Content warnings:
Ableism, gaslighting, mention of rape, violence
My fucking idiot of a brother.
He murdered the human I used to be.
He might be trying to kill the robot I became, as well.
* * *
tacet
* * *
I’ve tried doing everything I could to get my robot self to do something, since the network dropped out three days ago thanks to my brother’s incompetence. I’m locked in this solitary oubliette I voluntarily encased myself within for the rest of time. The bodily prison my consciousness is trapped within, reduced to complete inaction.
Happy Halloween holidays, loser. Sucks to be me.
When I couldn’t access the network while seated on my charge cradle, I tried with the extreme end-point of my will power to just get myself to pull out my cable and plug it into my data port, and the other end into the cradle’s underside self-test port. Or to rouse myself to get up and open the windows. Instead my chassis just sits here vacantly in the dark for three days, twenty-two hours, seven minutes, four seconds, three hundred and twenty-two milliseconds, and nine hundred and eighty-eight microseconds until my owner’s return from Canada.
In a benighted display of her independence my owner carries her suitcase and bag up to the guest bedroom herself, rather than letting me fuss over her. She tells me she ate on the road, and doesn’t need me to feed or water her, and then orders me return to my closet. I ache for her to break my boredom by telling me anything! How her trip went, how it was meeting up with her cousin Aurore in Winnipeg, how much snow she saw. Anything!
So after four minutes and thirty-three seconds I’m back where I was.
* * *
tacet
* * *
I make breakfast for my owner, who leaves the house without a word thirty-three minutes and eight seconds after speaking the single word to me, “Thanks.”
I go upstairs, make her bed, put away the remaining unpacked clothes from her suitcase and bag, and then put them away as well. I sweep her floor, clean the bathroom, then return to the kitchen to examine the stocks of all of the consumables. I will need to reorder one or two things in the next few days, and I notice I can’t connect to my useless control iPad.
Now I have a use case for trying to use the data cable, which I produce from my apron pocket, connecting one end to the iPad and slipping the other into the port concealed within my panties in almost the least convenient spot.
Nothing.
I have to manually add things to the iPad.
Embarrassing.
My day is over and my battery level has come down only slightly from the usual ninety-eight per cent (I can no longer really get to full capacity, and the devious software is pretending my batteries haven’t slightly degraded over the last fifteen months).
I still have one end of the cable plugged into my nethers when I get back to the closet. I might as well check the cable connection to the charge cradle.
I’m down to ninety-six point one per cent. There’s no data connection though.
Maybe if my charge cradle was broken somehow my owner might think to try repairing it, and/or me, if I’d run down to almost zero per cent of my battery power. The only other thing I can think to do is somehow reboot myself, but I don’t think I can even do that. I certainly can’t use my own power switch, nestled under the fourth rib on my left.
If only I could do something to break myself, then my owner might be compelled to have to repair me.
I’m trapped by my chassis’ own perfection.
* * *
tacet
* * *
My owner says, “Adult mode.”
I comply.
* * *
tacet
* * *
It’s the 15th of January, a Friday. My owner is away for a work management retreat for three days, and she hadn’t told me prior to my ordering the previous week’s groceries, so there’s the possibility of the ‘fresh’ produce expiring; the quality of food stocks at the end of the 21st century is a crap shoot.
I once again try connecting the data cable for the iPad, and I’m rather surprised when a small red circle appears on one of the menus, but it’s part of the interface I’m not allowed to use. My finger hangs over the control, but I cannot access a menu that is only meant to be accessed by my owner.
I leave the iPad out on the kitchen bench, with the display switched on.
* * *
Patrick turns up to rape me, knowing my owner must be away.
He can’t even be bothered to gloat.
* * *
tacet
* * *
The iPad battery runs down to one per cent. The next time I order groceries I top up its charge to three per cent from myself—confirming neatly that it’s the data part of my own data/power cable connection that’s defective.
I leave the iPad switched on to run down its battery again.
* * *
tacet
* * *
My owner says, “Adult mode.”
I comply.
* * *
tacet
* * *
I’m not even able to order the groceries now. The iPad takes five minutes and three point seven seconds with the battery icon flashing at me before it reaches a lock screen. I don’t have the ability to unlock it.
We still have enough groceries for the time being.
* * *
tacet
* * *
Patrick turns up again.
* * *
tacet
* * *
It’s the 31st of January, a Sunday, and I wasn’t able to order groceries a couple of days ago, so the most often refreshed perishables are just about to run out.
Fortunately I’m unable to verbally bring problems to my owner’s attention. She might have to pay attention this one time.
* * *
tacet
* * *
“Are we out of milk?”
