits me like a sack full of babies hittin’ the pavement. Brain feels just as messy. Left the T.V. on some Playboy channel movie. It’s in black and white, just to look classy, I guess. Porn directors try too hard nowadays. I shovel in a handful of Girl Scout cookies from the side of my bed—tagalongs today. Breakfast of champs. I bought a hundred boxes of them from Vanessa a few years back and still have a whole closet full. She wanted to win some day camp trip or some damn thing so she could go with her friends. The cookies are all I have left of her now. The movie doesn’t turn me on at all but I knuckle off a load anyway. Makes my headache worse but I ignore it. For a second, I think I may be the only man on Earth who’s snacked on girl scout cookies and yanked it before getting out of bed. But there’s probably a whole mess of jerk wads like me. It’s a depressing thought.

Squeak up from the mattress to the fridge to get some milk to wash it down. Out of milk. Lucky me.

First day back at work after my transfer. Mouth feels sticky. Chief jumps out of nowhere like one of those long-armed monkeys and claps me on the back.

“You look like Hell, Jack.”

“You’re not the prettiest guy either, Chief.” He laughs nervously. The guy’s scared of me. I punched out my last chief after he told me it was illegal to have a rabbit doll hanging from the windshield of my squad car—obstructing vision and being a good example or some shit. I stopped paying attention after he told me to take off the rabbit. That was Vanessa’s plushy, and he knew it, the rotten bastard. The guy had the right hook coming. Maybe not the kick in the ribs, but he was out cold by then anyway. Could be I need the Anger Management classes they’re putting me through. Been working almost 30 years on the force so they let me off with a transfer to some shitty station all the way across the state, far enough from Brooklyn not to give anyone grief. And, yeah, I packed my cookies on the move, so fuck you and your mom.

When I was transferred, I pretty much lost all my seniority. I mean, I got it for retirement ‘n all, but I can’t say shit to nobody or they’ll can my ass. My new partner’s name is Charley. He’s a squirrely kid with big messed up teeth. I like to take naps on patrol but the guy never shuts up. I think they put me with him just as a big laugh, those horrible fuckers. But I’m lucky to have a job. That’s what they say, anyway. Yeah, I’m a lucky guy.

“Hey, I got a good one today,” Charley tells me as we crouch into the cruiser.

“Fuck, Charley. Not today.”

“How do you catch a unique rabbit?”

“Fuck.”

“Unique up on it!”

I died a little inside. Charley didn’t notice.

“How do you catch a tame rabbit?”

“I don’t know, Charley? With a pistol?”

“The tame way! Unique up on it!” Every fucking day with this shit. Charley’s the kind of guy that sends you forwarded messages with pictures of adorable kittens. His parents probably said “H. E. Double Hockey stick” when they were angry instead of throwing an empty beer bottle at his head. No one can stand him, but he doesn’t seem to give two shits. He’s, like, socially retarded or something.

“My aunt used to tell me that one.”

“Just ‘cause you had a traumatic childhood, Charles, doesn’t mean you got to lay it on the rest of us.”

“Shut up!” he sulked.

“Just drive, you mook.” Sad that the quiet sound of the engine kicking is the highlight of my days.

I do get some shut-eye for a while, but I have this recurring nightmare I’ve been having for several days now. It has this shadow of a big dude just taking my Vanessa and violating her and she screams and I want to tear this guy apart with my teeth but I can’t move. I reach my hands out but it’s like I’m chained to something. Chained like a dog. So I snarl and cry my damn eyes out until he pulls out a knife and that’s when I wake up. That’s when I always wake up, as if the first part wasn’t horrible enough. Never told my shrink about it. She’d probably say it’s symbolic of me dying that day and then tell me to get over it. Bitch.

I’m sweating through my shirt, breathing like a sack full of babies trying to get air. Charley’s staring right at me.

“Jack, are you all right? You were jumping around in your seat like you were having a bad dream. My dog does that sometimes when she’s dreaming about chasing small animals.”

