The Mechanics of Us

Chapter 19

The days are never-ending, and the humidity outside and inside the apartments lingers around like thick invisible fog which settles in every room and clings to your skin, so it's as if you are always touching something. I am used to the heat but not the humidity, and it doesn't help when my sweat doesn't excrete itself in a relatively efficient way, and I end up overheating very quickly.

I'm watching over the couple's daughter today, ever since school got out my hours have shifted slightly, but I do not mind, and I think she enjoys the company for the most part. Currently, I am stationed in the dining room; an automated fan stands across from me and periodically blows a warm breeze into my face. Over the years, I have become desensitized to the heightened senses I have acquired and now find myself able to tune out almost all sounds. Almost all sounds.

Spark. Ting. Fizz. Hiss. Spark. "-Damn it!"

I lean back on the wooden chair and stretch my neck out towards the cacophony of sounds that carries from the girl's bedroom.

"You alright?-" I call out, placing my book page side down on the table.

"Betes?"

A frizzy fluff of fire-red hair emerges from the bedroom, and I can't help but chuckle to myself.

"Not now-" she snaps, and I laugh even harder.

"Sorry-" I stifle some chuckles before recomposing myself.

"What happened?" my eyebrows raise, and my arms cross in front of my chest.

Sheepishly she holds out her prosthetic hand, and I examine the eroded and singed exposed wires that jut out from where her robotic hand branches off and connects itself to her forearm.

"What happened?" I reiterate. My fingers gently handle her pale and delicate skin; there are slight burn marks that are starting to form on her organic flesh. Without much thought, I get up and grab a washcloth running it under some cold tap water. I return in seconds and dab the cool cloth around the inflamed skin. Immediately she retracts her hand out of extreme discomfort, but I keep it in place with a firm yet kind grasp.

"I-I...," her voice falters.

"I was trying to adjust it, so it didn't unhinge so easily-"

"Really?" I lift an eyebrow and turn my chin up to her.

"Really." she murmurs faintly without having our eyes meet.

I know she is lying, but I don't press her because I am aware that some things are better left unanswered. The metal hand smells of burnt toast mixed with sulfur, and there are visible scorch marks that wrap around the wrist and fingers.

"We need to get this fixed sooner rather than later. I'll call your father."

"Do you have to?" she whines.

"Yes. No arguments," I move past her and take the home phone from off the kitchen counter and call her father.

"Great," she sarcastically huffs and stomps into her room.

***

The father shows up only twenty minutes later, and I can tell he is already having a tough day.

"What happened?" he questions, exasperated and winded. Bete's peers around the corner of her doorway, and in seconds he is kneeling in front of his daughter and examining the corroded hand. His movements with her are choppy and awkward. There is no sense of remorse or empathy but a conveyance of annoyance and frustration.

The daughter stutters and begins to fumble with her fingers. There's a slight tremor to her, and I spot the way she begins to rub the tips of her fingers together and then evolve into a tight clench. She's trying to stop herself from crying; if she cries, she will not be able to stop.

For once, I know I have the upper hand, as I am keenly aware of the damage and how to manage it. I step forward in front of Bete's to shield her away from her father's prying gaze.

"Water damage," I explain. "I accidentally mishandled a glass of water, and it spilled on her hand, and it short-circuited."

The father stares down at me in disbelief, but he appears to be too exhausted to fight for the truth.

"Okay. We need to get this fixed. Now" He pulls his keys out of his front dress pants pockets and heads towards the door.

"Come on!" he shouts and exits without another word.

Bete doesn't hesitate and rushes up to her father's side. I follow a few paces behind but make sure the girl is ahead of me and in eyeshot at all times.

***

The engine purrs as we travel down the bustling city streets. A distant echo of a child's laugh makes itself noticeable, and I catch sight of Bete's who also catches sight of me. There is no need for verbal explanations, only a glance is used, and then we both know what the other is thinking. In this instance, when we lock eyes, we both sense what the other is thinking; There is a child, out in the open, happy. There is no fear of being seen, no discomfort experienced by those around them; they are free to be themselves and enjoy this summer day. They are lucky. We are jealous.

After about thirty minutes of driving, we hit the edge of the city, and the tar road transitions to dusty gravel. The terrain is flat with patches of tall wild grasses and multicolored pastel flowers that tuff out around the edges of the gravel road. We continue on this primitive road until a flicker of sunlight catches all of our attention. A maroon brick building with a partially rusted roof glimmer in the sun. It has vines curling around the edges of where the bricks meet and small patches of moss spreading out from the seams. On the brick outside, there is a white faded painted logo of an angled wrench on top of a tire.

"Where did you find this place?" I question while klutzy-ily gets out of the car and dig my hands in my back pockets.

"People." the father snaps and slams the car door behind him shaking it slightly.

Bete focuses upon me with worried stricken eyes. I pat her on the back and give a reassuring nod.

"You got this-"

"I know-"

"I know you know-"

As we meander towards the opened garage of the mechanic's shop, I hear the high-pitched squealing of drills rotating viciously and the clanging of a hammer hitting the bottom of a metal plate. I cover my ears briefly and catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye. Betes is mirroring my actions.

"It helps if you wear foam earplugs."

The girl, her father, and I whip our heads around and see a young woman standing before us. Her hair is short, it falls just above her collar bones, and it's charcoal black, but there is a segmentation that is ever so slightly lighter, more of dark mahogany. Her complexion appears to be of a tan olive and in the sun it makes her seem sunkissed and glowy. She's wearing a weathered black leather jacket, jean overalls with holes in the knees, and matching black leather boots, which are plated with steel at the toes. That's one way to make an entrance.

"I'm the mechanic here," she exclaims. She stands with her feet shoulder-width apart, her fingers hooked around the straps of her overalls, and she wore sunglasses so I can not tell what her eye color is. I eye her up and down and notice a faded scar that stems from her widow's peak and presumably to the back of her head, possibly connecting to her spine.

"What brings you here?" she calls out and then begins to stride over to us. A cloud of dust billows around her as she steps.