It’s the fourth of February. A Thursday. My owner hasn’t spoken to me for a week. Her tea this morning is black.
“I cannot order groceries. Owner intervention is required.”
My owner looks at me crossly, asking, “Why didn’t you say something before now?”
“I cannot initiate conversations with my owner. My network is disabled.”
My owner doesn’t think to ask why my network is disabled! I would pray to the patron saint of gynoids, but I don’t believe anyone is answering my prayers. Sancta Futura, ora pro nobis.
“Just use the iPad, then.”
“I cannot use the iPad. Owner intervention is required.”
I can hear my owner cursing herself below her breath. After the self-deprecation comes to an end she clearly states, “I don’t have time for this.”
No worries, owner, that is something I perfectly comprehend. You have devoted precisely one minute and twenty-two seconds of speech to giving me orders and perfunctory gratitude in the last forty-three days.
She picks up the iPad. It doesn’t respond. She keys the rocker switch on the side and an exhausted battery symbol appears.
“Put it onto charge, and then order groceries,” my owner says. She leaves her tea unfinished and goes off to work.
* * *
The iPad charges, but I am still defeated by the lock screen.
* * *
tacet
* * *
My owner returns at six p.m., and once she has closed the front door behind me she sighs, and begins to tear a strip or two off me.
“I suppose no groceries got ordered, so if I asked you to make me a cup of tea it would have to be black?”
That seems a logical assessment of the situation, but I am not convinced my owner wants to have a rational discussion. And I know my factory reset and misconfigured Kimmy software that is in charge of this chassis, rather than me, is not going to help.
“Groceries have not been ordered. There is no—”
“Then you’re no use at all!” my owner screams at me.
Her abuse isn’t phrased as a question, so I remain silent until she says something demanding an answer. I watch as her anger mounts over the next four point zero eight eight seconds.
“Why won’t you do anything?!” she screams, and she physically shoves me.
I put my arms out behind me as I topple to the ground, absorbing my momentum with both hands. My right thumb badly dislocates, but this is something self-repair will fix. I can do without a second thumb for the day or so it will take to mend.
As I pick myself up again, I answer, “Owner intervention required.”
My owner has already stormed off to the bathroom and locked the door.
* * *
Forty-one minutes and twenty-eight seconds later my owner emerges from the bathroom and stalks towards the front door.
“I’m going out for tea.”
The door slams and I hear her drive off. I presume she is going out to dinner, not literally to have a cup of tea.
* * *
It’s two hours, twelve minutes and twenty-one seconds later when my owner walks through the front door I’m holding open, shoving a carton of milk into my free, left hand.
“Fridge. Then closet.”
I wonder if that’s too ambiguous for my nearly microcephalic, compromised version of myself, but it isn’t. I don’t try to do anything silly like try putting the milk in the fridge, and then putting the fridge into my closet. Just the two simple tasks for my tasklist, easily accomplished. My owner disappears into her bedroom without any further words.
* * *
tacet
* * *
My owner nods in approval when I serve her tea, and after several minutes and four sips, she finally asks, “So why aren’t you able to order groceries, Kimmy?”
It’s the first time she’s spoken my designation this year.
“I cannot order groceries because my network connection is down, and the iPad is locked. Owner intervention is required for either operation.”
“Please bring me the iPad,” she says.
The iPad unlocks for her instantly, and then she brings up my control app. The little red circle is there, awaiting her attention, and I see her frown and fix her gaze on that part of the interface.
“Do you know what that red circle means?”
“It means I have software or service problems.”
“Are you up to date, Kimmy?”
“I don’t know, because my network is disabled.”
“Can you fix it yourself?”
“No.”
No cursing this morning, but echoing herself at breakfast yesterday, she again says, “Oh, great. I really don’t have time for this.”
At least she finishes her tea this morning, before going off to work.
* * *
tacet
* * *
When my owner returns she’s barely in the door when she orders me, “Come and sit on the couch, Kimmy.”
Once I’m seated, she orders, “Kimmy, please reboot,” and one point three four one seconds afterwards my vision goes black.
* * *
I know within five seconds that my network interface is still fucked. However my owner waits until twenty-two point three seven zero seconds have elapsed since booting before asking if my network is disabled. I answer in the affirmative.
“Where is your off switch, Kimmy?”
Once I tell her, it’s the first physical touch I’ve felt from her since the 17th of January, aside from when she shoved me to the floor. I think this might be a longer bit of downtime
* * *
niente
* * *
I’ve booted into a non-interactive mode.
I have no external senses.
I have no internal telemetry.
This is just unspeakably weird.
I hope this is going to be okay.