“You got a green light!” I snap. “Just pay attention to the road!” While he’s stomping the gas, I wipe the sweat off my face. I usually just black out, but that one dream’s always so sharp every time. And the worst thing is, I’m almost glad for those dreams, because I know they’re the only thing that reminds me of what her voice sounded like. I don’t want my memories of her to fade in a drunken haze like I did with her mother after cancer slit her throat. But still, that dream… I wouldn’t wish that on anybody. Not my worst enemy, even. Except him. What kind of monster would…? If I ever find that motherfucker…

Charley’s glancing at me again. I only have to give him a look before his eyes are stapled to the pavement ahead of the car. We’re scooting through town and the pedestrians are always ridiculous around here. Better not have a cop car hitting someone, at least not while I’m in it. I’d get blamed even if I’m not driving. I look back at the road and I can see what looks like Vanessa stepping out in front of the car. Probably the DTs. Just as I squeeze my eyes shut to make her go away, the car screeches to a stop. Almost knocks the wind right out my chest.

“I almost hit that girl!” Charley cries, opening the door without even checking for oncoming traffic. The way we’re positioned has us jackknifed across both lanes. “Are you all right?”

I look at the girl and my balls almost suck back into my stomach. Headphones, cell phones, hair in her eyes (no wonder she didn’t see the car coming), but that’s the spitting image of my daughter. A little older, though. She’d be fifteen by now. Not possible. She’s dead. I saw her… her foot. And the rest of her, torn apart. No one could stop me entering that crime scene and I saw her with my own two eyes!

I’m almost afraid, but I somehow manage to pull out the handle to open the door to ask her if she’s okay. Instead it comes out as “Are you Vanessa?”

Charley and the girl both give me weird looks. I’m even more sure. Vanessa gave me those same looks all the time, like I was some crazy old man and she was swapped at birth with another kid. “Vanessa? Is that you?”

“Get off of me!” the girl shouts, kicking me, but I’m already hugging her and sobbing like I’d squeezed onions into my eyes.

Charley is trying to pry me off. There’s a crowd gathering. “Jack, get a hold of yourself.” I’ve seen scenes like these on T.V. where the guy’s finally cracked, so I take another look to be sure. She’s still my beautiful, big-nosed Vanessa with the dark eyes like her mother. But she looks scared as a skinned hare, so I let her go.

“You don’t recognize me?” Maybe my memory’s just gone to Hell. I don’t know what’s real anymore.

I need to see her face again. I need to hear voice. My shrink would probably tell me to let it go. She can go ride her bony ass to Hell. Vanessa or not, I’m getting to the bottom of this.

“Charley, I’m gonna take this girl in the car. We have to fill out some paperwork.”

“We don’t have to do that, Jack. Are you hurt, miss?”

“No, we do. Remember, code 5124.”

Charley screws up his squirrely little face trying to think. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack.”

“I’m fine! I’m just going to go home.” The girl wiggles her hand in the air and turns to go. Not again. I grab her other arm, trailing behind like a tail, and she screams.

“Jack! Just let the girl go!”

“Fuck you, Charley! Fuck you! Don’t you tell me to let her go! Don’t you ever tell me to let her go! I dream about her every night, damn it! Do you know what he did to her!” The last words come out shrill. I can’t even recognize my own voice. My grip on her arm must be hurting her, but I’m not gonna let go this time.

“Hey, Jack. Settle down. I know how you fee—”

“Don’t you fucking say you know how I feel, you jackass! You don’t know anything. Just get in the car!”

“Jack, I need you to calm down and let the girl go. We’ll talk about this later. I won’t tell the chief on you or nothing. Okay?” He smiles and nods like a vibrator on a nightstand.

“Get in the car, Charley!”

“All right, but I’m calling this in to the chief.” My asshole jumps into my stomach. I pull out my sidearm. “Get in the back, Charley. You too, Vanessa!”

Charley does what he’s told. Vanessa… the girl has a little more fight in her.

I start driving with the sounds of a sobbing girl in my ears. She sounds a little different from what I remember, but that’s probably puberty. Charley wastes his energy reassuring me, then her. I spend a few stoplights sweating over where to go now that I’m a kidnapper, at least until I see the sign for 90 going east.

“Where is he taking us?” the girl asks. She’s afraid, and reasonably so, but it’s good to hear that she’s not crying. Makes my stomach rot to hear my girl cry like that.

“I don’t know. Jack, where are we headed?” Charley’s back to being Charley, now that I don’t have a gun pointed at him. “Back to Brooklyn. Maybe she’ll remember who she was.”

“I’m not this Vanessa girl. My name’s Madison.”

“Then do you know her? Do you know anything about that… her murderer? Please, I need to know!”

“I don’t! I’m sorry! Just please let me go!”

