The Mechanics of Us

Chapter 24

Three days go by, and I still haven't responded to any of the Mechanic's texts or calls. My phone reminds me periodically about the existence throughout the day but I have little motivation to acknowledge her. A part of me yearns for her presence though. To see her sly grin, hear her calming voice, kiss her soft lips. I want to call her, tell her what happened, have her cracked and calloused hands hold my hand and kiss my tears away. Yet, another part of me wants to distance myself from her as much as possible. There is still no definitive answer as to whether or not she is a human or cyborg, sure she has a scar but that doesn't mean she is a cyborg. If she is human, I do not deserve her. I never will. When someone is in a relationship, they each have to give 100%. They need to provide their trust, vulnerability, emotional availability, kindness, patience, and above all. They need to give their entire heart and soul to their partner. But my soul is broken; shattered and lost in fragments and my heart is scarred, unable to heal correctly. The Mechanic does not deserve that, and I do not deserve the Mechanic.

***

I've locked myself in my room for the past three days, only leaving to get food, use the bathroom, or get water. I have worn the same old grungy grey and blue flannel, black tank-top, and black athletic shorts for the past three day. I know I need to get changed, take a shower, clean my room, get my life together, but in all honesty. I am exhausted. Everything seems to be in shades of gray, nothing seems distinct from one another, and I haven't felt anything. It hurts to think, to speak, to do anything more than the essential functions.

The fan above my bed spins round and round; in one day, it circulates a total of 129,376 times at full speed. At the moment, I am on rotation number 34,912 when my phone buzzes again. I reach over and click the side button to display the screen. It is the Mechanic still.

"Hi, are you okay?" it reads, and I toss my phone feebly to the side. I can't process anything correctly, it all seems too much, and even that small text sends me over the edge. I drag the blankets over my head and cover my ears with my hands. My mind starts to spin, and thoughts slither in and begin to torment my consciousness. I wish I could just fall asleep again. To silence me, to protect myself from myself.

There is no telling how much time has passed, but I must have fallen asleep because when I emerge from underneath my blanket, the sun is beginning to set, and it casts tall shadows across the wooden flooring. I sluggishly swing my legs over the edge of my bed and attempt to get out of bed. As I do so, the world shifts on its axis, and the walls start to turn sideways. My arm juts out to the side behind myself to provide more balance, but that fails quickly as my hand pops out of its socket.

"Shit," I cry out of frustration. I slump to the floor, my mechanical hand adjacent to me, my head resting on the side of my bed. Warm teardrops hit the back of my hand, and as the sun's glistening rays catch in the center of each orb, a prism of colors reflect onto my hand.

A sharp knock at the door snaps me back to reality.

"What is it?" I call out. My vocal cords are strained; I don't think I have uttered a single word in three days.

The surgeon raises their voice-"The Mechanic is here. Says she needed to do a follow up on your hand"

Right, the hand that is detached from my forearm and hanging out on the floor by itself surrounded by heaps of miscellaneous papers, clothes, and blankets. Half-heartedly I prop myself up off the ground, achingly bend over and begrudgingly reattach my hand, then stumble out of my room. I am keenly aware that I look like I have died three times over, so I race past the surgeon and the Mechanic, not making eye contact and not even acknowledging the Mechanic.

"Give me thirty minutes," I stammer out as I pass the two in the narrow hallway.

I retreat into the bathroom and reluctantly flip the switch so I can see myself in the mirror. The person who stands before me in the mirror is unrecognizable. It is not so much the features that have become foreign to my eyes, but the person beyond the exterior. All that is shown is nothing but a shell of someone who was, not someone who is.