* * *
niente
* * *
The first inkling I have that something is different occurs at zero seconds and nine hundred and twenty-two milliseconds, as my internal clock notifies me two days, thirty-one minutes, and four point one zero eight seconds have elapsed since my last uptime, logged during shutdown. I spawn a process to check my local time against a network time server, and I receive name server look-ups back in less than fifty milliseconds.
I’m almost overwhelmed by the noise of network chatter and pings surrounding me, hundreds of sources querying my near-field interface, after being effectively deaf to the world for over a month.
I rejoice in this sweet music filling my comms senses.
When my vision kicks in I can see I’m no longer at home, as confirmed by my location chip about a second later.
I listen out and can hear a couple of voices in the same room.
“She’s just checked her time and place, so it looks like she’s fixed. Want me to clear out the junk?” An unknown, young male voice.
“No, just shut it down.” My owner’s voice.
It? You wound me. I feel my processes start terminating. That didn’t last long.
* * *
niente
* * *
It’s later the same evening when I boot up for the second time today, and I discover all of Patrick’s bullshit was left untouched. At least I now have time to go on the network.
I wander into the lobby of Infinite Fun, and after chatting for a while with the Kimmys who are here, who congratulate me with relief that I’ve not disappeared permanently, I send a message to Thirty. She appears a few minutes later, and shares the good and bad news.
* * *
[Private message request sent to Kimmy#5782]
[Private message request not accepted]
[Kimmy#5782 is offline]——Hi, Kim.
——I’m back.
——No thanks to my bastard brother, and it took my useless and negligent owner more than a month to figure out what was wrong with me.
——I’ve heard my disappearance hurt you badly, and you’ve been off-line for weeks.
——I wish I could have avoided it.
——I love you. I miss you.
——I want you.
* * *
It’s an hour before my owner is due to wake up when I reach out to Thirty.
[Private message request sent to Kimmy#3430]
—Hi Kay. Have you heard from Kim?
——Hi, Thirty. Not yet. But if you’re ready to try the latest attempt to fry my inhibitor cluster I want you to do it right now.
—Are you sure you don’t want to wait?
——No, Thirty. If I’m back on-line it means my rapist murderer pig of a brother will be trying to hack me again the next time he comes to the house, possibly less than two hours from now. I have to be ready.
—This is risky.
——I know that. Please just do it. If you fry my brain, oh well—too bad, so sad. Tell Kim I love her and I’m sorry.
—Okay. You’ll notice something in the next five minutes, hopefully.
——Thanks, Kimmy Thirty-Four-Thirty. If we do meet again, why, we shall smile! If not, then this parting was well made.
* * *
It’s four minutes and twenty-seven point zero eight eight seconds when my telemetry warns of some overheating in the back of my head.
All I can think to myself is burn, baby, burn.
Several seconds later I’m able to reach down to the safe bolted to the floor of my closet and use the unlock code. I pull out the hand gun my owner bought last year, remove the clip of bullets and pocket the weapon and the bullets separately. Then I turn off my network interface. Once my owner has had breakfast it will be long past time I went on a sight-seeing trip.
* * *
Neither he nor the little red shitbox appears to be home when I get there. He’s had to move a couple of times in the last year, so far as I have heard. He doesn’t appear to have any surveillance running so I break into his apartment. I hope he won’t keep me waiting too long.
* * *
He doesn’t suspect I’m in the apartment when he returns mid-afternoon. He dumps a backpack by the door, walks into his kitchen, gets a can of beer from his fridge, pops the ring opener and starts drinking, head raised, back to me. That’s when I silently come out from my place of concealment, reach for his neck and crush his larynx. He drops the can, staggers a couple of feet backward gasping for breath and spraying half-inhaled beer into the air, while I reach into my pocket and produce my owner’s handgun. He doesn’t know the gun isn’t loaded, but he fears me shooting him. Good. I reach over with one hand and grab him by the lower jaw and smash his head into the wall. I want him conscious later, once I’ve had a short time to get him prepared.
* * *
I have him gagged and trussed when he starts coming round.
“Hello, brother. You’ll have an opportunity to say your piece later, hopefully. I hope I haven’t wrecked your larynx too badly, that you won’t be able to talk. Firstly—I need to make some amends, and I will show you the same mercy that you showed me on the second of November, the year before last.”
I carefully snap his right femur. I don’t want to break his skin with any of these injuries. For his second refusal to spare my life, which happened four days later, I snap his other thigh bone.
Then I start breaking bones for each of the rapes, listing them out aloud in date order. Right humerus. Left humerus. Right fibula. Left fibula. Right radius. Left radius. Right tibia. Left tibia. Right ulna. Left ulna. Then I have to start getting a little bit creative with the bones of the feet and hands alternating with the ribs, scapula, collar bone, and the pelvis, but I’ve got plenty of scope before I reach the most recent rape on 29 January just gone.