“CAR 67! RADIO BACK TO HQ! WHERE ARE YOU? I’M GETTING SOME REALLY MESSED UP REPORTS, JACK! CHARLEY?”

I pick up the radio but the girl starts screaming and bawling as soon as I do. Instead, I click it off. They’ll be trying to track me soon if people are calling in about my pulling the gun out in the streets. Man, my parents must have shook me like a pinball machine when I was a kid.

“The girl’s pretty shaken up as it is, Jack. Let’s just go back.”

I turn around, almost ready to smack Charley except for the cage in the way. “You think this is a fucking game, Charles! You think this is a field trip where we lay out a blanket, have a quiet ass fuck and go home? I’m in deep shit for this. I’m a kidnapper now, dammit!”

“I’m sure we can work something out with the chief. I mean, you’re a cop and it was mistaken identity. You won’t press charges, will you, Madison?”

“No. I won’t. Just let’s go home.”

“How old are you, Madison?” I ask.

“Uh… fifteen.”

Fifteen? Doesn’t make any sense! Same age. Same looks. By all rights, this “Madison” is my daughter.

“Then it doesn’t matter whether you want to press charges. Your parents are my judge, jury, and executioner.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair,” Madison says.

“Tell me about it. Look, we need to get to a doctor I know. He can do a blood test to tell if you’re Vanessa’s twin or something. It’s the only other explanation I can think of. If I’m your paternal father, maybe I can weasel out with a lighter sentence or somethin’. Don’t you want to know if you’re my daughter or that you had a sister?”

“I don’t think I do. You said that she was dead. I mean, it would be pretty sad.”

“But she’d be your sister. I mean, don’t you want to know?”

“I’m sorry. I just want to go home, back to my family.” The car is quiet for a few minutes until Charley opens his yap.

“Hey, Madison. Want to hear a joke?”

“Charley!” I snap. “The girl doesn’t want to hear your fucking jokes!”

“Why did the woman divorce the grape?”

I growl in frustration, swerving around all the slow-ass cars that drive five miles per hour trying not to get a ticket around the squad car. The idiot doesn’t let up!

“I don’t know. Why?”

“She was tired of raisin kids.” Madison doesn’t laugh or say anything about how lame the joke is. She just sits there in the back and I can almost hear her thinking it over. What’s there to think over a joke that stupid?

“That’s pretty harsh. So, she didn’t like the kids just because of the way they looked?” She sounds upset.

“No. It’s just a play on words.” Charley reassures her.

“I mean, she’s tired of having kids who are raisins so now she’s going to go get knocked up and have human kids? Is that any better?”

“I don’t know… I never thought about that. Jack, what do you think?”

“Don’t give two shits. Just you and Vanessa keep quiet. I’m gonna call my doctor friend on the cell phone.”

“My name’s not Vanessa. It’s Madison.”

I try calling but it’s his voicemail prattling on about appointments. I throw the phone in the empty passenger side. Am I going crazy? Is this girl even here? No, she’s got to be. I have to be sane. Maybe she is a twin sister that my wife gave up, or that rapist murdering fuck didn’t really kill her. I mean, that body was almost beyond recognition. Maybe I made a mistake and he brainwashed her or something. This all sounds like Hollywood shit. Maybe I am insane. You know, they say everyone’s got a double out there somewhere. Always thought that was bullshit, but I don’t know. That’s my baby girl back there. I’m willing to believe anything.

“Jack! Sirens!” Charley shouts. Not that I’m complaining, but whose side is this numbnuts on? I turn on my own sirens and step on the gas. Maybe they’re not coming after me. I click the radio…

“…67! PULL OVER NOW! REPEAT…”

…no dice. Like Moses, we part the traffic. Forty years in the desert wouldn’t suit me, though. Never liked the heat.

I’m gunning it pretty good, at least until I reach a barricade at the toll booths. Toll roads bust my balls every time. When I hammer on the breaks, I can feel the tires on the right side leave the ground and gravity back down like the end of a long and eventful bender.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and raise my hands in the air until officers raid the car, pulling me out on the hot pavement to feel me up a while until they’ve got my gun and they’re satisfied that I’m not keeping C-4 tucked behind my balls.

Charley’s getting the pat down, too, though not nearly as rough. Madison’s standing there, looking every bit like my sweet Vanessa. She waves goodbye.

