The Mechanics of Us

Chapter 18

I have written 119 logs since I have started being Bete's care provider/monitor. In the beginning, I would write with immense detail so much so I would describe how she would tap her toes when anxious. Nowadays, I lie a lot, and the entries are very dull. Often I leave out details and forage imaginary moments that might convince them that I am not self aware and do in fact care about this absurd duty they have assigned me. I haven't been caught yet, so I think it is going fine.

Betes is now a teenager, just turned 16 actually, and just got her license. A lot of the days now consist of her driving off to random places, or she shuts herself off from the world and stays in her room. Ever since she closed her door after I told her the lesson about our origins, she has become more reclusive and emotive.

To some degree, she is acting exactly as a typical teenager would. Moody, edgy, emotional, her brain is maturing, causing outbursts. It is a very typical teenager behavior, but what I have noticed is that she doesn't learn as quickly as other teenagers do. When warned of her actions, she reacts very emotionally and disregards the logistics of her activities. I would often walk into loud banters between her and her parents; I remember distinctly when I walked in on her father strangling her robotic hand, he held it so tightly it dented the metal and then that afternoon I worked on smoothing out the hand.

Another time I walked in on her crying, and her parents were berating her on being too dramatic and emotional. She was only thirteen then and had her first crush on a girl, who then broke her heart. She needed comfort and turned to them, but they did not provide it. I could tell she was hurting so badly after that moment. Heartbreak, regardless of age, is still a terrible thing to experience. That's when I started to sit outside her door at night to see if she would talk to me. I would knock on her door, plant myself down in front of it with my legs crossed in a knot, and wait to hear the shuffles of slippers and then a quiet settling of motion. I knew then she was waiting for me to start the conversation. Some nights she didn't come over, and I would be talking to a door most of the evening. It didn't matter to me if she engaged or not, only my efforts mattered to me because then at least I know I tried.

During the nights, I would spend talking with her; I would sit outside with my back pressed up against the side of the wall adjacent to her room. We would discuss what was going on in each other's life, compare and contrast each other's abilities, our discoveries, news about other cyborgs, and how the world is beginning to divide. The laws begin to strengthen their hold on the existing cyborgs, and the punishment for continuing these practices has increased in intensity. Those that exist now have curfews that must be registered have tests done periodically and are limited to some social regions. Then those who have been caught carrying out the procedures are punished for lifetimes in prison and sometimes death—a life for a life.

However, a couple of individuals are beginning to speak out against cruelty. Every so often, there would small protests; cyborgs would come forth but ultimately become imprisoned; taken away to god knows where. The world is beginning to divide and crumble apart, and it is hard not to get caught up in all of the chaos. But the girl keeps me grounded.

Even though she doesn't interact with me a whole lot, I still hear her door opening and closing every night to remind me of her presence. I still have the memory of the first time it shut and not a day passes that I don't wish I could go back and fix what was said and how the whole interaction played out. I sometimes dream about the entire scene playing out, and in that scenario, I hold my hand out to stop the door from closing, and I speak the words that pressed against my mind and burned into my chest. However, these were just dreams. I know I can not fix the past, only try to make it better in the present and subsequently, the future.

Unfortunately, I think I see her future more vividly than she does as I can see her flame slowly being smothered as the years go on. Our long nights spent on opposite sides of the door begin to dwindle each day. It started with our talks lasting a couple of hours, but the hours started to turn to minutes, then the minutes turned to seconds, till one-word exchanges. It was always the same too.