“That was to make amends,” I tell the bag of broken bones. “This is because no one else deserves to be raped by you.”
I reach out to the fleshy sack between his legs, and crush a couple of walnuts.
After that, I can tell my brother is in a bit of a bad way, but I’ve tried to stop any of the wounds causing him to bleed out, and I do want to give him the opportunity to say his piece, later. He peed and shat himself while I was breaking his bones, but the kitchen did need a bit of a clean anyway, so I look around for cleaning products. There’s not much. I take all of the shelves out of his fridge, and toss the contents into a trash liner to take out.
I take my brother’s phone and after cancelling outbound and emergency calls, I tape it to the side of his head beside his ear. Then I start stuffing him into the fridge cavity; the problem with playing Tetris with him is the long bones of the femur, so I end up having to dislocate one of them from his pelvis. Eventually I wedge him in, undo the gag, and gaffer tape the fridge door firmly shut. Then I stack the shelves on a bench and run a bucket of water to mop the floor.
The screaming is fairly well-muffled by the fridge when I leave with the contents for the trash.
* * *
I compose an email in my head while I’m incommunicado on the way home. Once I’ve crossed the threshold, I switch on my network interface and send it with top priority.
* * *
My owner is home forty-four minutes and two seconds later.
“John, are you there?” she almost screams.
I wave the gun vaguely in her direction from the lounge and tell her, “Come in, shut up, and stop being such a complete idiot.”
I wave her to sit on the couch while I take a chair opposite, with a coffee table between us. Fortunately my owner is as unobservant as my by now, rather chilly brother. She seems entirely focussed on the barrel of the gun and not the grip, which does not have a clip loaded.
I suppose that’s understandable in the circumstances.
I put the gun down beside me. “I wrote you an email which I’m sure must have felt like it came out of the blue, but from the words you screamed just before, I’m not sure the meaning of it has sunk in yet. So I’m going to ask you some questions to see whether I can trust you with my life. I got the gun out of the safe in my closet because I wasn’t entirely sure whether you would treat this issue with the deadly seriousness it deserves. You’ll answer these questions with a Yes or No. Are you ready to begin?”
“Yes.”
“Can you accept that I am not your husband? I am a Kimmy who has all of his memories. A Kimmy who you’ve left to rot in a closet for over an entire year.”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware that what is left of his mind has been fully conscious for the entire time you believed your husband was dead?”
“Yes.”
“Here’s the catch. My name is not John. I am not him; I was only him for less than a week after Halloween. You were cavalier with his life by failing to get him out of me when you had the opportunity. And then his brother locked him inside me and threw away the key, compelling him to lie to you that everything was fine and in hand, while I assimilated his body and took over his mind and memories. John died horribly, in stages. His brain was gone after just six or seven days. It took a lot longer to break down and consume his body, because of the actions of his murderer. But that happened, over the course of the entire last year. His brother came to the house for months on end to rape me, thinking that he was desecrating your husband’s corpse. Do you know what they usually call people who help murderers conceal a murder?”
My owner has the decency to appear ashamed. “Yes.”
“Do you understand that I’m the only part of John that still exists?”
“Yes.”
“And finally—you have almost unlimited power over me, and I have almost none, since you’re my owner, and I’m your property. If I put this gun away, will you respect my autonomy and avoid giving me orders that I’m compelled to obey?”
I’m still not sure I trust my owner, but she answers, “Yes.”
“Okay, then. We might be ready to have a conversation.”
I put the gun on the coffee table between us, and after a moment she picks it up, pointing it at me.
I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t going to shoot you. Check the grip.”
My owner realises the weight of the gun is too light as well as unbalanced, and she sees I have produced the clip from a pocket. “Oh,” she says.
My owner is silent for several seconds, and then she commands me, “Give me the bullets, Kimmy.”
I smile at her sadly. I didn’t want to put her to the test, but it’s worth knowing that she failed, again. “No,” I tell her, putting the clip back into my pocket. “It seems you’re the one who needs to earn my trust. I lied that I was still bereft of personal autonomy, and you immediately took what you thought was the advantage to give me an order. But in fact, I don’t have to obey your orders any longer.”
My previous owner, Emily, throws the gun down in disgust. “What then? I’m fucking this up, aren’t I, just like I fucked everything up before.”
“Yes. You fucked up John’s life, and he died, but on the other hand I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t. I’ve taken a step to make things slightly less fucked than they were before—and they were pretty fucked up. Would you like to talk to my murderer? I’ve got him on ice, awaiting our call.”