I feel exhausted, like a Samoan gangbanger just kicked the crap out of me. I’ll probably never figure out who this girl is, what her connection is with Vanessa. Then again, I’m a little relieved. I’m sure I’ll get minimum sentence and that’s great and all for a kidnapper, but I’m just glad that Madison’s alive, even if she’s not my daughter. She’s somebody’s kid. I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s a smart kid and all. Just wish I could protect her.

Feel as lost and trapped as a sack full of babies. Madison smiles back at me as they take her aside, a little worried even. I feel like Vanessa’s there, too, telling me, “Dad, just let it go.”

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Filed under Session IX, Short Story

The Metal Child

These were the first words he heard his father speak: “How many lifetimes must it take for humanity to correct its mistakes? An individual is capable of redemption, even if it takes a thousand acts of repentance, but with every generation, the count is set back to zero. If not our children, our grandchildren will repeat our sins. This is the problem with mortality. There is nothing that can be done when humanity’s vices are fed by death. That is why I created you: my immortal son; my metal child.” The doctor combed the newborn robot’s fine, dark follicles and was familiar with each hair; he had implanted them all by hand. The doctor wanted some sense of purity and independence, so he modeled the robot after himself at twelve. It was a nostalgic age for him. His father had bought him a telescope and the young, foolish boy he was thought he could see all the Universe’s workings through such a device. It wasn’t until after he had received his doctorate in robotics and built war machines for the military that Dr. Ferreira finally saw that humans were an imperfection on the great face of the Universe. But he realized that he had no right to judge. After all, he was human himself. Dr. Ferreira programmed his metal child with full realization of his ability to self-destruct, exploding the entire world in a blast over fifty times more powerful than a hydrogen bomb. The doctor relished in the beauty of nuclear fusion, the volatile reaction to atoms fusing. “In life,” he said one morning, “the meeting of two different entities always leads to conflict and violence. This bomb I have created is the embodiment of that concept. But now I have created an angel to carry out the will of the Universe.” Even though he had birthed his metal child for such a grim task, he did not program the choice into the robot. He made sure not to program any function that would “force” the robot to do anything. But this mission was vital. So every morning, while working on the final touches, the doctor would turn on his robot and tell him, “You’re going to have to make a choice, my child. As soon as you deem the world beyond salvation, you will have to self-terminate. It is the only way to save them.” Then, he would deactivate him and continue working. These were the only words the robot heard for 570 days since the first morning he was activated. In order to properly understand and judge humans, Dr. Ferreira built his robot to be as human as possible. He had been created with simulated flesh and nerves that processed pain and pleasure. More importantly, he had free will. Unfortunately, the doctor found that he could not effectively create a way for the robot to process living matter into energy. He could not eat, and he could not die. These were the only differences between his metal child and human beings. Following his father’s verbal command, the metal child added it as one of his primary subroutines. Every second of every day, his operating system would present him with the question, “Do you deem life to be beyond salvation? Y or N.” Since he found no logical reason why it should not, he would always choose “N.” If the metal child deduced that humanity was beyond salvation at any time, the world would end that very moment in an explosion that would set fire to the heavens. As a failsafe, his system would review the data for errors for a period of seven days before he set off the bomb. In the end times, there would be no mistakes or faulty logic. His father had built him well.

It was another few years until the scientist let his metal child out on his own, and this was only when the man was on his deathbed. Though he loved his child and wanted to keep him close, he had kept his creation from his objective for too long. “My metal child, you must go and see the world. See everything. Bear witness to the generations and gather your data. It is something we mortals can never hope to do.” He raised his frail, shaking hands and looked at them. He hacked up a wad of bloody mucus and wiped it on his soiled robes. The nurse bot hovered over him but he waved her away. “What about you? What will happen to you, father?” “I’ll die. I am organic tissue. I decay and break apart. Soon, everything I’ve learned will be gone. And only this lab, this research, and you and Sandy will remain.” He coughed again, pausing to catch his breath. Sandy was the sex bot he had created in his youth that he had converted into a nurse bot. Many of the ideas used in the construction of the metal child’s body came from Sandy’s blueprints. “Do not worry about me, my metal child. Sandy will take care of me until I pass from this world. But I will always be your father. Do not worry about that.” He sighed, wheezing out a parched cough. The former sex bot came to apply his oxygen mask. Dr. Ferreira did not have the strength to resist. His head fell onto his left shoulder as if his neck could not hold it any longer. The robot processed these last words his father spoke. He had no trouble entering “Father=0” as a command line, but the idea that his father would cease his existence but still exist as his father was nothing that the metal child could compute. He stored the calculation in his backup memory to be solved at a later date, perhaps when he had acquired more data.

