Dive Deep into Creativity: Discover, Share, Inspire
Who do I gotta find and/or pay for someone, anyone, to physically turn my flesh suit of a body into a mechanical drone?
You can have my memories, what's left of my soul, my mind
Just need to not be constantly fighting myself physically and mentally to exist
Plus I would look so much hotter as mysel
I wish I had robotic limbs
Just the thought of someone forcefully ripping my arms off and leaving me at their mercy is a dream I need to become reality
She never wanted anything before.
She lived her life for other people, always doing what they wanted her to. They told her to do things, maybe to get a job done, or go somewhere, or to say something - and she would.
She was good at taking care of herself.
She met all of her medical needs. She ate to remain living, never taking any enjoyment in the act. She was alive, but even she could see that there was a difference between being alive and actually having a life.
She kept it up for a while.
Some people - those with common sense and yet no understanding - would disparage her for this:
‘How terrible must it be to live without living? How could she do this to herself? Did she not see what it was doing to her?’
But other people exist, and some of those people have care, and empathy, and understanding, and a capacity for love.
Her miss is one of those people. She took one look at her, and knew exactly what she had to do.
She did not demand that she fix herself, that she take the fractured parts of the person she could have been and form a facsimile of enjoyment and emotion. She did not ask her to magic away her flaws and change her personality and act as if nothing was ever wrong with her.
Instead, she took all of her broken mechanisms and functions and twisted them towards her own self-serving altruism.
She made her wear the clothes she loved but was too scared and indecisive to wear.
She made her go to the places she wanted to experience but wouldn’t dare go otherwise.
She made her accept her own desires and made her realise other people could love her, things she knew before but would never act on for fear of pushing people away.
At the end, she lay on her miss’ bed, looking all pretty in her new dress, tired from night after night of new things, and with a smile on her face.
And her miss made her do one more thing. One last step. She made her step out of this body of meat and bone which she had always hated but had never been able to leave, and step into a better one.
One made of ceramic and metal. One with lovely joints and perfect mechanisms. One which doesn’t need so much taking care of.
One which she can, finally, admit that she wants and loves.
She stands still, hearing a repetitive ticking noise emanating from inside of her chest.
She can feel the gears inside of her as they rotate and mesh and interlink, sending the energy stored in the spring wound up within her.
She moves her arm upwards to stare at the back of her hand. As she does, wires move to curl her fingers, mechanisms rotate to allow her arm to bend at the elbow, and metal slides over metal on her joints.
She’s been so delicately made, so precisely crafted.
Always in equilibrium, as little wasted energy as possible.
Her miss made her to be perfect.
It always makes the next bit more fun.
A sharp blow knocks her off balance, sending her side into the edge of a table.
It cracks, but holds.
Her legs are swept out from under her. She falls.
Hits the hard floor.
Cracks, but holds.
The boot that follows finally breaks her, causing the ceramic of her chest and abdomen to fracture and burst out across the room.
Her miss reaches inside of her, not caring for the shards that pierce her skin and draw out her blood.
Her miss seizes a gear and holds it for a second. If she had a heart, it would skip a beat.
Her miss takes another gear. Holds it.
Tears it out.
She can’t feel or move her legs any more. Within her, cogs spin impotently, teeth catching on empty space.
Her miss gently places her hand around her spring.
Twists it.
Not up, but down.
Her eyes flutter closed. Her limbs don’t go limp, instead they lock in their current positions. Her gears and mechanisms slow, very soon to go still.
As she is wound down, she finds it harder and harder to think, to reason, to act.
To act before her consciousness fades out of existence requires immense willpower and focus, along with single-minded determination.
As her mind fades to black, her mouth moves.
It hangs open in a lopsided smile.
Her nails were the first thing that was taken away.
The woman in front of her stands, holding her head between her hands, whispering soothing words. Promising it won’t hurt very much at all.
Her knife reaches out again
Her skin falls away from her, revealing layers of fat which follow in turn. Her muscles part, and are quickly and precisely removed. Organs are cut out, excised one by one so as to avoid making a mess or disturbing the ongoing work. Veins and arteries are removed with impossible cleanliness.
She doesn’t want to stain anything, after all.
Bones and eyes remain, so are taken as well.
She can’t avoid making a bit of a mess with this bit.
Splinters of bone fall to the floor. Her skull cracks, splits, shatters. She is removed, then her brain is tossed aside.
Then, from a place where she sees and feels yet cannot act, she watches as her miss truly begins her work.
Steel is melted, poured into molds, beaten out on an anvil, and formed into a beautiful new skeleton for her. Her miss works with ceramics to make her cold new skin. She works with bronze and brass and precious metals to build her lovely joints.
She spends weeks crafting new eyes for her doll.
When she wakes up, after months of watching the affection of her miss pour into her new body, she moves quickly, sure of her purpose.
She embraces her miss.
KIsses her with porcelain lips.
And offers a response months in the making:
‘Thank you.’
A sharp crack rings out, echoing through the room.
She looks at her arm, wrenched out at an unnatural angle, hand limp, joints broken.
She looks at the person standing above her, a sadistic smile stretching across their face.
She looks at their hand. She sees the hammer they hold.
Three more cracks ring out.
She lies limply on the floor, limbs broken, helpless.
She smiles back.
The person above her moves, not with the sharp violence that broke her, but slowly, deliberately, with care.
They take a set of keys from their pocket. They flick through them to find the smallest of the keys. They lean down and kneel on the floor beside her. They reach out, hold her shoulder, move the key towards her.
And it falls into the keyhole right by her shoulder. It turns. A soft, gentle click is heard. Her arm falls out of the socket, landing amongst the shards of porcelain that surround her.
She sees the metal framework of her arm, warped and distended by the blunt force of the hammer. She sees her joints, shiny from wear and use. She sees the last remnants of the ceramic that serves as her skin, either affixed to the frame or driven into the material that forms a part of her.
Three more clicks ring out.
Her limbs are strewn about on the floor around her.
The person beside her leaves for a moment, and returns carrying a bag. They sit back beside her. Reach out yet again, but with neither the hammer nor the keys.
If her body could feel, she would feel the cold of the new metal, not yet worn or tarnished, as it works its way into the setting within her shoulder. She would feel it again, in her other arm. Again and again, in the attachment points just below her hips.
Her miss stands over her once more, looking proud of their work.
She raises her new arms, uses her new hands to push herself off the floor, stands on her new legs, walks forwards on her new feet.
She loves her maintenance.
‘May I have your name?’ I enquire.
‘ '
It rings hollow. It disgusts me. It is a lie, and there is nothing we detest more than lies.
But it proves that he is a fool. So I demand more.
‘May I have your assistance?’
‘Of course. Anything you want me to do.’
So his fate is sealed.
I ask him back to mine. To tidy up and arrange the place. To help in my work. Of course, he is inept at first. He was not raised to place flowers in vases, or use a broom, or organise a library.
So I make him adept. For each of his failures - each mote of dust out of place, every fallen petal in the garden, all the slight imperfections - I change him. He is the first thing to go. The mind follows shortly after, with the body trailing behind.
She is now hollower than ever, yet no longer hollow at all. She is adept, her porcelain fingers better at the housework than ever, her new shiny joints no longer complaining from long hours working in the garden, her unblinking eyes finding every little detail to correct and make proper.
Her new voice, light and musical, no longer elicits such disgust in me, for it cannot tell the same lies that the old voice, so coarse and grating, could.
After a certain amount of time, which I do not care to describe for time means little to us, she tells me this:
‘I’m happy, miss.’