The Mechanics of Us

Chapter 33

When I get back, I make sure to use the back entrance up the fire escape to not disturb anyone. I creep up the old rickety steps, and after climbing the three flights of stairs, I shimmy my way over to my window and knock three times to signal that I was back safe and sound.

I then lift the sliding glass window and gracefully climb in, making sure not to make a sound. And just as I was about to put my stuff down, my lamp turns on, and out of the gloomy shadows, my parents materialize and are standing in the doorway. It's not the morning, not even close, last time I checked it was 8:00 PM. I sneak a peek at my clock on my bedside table, it's 11:34 PM, they should be asleep.

"Where were you?" my father's voice booms.

"I was getting fresh air," I say flatly. I really could care less at this point as to what he could do to me. He doesn't matter a whole lot anyway.

I shove past him and my mother and make my way into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Of course, they follow.

"You were out seeing that girl again," my mother spoke in a stern tone. I again could care less. I leave them in silence, knowing nothing I will say will change their mind. I give them a side-eyed expression with the toothbrush in my mouth and the suds dripping at the corner of my mouth.

The two just give death glares at me, and I wait for them to talk some more and sure enough, the two starts bickering with one another, blaming each other, blaming me, telling me I am a burden, I am dangerous, I am everything that society has coined me to be. What they don't realize is that they are the ones that are dangerous to others.

I spit into the sink and shove past them again and go into my room and slam the door behind me. I lock the door and wait for the pounding fists from my father and the cries from my mother to proceed, and sure enough, they do. I've had enough of this bullshit—all of it. The surgeon might not be blood related but they were something better than my parents. They taught me who I am, protected me in their way, they weren't perfect, but neither was I. The blood rushes to my cheeks, and furiously I grab my backpack and start shoving bundles of clothes in it. I pack anything I would think I need and then some. I can apologize, I can get them back, I know they care about me, maybe they will let me stay with them. That's my only plan at the moment.

Once I gather all of my miscellaneous belongings, I crawl out of the window. I came in and scale the metal stairs and then go through the lobby area up the stairs to the surgeon's apartment. When I get to our shared floor, I can still hear my parents shouting and pounding on the door. Apart from I want to go back to them and apologize, but a more significant portion knows better. I am not at fault for wanting to be happy.

I perch myself up on my tiptoes and explore around the door frame with the fingertips until I find the spare key to the surgeon's apartment. It occurs to me that I've never been in the surgeon's studio or know much about them other than that they like vanilla and chocolate swirl ice cream, have a fascination with stars, was a surgeon, and is a cyborg-like myself. My hand makes contact with the gold plated doorknob, and with a flick of the wrist, the door flies open. I peer around the door and scan the apartment for any signs of life.

"Hello?" I call out. No response. I step in further and notice everything seems to have been disheveled as if there was a scuffle. Pieces of what appears to be a white ceramic bowl are scattered on the kitchen tile, and in the corner, there are strips of white, blue, yellow, and green paper askew on the kitchen counter. To my left, their old book bag is crumpled and torn in two. I pick it up and notice it is empty. Even their leather-bound book was gone. They never left it alone, though. My attention shifts back to the papers that are like confetti scattered on the floor. I precariously glide over, making sure not to cause any slight breezes as to ruffle the scraps of paper. Upon further investigation, I attribute the scraps of papers to having the surgeon's handwriting on them and further analyze the short snippets of their supposed entries.