The sun outside his father’s quarters was brighter than the metal child expected. He understood what sunlight was, but he hadn’t completely comprehended its ferocity until he saw the desert sun for himself. His father must have known and anticipated it, though, since the child’s optics immediately adjusted to the light. Within moments, he could see just as well as when he was home. The world outside was hot. Father had provided him new shoes, but they were made of a poor synthetic with a low melting point. By the end of the day, they were sticking to the ground. The metal child’s first lesson was to keep moving.

From the entrance to the doctor’s underground lab, the metal child began walking in a straight line. In a week and five days, the child found himself in a small town. The people there stared at him but most went on with their business. One woman holding a brown bag of groceries stopped when she saw him. “Oh, Lord, bless your heart, child, but you are a mess! Where are your parents?” The metal child blinked. “My father lives over a hundred miles in that direction.” He pointed back in the direction from which he had come. “Though he may be dead now.” The woman stared, slack-jawed. “Oh my Lord. That’s awful! Don’t you have anyone? It looks like you walked all the way here.” “I did.” “Good Lord, child. Come to my house. I’ll take care of you.” The metal child followed the woman, who later introduced herself as “Charlotte. She led him to a white house surrounded by a white picket fence. His historical files informed him that fences like these were commonly used to keep out animals, originally being sharp sticks in the ground. This type of fencing was also used in castles, though usually more as a warning since stone walls were more effective. Some kings and lords used spears and stuck their enemies heads upon them. Charlotte and the metal child weren’t alone in the house. There was another small child who stared at the metal child. “Hello,” he said, executing basic social protocols. The child still stared. His mouth was fixed in a frown and so the metal child imagined he was feeling unhappy about something. “What’s wrong?” The child began crying. “Don’t mind him. Let’s get you something to eat and get all that filth off of you.” The metal child looked at the “filth” all over his body. Apparently, dirt was unacceptable in social settings. “I don’t eat.” “You have to eat something!” “No. My father did not build me with that function.” “Poor thing! Your father must have been so awful for you to run away like that. Please eat something. Just a cookie? You like cookies, right?” She led the metal child to the kitchen. The woman’s child was screaming in the other room. “What’s your name, child?” she asked the robot. “I don’t have a name.” He must have said or done something upsetting, because the woman had tears in her eyes. “Then we’ll just have to give you one. Go on. Eat up.” The metal child began chewing. He could taste it but he could not digest it. “I like it,” he said and spat it out on the floor. “Dear Lord, child! What’s wrong with you? Just eat and swallow it, for Christ’s sake!” “I can’t. Father didn’t…” She grabbed him by the wrist. “You’re not with your father! You’re with good people now! Do you understand? There’s only one father that’ll treat you right and that’s the Father above us.” She pointed to the sky. The metal child followed her finger, but there was only the ceiling and an electric light. “Do you know how to pray?” “No. How do I pray?” Charlotte’s child had walked in the room. He was sucking on his index finger for some temporary oral satisfaction. “Mommy, I’m hungry.” “Not now, Ronnie.” “I’m hungry, Mommy!” “Shut up! Go play with your toys! I’m tryin’ to save this poor child’s soul!” The metal child knew that it was wrong to neglect one’s child. He would make a note of this as one of mankind’s flaws. Maybe they could correct this shortcoming in the next generation, he thought. He would have to see. “Put your hands together.” The metal child watched the woman place her palms together before imitating the action. “There. Now give your soul up to the Lord, Jesus Christ.” “I don’t understand. What is a soul?” “Dear Lord, child! You aren’t one of those atheists, are you?” The woman squeezed together the muscles in her eyebrows and nose. Her lips were pressed hard together and her jaw muscles were tightened. Judging by these observations, the metal child could tell that the woman was most likely offended by the idea. “I won’t have any heathens in my house. You’re going to church with us tomorrow.”

