The Android Human (Editing)

Chapter 4

Naomi

Monday morning arrived with the insistent beeping of my alarm clock, jarring me awake. I blinked groggily, realizing I hadn’t even made it to bed last night. Instead, I had fallen asleep slumped over my study table, the faint glow of my macbook in sleep mode casting a soft light across the scattered papers. My neck ached, and my thoughts were hazy, a jumbled mess of half-dreams and the lingering questions from the research I was doing.

I spent all weekend digging through articles about these Androids, and not one mentioned them causing any reactions in humans. But the more I read about Gaston, the more disturbed I became. This man is bad news. The fact that he managed to bribe doctors into using their patients as lab rats without consent? It’s beyond sickening. Innocent people suffered horrifically, dying painful deaths, and all because of his twisted experiments. Five years in prison? Nowhere near enough for what he did. But of course, when you’re rich and powerful, you can buy your way out of real justice.

What infuriates me the most is that he's undeniably brilliant. His ideas could reshape the world in incredible ways, but why does he have to use such… unethical methods to test his inventions? What kind of person does that? And how did he manage to get away with it for so long? The questions buzzed in my head like an endless loop, but sitting here stewing wasn’t going to get me any closer to answers.I needed to get ready for school.

I rushed to get ready for school, my mind racing with everything I’d uncovered about Gaston Russo. I needed to talk to Benji. He had to know what I’d found. But today wasn’t going to be an ordinary day for me—I was determined to show up in a way no one at school had ever seen before. I was going to stand out, to shine like a star.

By the time I hurried downstairs, my mom was at the counter, placing toasted bread on a plate. "Honey, you’re not wearing your glasses," she pointed out, glancing at me with a hint of surprise. That’s when it hit me—my eyesight had somehow improved. Perfectly, in fact.

"I... don’t need them anymore," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady as I grabbed my toast, the weight of that realization sinking in. I seriously didn't need glasses for my myopia. It all seemed unreal, like I feel like I have grown accustomed to wearing glasses that the fact that I can live without them stuns me to the core.

"Contact lenses?" my dad muffled while trying to push a big piece of toasted bread into his mouth. "Something like that", I answered and took a sip of the chocolate drink my mother made. "Plus your outfit today is not the outfit our Naomi normally wears", my mom added.

Today, I decided to let my curly hair down, securing one side with a hairpin while letting the other side cascade freely over my face. I wore high-waisted jeans paired with a pink knotted top and matching pink Jordan sneakers. I wanted to present a look that was new and unexpected; I was tired of the stupid comments people made about my appearance. Today, I would show everyone that I could switch it up, too.

“I just wanted to change my look for today, but I’ll go back to my usual style tomorrow—the clothes I feel most comfortable in,” I explained. Deep down, this change was partly motivated by Ricardo. His attempt to insinuate that I was ugly stung, and I felt the need to prove that I could be beautiful too. I couldn’t shake off his words, which played in my mind all weekend like a relentless song: “Can we talk to pretty girls now?” I had heard similar remarks countless times from Brianna and others at school, so I’d learned to accept them. But his words shattered me like fragile eggshells.

“I hope it’s not because of Brianna. Your mother and I always tell you that you are beautiful. You should trust us over your schoolmates, don’t you think?” my father advised.

I smiled at his words, wishing it were that easy. I tried not to let the comments get to me, but my mind often insisted otherwise. Hearing those things repeatedly made it hard to ignore. “Your father is right,” my mother chimed in. “I’m glad to see you changing your style, but I hope it’s because you want to, not because someone’s words got to you. You are beautiful, my lovely brown-skinned flower.”