“I’d rather not talk about Sean.” The sting when I say that is like I cut myself. We’d just been laughing; a desperation in my chest makes me want to go back to that, not pick at old wounds. Matthew seems to understand, raising his hands as if forfeiting his line of questions. I breathe out when he goes back to taking in my place as if my freezing up never happened.
The way Matthew’s shoulders lower and the fluidity of his motions give him a relaxed feel. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so at ease. What does his place look like? He wouldn’t have dozens of colorful items added by caring hands. Plates in hand, I admire the layout of my place; from my spot in the kitchen I can see into the bedroom.
Suddenly, the kitchen vanishes. Matthew isn’t with me. I lie under the heat of an insidious weight; the only thing that breaks the silence is the water drips. Water, that’s what weighs me down with impossible gravity, that makes the idea of moving laughable. The steam wraps around my face, suffocating me, but I don’t feel it. I need to do one more thing, but what is it? A question spreads through me like those ripples made from the water drops; would anyone care if I die here?
Hands grasp my arms, causing the vision to break; I’m not submerged in water anymore but gasping. Matthew’s face fills my vision. He looks off; I’ve never seen the cautious intensity that writhes under the surface of his expression. I feel clammy, stomach turning in nausea. Pieces of the shattered plates litter the floor.
“What was that?” I don’t mean to ask the question out loud, but I’m glad I did because Matthew’s expression shutters.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lies, he’s lying to me. I don’t know how I know but I do. It shouldn’t surprise me that he’d lie, his entire creation and day to day actions are a lie. The illusion of a person so realistic that I keep forgetting; he is not real.
“Leave.” Fury I hardly recognize rises in my throat. Matthew looks shocked; his hands had felt so comforting holding my arms, but with the deception make my skin crawl under his touch.
“What?” Matthew takes a step closer, as if warmth from him would soothe me but I’m having none of it.
“I want you to take your lies and leave.” I thrash and his hands fall away. I take a step back.
“Charlotte, I won’t lie to you—” spoken like a promise, a vow made to appeal to the neglected, lonely part of my heart. That’s my weak spot, the part of me searching for a connection but I won’t let my walls fall.
“Everything you are is a lie; you’re not real. You’re not a person, you’re my father’s perverse method of enforcing his will.”
The violence rises in me, vitriol burning beneath the surface because an attack is all that will make up for my weak defenses against him.
Matthew looks flayed, stepping back as if I had truly broken something with the clumsy words. The look of hurt on his face makes my anger waver. We stand there in tense silence before the hurt falls from his face and Matthew does what he does best, adapts. If he can’t negotiate a truce, apparently, he’ll move to conquer the castle.
The movement is so quick that I couldn’t have escaped if I had even thought to. Suddenly, I’m being held against Matthew’s body with an arm rigidly around me as he holds my chin at an angle. His eyes are volatile, the pressure from his hand on my chin stopping just before the point of pain. Fear begins seeping through my fury.
Matthew must see that or something else on my face that makes him soften and brush a thumb over my bottom lip, lost in thought. He sighs as if pained and his hold loosens. I can pull away now, but I don’t; his touch is equal parts bad and good, painful and pleasurable, terrifying and comforting.
“This isn’t over, we will discuss this topic later. You go ahead and keep flinging those knives you call words, but each of us is the only person that the other can trust in this whole wide world.”
He leaves, and my stomach lurches, insides confusingly sick from the truth resonating from that statement.
Chapter 4
At first glance, the bar seems empty. But first glances deceive. People come to this place to keep their own company, not to socialize. The establishment might have been described as a hole in the wall but lacks the dingy feeling for that. Instead, it just feels like a forgotten space, known only to those who need it. It’s a local’s bar, primarily for the corporate sort of professionals of varying ages who need to get away from what they are dealing with, whether it be at home or work.
The atmosphere reflects its clientele: subdued, tired, but clean. The décor and drinks echo those of more expensive establishments that you might try to impress a social circle with but to bring such a party here would be sacrilege. The only talking comes from quiet murmurs of those on the phone or the bartender. A good place to think, to breathe.
That’s my reason for being here, to keep myself company, to think, to breathe, somewhere that isn’t my apartment. Funny, how one place that usually acts as a sanctuary can also serve as a Russian roulette wheel and I don’t want to get shot again tonight.
The live music provides a nice soundtrack for thoughts. Tonight, it’s piano. The musician’s hands move over the keys in a way that speaks of his talent. The sweet sounds make my fingers ache to play.
I try not to think too hard; the vision of the water clings to me like thorny vines. The images must be a memory, one of the many that blur together from the war of medication and severe depression that took place during my breakdown, a coiled viper waiting to strike. If I want any answers, I’ll have to let Dr. Nguyen pick my brain about it. Just thinking of clinically dissecting the vivid memory makes my stomach churn.
Something I conclude without thinking too hard is that I need to apologize to Matthew for my emotional blowup. However strange his behavior had been, I can’t expect him to know what is going on inside my head. Our hanging out had been… nice, before I had figuratively bitten his head off. The comfort he had offered had felt like a balm; it shined a light on just how lonely I am. The revelation leaves me emotionally raw.
Though his origins are synthetic, the feelings Matthew expresses seem as legitimate and volatile as my own. The look of hurt on his face when I had said he isn’t a person haunts me. If he can experience pain, if I can hurt him with words, he is probably more of a person than I have allowed myself to consider. I would have thought myself the type of person to avoid causing another’s pain; I always try to be considerate and empathetic. It’s uncomfortable to realize that I have a deficiency in that consideration when it comes to Matthew.
I need to stop obsessing about the hurt I caused him. I bleed guilt; every time I think of his expression, it sinks the knife deeper.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
I jump; a man had joined me at the bar while my thoughts had drifted. The stranger is breaking the unspoken rules of this place. It makes me think he doesn’t belong here. He smiles in the seductive way that a man smiles at a woman, with suggestion and promise. Two men flirting with me in one night; when did I get so popular?
I correct myself; Matthew doesn’t really count as flirting. Flirting means more than just performing the actions, it requires something Matthew doesn’t possess. Even if I am coming around to the idea of him being a person, robots can’t desire. He can’t want, not in the same way that I want when he is around. It’s a depressing thought that chips at my hard-won sanity. Chip… chip... chip.