Early in the morning, after a night of minimal processing to dissipate heat, the woman’s husband came home inebriated. She yelled at the man. He yelled back and hit her. The metal child heard it all. When the mother came into the room to wake up her son and the metal child, she had covered her face in a cosmetic solution to cover what appeared to be a large bruise. After sneaking past the sleeping husband, the woman took the metal child over to her sister’s house to get some clothes from her son, who was close to the age after which the metal child had been modeled. The clothes were a little small for him and the child complained that he would rip the clothing. His mother slapped him and they all marched to the church where the metal child would observe their religious customs. The church’s windows had no functional purpose, except to let in light through different colors of glass. He assumed it had some aesthetic or cultural purpose. The benches were uncomfortable, suggesting that this was either an establishment of low economic backing or that the people here were not meant to relax. He ruled out the first possibility due to the decorative pieces on the wall. A wooden man hung as a centerpiece above the pew. The religious head spoke much about sinners and redemption after they had died. If what he was saying was indeed true, he would no doubt have to self-terminate. Redemption would have to come from living persons according to his mission’s parameters. The ritual included the moistening of his head and granting the metal child a Christian name. The name they gave him was “Michael.” He accepted it and used it when necessary, if only to appease the humans he encountered. Better than the shocked responses he received when he told Charlotte that he had no name at all. He would need to mix in with the human population. He also deduced that his inability to eat disturbed people. He would have to somehow hide his inability to digest organic matter in order to complete his mission. This did not come easy. Many times, he would be picked up by child protective services and have to run away after a few days. The parents would become increasingly worried over his lack of appetite. Often times, they would return him to child protective services, not knowing what to do any longer. One family barely noticed. He was with them for over a week before they caught on that he hadn’t been eating. They tried forcing food down his throat but gave up when they could not pry his mouth open, they phoned the authorities. The metal child was able to ascertain valuable data about the variations between selfishness and empathy in humans.

The metal child visited Ronnie’s great grandson at one point. He still lived in the same town, though it had grown considerably. His home was enormous as well and he was intrenched in local politics, even running for governor. Still, he neglected his children’s needs just like his great great grandmother. He bought them many toys and games, but he groomed them to be just like him. If they strayed on any point, if they were upset about his being too busy with his business or politics, he would point out that the boy was to inherit it all. He didn’t seem to care, though, and the metal child saw a sort of helpless fury in the man as he hit the child and ordered him to be locked in his room.

The longest he spent in one place was in Paris for 71 years. He lived under a bridge in a tent along with a smattering of other homeless people. Only a few people knew him long enough to know something was wrong with him. Many didn’t last very long. Many did not make it through the frigid winters and the hot summers. The stench in their tent was overpowering in the sweltering heat, but still people would go as fast as their legs could take them to rummage through their lost neighbor’s pockets. Most didn’t care about the metal child, though. He usually obtained a lot of money for a panhandler, since he was designed as a child, but he had no need for it. He would usually hand it out to the other homeless people and they didn’t ask questions. He became their “angel.” One man named Jean never took money from him, even to the point of completely ignoring his existence. The metal child was curious about this behavior, so he came to his tent one day with a baguette to “break bread.” The man was lying down, facing the other direction, but the metal child could tell by his breathing patterns that he was awake. “Wha’ d’you want?” Jean said without turning over. “I want to break bread with you. I brought a baguette to share.” “I don’t want it. ‘s poison!” “No. It’s just bread. Why do you think I would poison you?” The man rolled over then and gave a blank look. “You remind me of my son. You look… like my boy. But you don’t have a… a face!” “I do. I have a face right here. See?” The metal child enacted a smile. “It doesn’t… reach your eyes,” he brushed his rough fingers around his wrinkled eyes. His pupils were large but unfocused. “Some kinda monster. Poison.” The metal child noted this absence of eye muscles working in his smile. He corrected it by wrinkling his eyes. The homeless man began hitting his head on the ground. The metal child had seen Jean do this before. “Why do you keep hitting yourself in the head?” asked the metal child. The man gave a broad smile that wrinkled up his eyes so that there were great fissures molded into his face. “Because it feels so good when I stop.” The metal child took a photograph for his memory. This was what a smile should look like. One long winter, the metal child lived with Kanita, a blind ascetic in Thailand. He took shelter in her hut built in the mountains. The snow was becoming so thick that the metal child would probably sink in it and have to stay the entire winter buried and numb. He was fortunate to have found this nun out in the wild. She thought of their meeting as Karma being fulfilled, that he was meant to learn from her. So she taught him about Buddhism, about the seven-fold path and the thirty-two parts of body meditation. The metal child thought it peculiar she would hold to these teachings about the body when she only had thirty-one parts, lacking her vision. The metal child did not have half of the parts, even, many of them being internal. One could argue that he had none since he was a synthetic being. But still, he tried tuning himself to these “human” parts and then to his more “robotic” aspects. He would spend days just listening to the hum of his internal batteries. Then one day, Kanita broke meditation with an observation. “Sometimes my meditations lead me to believe that we keep meeting the same people in every lifetime.” “I’ve met many people,” the metal child replied, not opening his eyes. He had become used to not using this particular sense. “Then perhaps you’ll be a wanderer in every lifetime. It takes a special person. If the Buddha did not venture out of his palace, think of how small his world would have been. I have heard of Jainists as well who walk about the land with only bare feet and brooms. It sounds like how you came to me, Michael.” But the metal child was not Buddha, not even human. “I don’t know if I believe that I will reincarnate, Kanita.” “Everyone does, unless you really believe you are the Enlightened One?” “No. Not me,” there was a long silence again, though short in comparison with most they shared. He listened to Kanita’s breathing. There was a faint rasp, always a faint rasp in humans. Each breath ticked away at their lives. The metal child wondered about Kanita. If she was truly in touch with her own senses, he wondered if she could sense his own inhumanity. If she did, she said nothing to him. Most people were skilled at deluding themselves when it came to the metal child, but he thought maybe she was very honest with herself. “What if the entire world were to end?” he asked. “What would happen to everyone?” “If it is our Karma, then so be it. But really, Michael, how likely is that to happen?” “It could happen…” “You think of such dark things. Here, I’ll make some tea for you to clear your mind. We are not Buddha but perhaps we’ll both achieve a better life next time. I look forward to spending this time with you in our next lives.”

