Model 1.0

Steel, metal, wires. Slamming against each other as he hammers it all together. Moulding and creating like a mock image of divinity. Spark’s flying in the air as the wires force connections. He wipes a bead of sweat off his brow. Throwing a glance at the reference picture. A twisted grin forms on his face. His rough bare hands roam over the metal. Feeling each curve of his creation. Prefecting each angle. He stands the lifeless steel up. Perching it enough for it to stand on its own. A cheer falls passed his harsh lips as the wries dangle like puppet strings.

He slides over to his desk. Taping away at his computer. Energy flows through the wires like waves. Lighting up as the creation heaves. Lightening flows from his fingertips. 

The creation breathes.

She blinks once then twice. Her shining lips part as breath falls past. Is this life? She’s not sure. She sighs, shifting in the bed, turning on her slide. Her bones creak and whine as she does so. Light streams in from the window and it feels warm against her skin. She hums reaching out to the man that rests beside her. Her heavy hand finds its way to his chest. Feeling his heart pump, blood flows through his veins. 

He smiles down at her. His own hand reaching to her chest. But not with the same care and affection as she. Though she cannot feel it. 

“I hope you are not sore, my darling.” He remarks and she shakes her head. 

“How could I within your embrace?” She responds.

Is this life? She’s not sure. She wonders what lies beyond her dear husband’s workshop. She wonders why she cannot seem to remember her childhood. Her dear husband’s parents came to visit the other day and they spoke many tails of how he was such a rambunctious child. She wanted to tell stories of her own, yet suddenly she found she could not remember.

Her dear husband’s parents keep speaking of how wonderful of craftsmanship she was carved from. She thanked them as their hands roamed her flesh. For some reason praising her dear husband. She supposes they admire how lovely he dresses her. The clothes her dear husband purchases are quite lovely.

But she wonders what a store would look like. For she cannot remember…

Is this life? She’s not sure. She’s starting to believe that the window above the kitchen sink isn’t real. She’s not sure why she’s begun to think such imaginative thoughts. Maybe she is just bored, tired. The birds out the window might seem to fly backwards simply because of distance perception. 

She hums a melody, eyeing the strange birds that swim backwards in the sky. How truly strange. Clearly, she was much too distracted as a moment later when she looked back down at the dishes, she found she had cut herself. 

“Oh dear!” She remarks as she realizes the knife she was holding was much too sharp. 

“What is it, my darling?” Her dear husband calls from the dinner table, nursing a rich beer between his fingers. 

“Seem’s I slipped a knife against my palm!” She smiles at him over her shoulder, hoping to show she’s okay. Only his face lights up with fear. “I’m surprised I did not feel the sensation.”

Her dear husband stands up quickly, enough to knock his chair over. He rushes to her side with a weak smile. “Why don’t you let me tend to your wounds, my darling?” She laughs sweetly, holding her hand out for him to take.

Just before he takes hold, covering the cut, she can’t help but see something shine underneath her skin…

Is this life? She’s not sure. As she stands outside her dear husband’s office she ponders what life to her is. There’s dinner on the tray in her hands yet she has not moved to knock. The more she listens, the more she believes he is not in his office. Or maybe he is sleeping. He will not hear her if she knocks then. She would have to open the door.

Her dear husband would not allow her inside his office though.

But dinner is getting cold.

Is this life? She asks once more as the plate of dinner shatters across the ground. 

No. No, it is not.

Inside her dear greedy sinful husband’s office lies wires, metal and steel. In her dear godawful disgusting husband's office lies blueprints. 

Blueprints of her.

The shards of the plate dig into her skin and when she walks that false layer of plastic tears. Deep in the office, there is her. A near clone of her. Skinned without any trace of human qualities. She’s strung like a puppet. Dead wires hold her up as her metal head loils. 

Words line the walls. 

“Make her believe she exists for me.”

Is this life? It never was. She was never alive. She was never real. She was simple steel, metal and wires. Carved by sinful hands, touched by a greedy man who kept her trapped under falsities. 

She screams. No vocal cords to tear. Screams loud enough to burst an eardrum. 

She was never human. She was a metal toy for him to play with.

Is this her life? She asks as the one behind her lies, her dear bastard, comes rushing in out of breath.

“Oh… Oh, my darling! Didn’t I tell you to never step in my office?” Her dear bastard coos, voice soft like he is speaking to a child. 

She spins on her metal heel and screams at him. He cowards, covering his ears as he steps forward. She screeches, bending down to grab at the shattered plate. It tears at her artificial skin as she throws it towards him. He panics, ducking as best he can. Quickly beginning to rush around the office.

He slides past her with urgency. She catches blood trailing out his eardrums. She screams more.

He crashes into his desk. Groaning at his lack of hearing. Starting up the system. 

She claws at her skin. Tearing at her plastic. Forcing it to rip and fall off her steel limbs. Her clothes rip, threads torn in half as it all falls to the floor. She wails the entire time, clutching at her head to tear her hair off. No wonder each strand looked a different colour.

Her dear bastard grabs wires. All sparking with yellow hot lighting. He rushes behind her, locking onto her exposed machinery. He locks wires in place against her back plate and she screams right against his skull.

His vision blurs as the vibration rattles his skull but soon all the wires string her up. 

The office falls silent as the creation dies. It ragdolls as the wires pull it upwards away from the ground. He falls to his knees, clutching at his skull as he stares at the torn skin and hair. Destroyed clothes and all. 

He sighs, looking up at model 2.0.

“At least I made a backup.”