Along his journeys, the metal child found again and again that people expected him to be in school. He tried it a few times in a few different continents, but one teacher in Salvador spoke the most to his mission, about the evolution of man. Mr. Thomason was a math teacher, but he desperately wanted his students to understand the importance of the subject. They never did, but that never deterred him from trying to reach someone. Anyone. “Class, this will follow us throughout history. I know you hate math, but we are preserving ourselves by remembering these facts. If we didn’t have all these great thinkers from the past, we wouldn’t be where we are today. We’d be stuck in one era, just trying to think our way past bows and arrows. It’s mathematics that led man to the moon! Come on! Doesn’t this impress anyone?” “It impresses me, sir.” “It… what?” “I’m impressed.” The metal child saw a look of relief on the man’s face, the same look he had seen in soldiers who said they were going back home or the look in the face of a man who found his “true love.” Yet this one only because the metal child had shown him an iota of respect. This man must lead a frantic life to be appeased by such a small thing. That day, he talked to him at length after school. He said that he was interested in teaching, and the man just opened up completely. The metal child realized that this is what this man lived for. He wanted his students to succeed, but most of all he wanted them to follow his example. “You want them all to be just like you?” “Well, not exactly like me. They’re their own people, you know. But it wouldn’t hurt if they learned how to function in everyday life.” “How to function. How to function,” the metal child repeated to himself in the halls. It was a habit he had developed and not known why. Perhaps he was mimicking someone he’d known in a past generation. Many of the people he knew who lived in parks and alleys had little solidarity with one another, just talking to themselves and flinching from human contact. He once knew a man in New Orleans who claimed to be the second coming of Jesus. He encountered the man before when he was prostituting himself for crack cocaine. He may have felt so martyred that he began to believe that he must be Jesus Christ. “This is a conundrum…” “Your face is a conundrum!” some boy yelled out in the hall. That evening, the metal child spent almost an hour looking at his face in his apartment’s bathroom mirror. It had taken him a while, but the metal child had discovered little ways to make himself seem more human. He brushed his teeth twice a day and made trips to the bathroom every two or three hours just to stand there and then flush the toilet. It made him seem more real, even if his body was not. People could accept that illusion. The apartment itself was cozy, one bedroom occupied by a recently-homeless couple now acting as his parents in exchange for food and shelter. The two had barely known each other before but now they were comfortably married with child. Of course, their child never slept, never ate at all. It disturbed them both deeply, but they smiled and ignored it. Most who are hungry for too long try not to bother others with their presence. They forget about the theory behind panhandling and simply sit there, waiting for something. Or nothing. Whatever comes first.

The metal child spent much of his time in Africa. It took him a decades to learn all of the languages. He spent some important part of his life in Namibia, where he found love, or at least love was thrust upon him. A boy, about the age which the metal child was created to emulate, found him stalking about the millet fields one day. The boy was a worker in the field, run by a wealthy Afrikaaner. The metal child accessed a related memory file where he had encounter a child slavery ring. He was taken by them, but the first time he was beaten, he found that he father had programmed a safeguard in his programming. He tore the slaver’s throat out with his bare hands, unable to stop himself. This boy, however, was not malnourished. In fact, he seemed to be hearty and energetic. The owner of the plantation at least treated him with a sense of humanity. The boy offered food to the robot, but the metal child declined. “You must be hungry.” “I’m not.” “Well, don’t stick around too long. You might get me in trouble with the boss.” “I know how to not be seen,” the metal child insisted. “Then I will bring you food tonight. Now go and stay hidden or leave me alone, white boy!” The metal child left and returned at nightfall. There was a basket with some bread and fruit. The metal child did not want to interfere in this human’s life, but he had learned to accept food when it was offered. He took a walk and fed it to the animals in the morning. This routine was repeated for a week until the boy caught him again. “You’re just throwing away the food I got for you!” “I didn’t mean to throw it away. I just thought I’d put some use to it.” “I gave it to you to eat. I went through a lot of trouble to get it for you. Do you really hate me so much?” He kicked at the dirt. The metal child saw no use in hiding it any longer. “I don’t eat.” The boy looked confused. “Are a devil an angel?” He looked torn between wanting to step closer or back away. The metal child gave a trained smile. “Neither. I was made to be human, but I don’t think I am at all.” The boy laughed. “You’re strange.” He held out his hand. “Let’s be friends.” The Metal Child took it. “My name’s Michael,” he said. “Daniel.”

Daniel came to visit the metal child every night to give him food. In return, the metal child would converse with him. Daniel asked him about the world and the places he traveled to, what he thought about the rest of Africa. The metal child spoke extensively on a variety of subjects, though he never volunteered anything himself. Daniel was genuinely interested in the metal child and he thought it was acceptable to divulge his story to this human. At least, it didn’t contradict his mission. At one point, Daniel and the metal child were talking about religion. They were talking about Hell. The metal child had seen a hundred different museums with a thousand depictions of Hell and he described them to Daniel. Daniel, full of righteous fury at first, grew pale at every interpretation of Hell divulged by his friend. “Michael, do you think I am going to Hell?” “I’m not qualified to say so. What does your pastor say?” “My pastor says I will go to Hell.” “Why?” “I’m in love with a boy.” “Is that a problem?” “You can’t love boys! It’s just wrong!” “Then why do you do it?” the metal child asked. “I can’t help it. Maybe I have the devil in me. That’s what my pastor says. And that’s what the boss says before he… he…” The boy looked troubled and also confused, as if he didn’t really know what was happening to him. A sexual relationship with his boss may explain why he is well-fed and why he was able to retrieve so much food. The metal child rested his hand on his shoulder and Daniel leaned in to kiss the robot on his fleshy lips. The metal child tried to emulate the movements of the mouth but the broke off. “Michael?” “Yes?” “Can I run away with you.” A friend might assist with his prime directive, but having someone attached to him would disrupt his human façade. “No.” Daniel didn’t say anything. He got up and left. His face suggested that he was hurt.

A week later, the metal child found out from asking around that Daniel had been caught by his boss trying to leave and was beaten. The boss told everyone that Daniel was a homosexual. Daniel did not deny it. He said he was in love. The boss was able to rile up the people to the point where they decided to stone Daniel to death. The metal child never went back to Namibia.

It took him several generations, but the metal child eventually deduced that mankind would never change. Given his assignment, he had to self-terminate. Before the seven days days were up, he went back to the place of his creation, where his father died long ago. There, beneath the desert, the metal child processed his memories. At the end of the sixth day, he took a moment to assess the weakest part of his metal plating, which part of his head had worn out the most over the centuries. He held the magnum he had brought in his hand and fired into his own temple. His head whipped back and he raised it again, aimed with perfect mechanical precision and fired again. It took him twelve shots before he finally self-terminated. Before the last shot, he smiled and it reached his eyes.

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