You Can't Make A Mechanical Heart Now

Chapter 1

He broke me and he didn't care. We used to love each other so passionately. That's why I married him. But now... it's like something has change. My friend, Anya, used to say be careful of him. That was the last thing she told me before she killed herself. I didn't even try to stop her. I knew she was unhappy. She love her husband, John, but he changed. It was like he went from loving and kind to manipulative and cruel. He abused her and took away her parental rights from her children and was planning to sell her off into human trafficking. She knew, but she didn't want to suffer like that. She didn't want me to suffer like that. She killed herself later on and her husband got home hours later to find her.

He was too late.

He cried and cried and begged the God no one believed existed to give him a second chance and bring back Anya. But life didn't work like that. Once you die, you either get a mechanical replacement for your injury or you die. It's a cruel world we live in now, full of technology and advance science. She didn't want to live again and planned this for weeks. She didn't just kill herself, she hired someone to continue it after she did. The hired person mutilated her body into several pieces until you could no longer recognize it was her. I didn't blame them. I didn't blame her.

My husband turned out the same despite my hopes. He took away my parental rights to my children, the little ones I gave birth to, and turned me into a slave. He at least didn't sell me off to other men to use, but he wasn't so kind to me either. He raped me, abused me, I wasn't even allowed to see my children even once. I wasn't allowed to let them see me even once. He starved me for weeks and when he did feed me, he fed me a lot on purpose. My stomach had grown accustomed to having smaller appetites than normal, so when I didn't finish the meal he gave me he hit me and burned me. I still have burn marks until now.

I tried to leave, but he caught me, yelled at me, then starved me again. It was the same process for months. Wait, was it years? I don't know. All I knew was the abuse. Then one day, he came home drunk. He entered the basement and walked down the steps, walking up to me as I sat there in the makeshift bed of dust in the corner. I knew better than to move because then he would hit me or rape me much more rougher than he had intended to. But he came up to me and said, "Why aren't you in bed?"

I kept quiet, not knowing what to answer him. He was drunk, of course, but I didn't know whether to answer such an obvious question or not. He then said, "Come to bed, darling. It's dirty and cold here."

I was a bit shocked, but at the same time not. He was more drunk than I thought because he would never ask me to lay with him in bed and would never call me 'darling'. I didn't want him angry and while the children were asleep, so I stood up, biting back at the pain and escorted him to his room. When we got there, he laid down on the white sheets, pulling me down with him and draping his large muscular arms over me. I flinched at the touch, not that he noticed it in his drunken image. I was tense all the way as I waited for him to fall asleep. It seemed as if he knew I would got back to the basement, so he tried to stay awake. But he couldn't help it and closed his eyes. In minutes he was snoring loudly. I pushed his arm off me and limped down to get back to the basement.

The next morning I woke up through my instinctual alarm clock and gathered most of my energy just to stand up and limp out the basement to prepare breakfast. My husband had fired all the other servants to let me do all the work. I was surprised to see a woman there, wearing the servant's uniform for women. I was wearing the servant's uniform as well, one for men, but it was ratted and dirty. She didn't notice me come in though the basement's door immediately led to the kitchen. She was preparing breakfast as she flipped the pancakes clumsily, but manage to catch it barely on the pan. I then see the dishes in the sink. I hadn't been able to do that last night because my husband had came home drunk and asked of me to ridiculously join him in bed.

I limped towards the sink, the task to finish the dishes before my husband comes down with the children in mind, but I was only able to touch a porcelain plate when the woman said, "Oh! Sir, you really shouldn't be doing that! I'll do the dishes."

"It's my job to do this...," I said, weary of her coming closer to me. "I... forgot to do this last night...,"

"Are you another servant?", I nodded. "But the master said I was the only servant in the mansion."

I shrugged at her claim. She was a nosy little thing. She asked, "The master said of his wife who sleeps in the basement. He told me to send them to the baths and prepare a fresh set of clean clothes for them. Are you the master's wife?"

I shook my head no, staying quiet in hopes of her to stop talking with me as I continue to wash the dishes. But she didn't stop talking. She talked more and more and more, disturbing the silence I had grown accustomed to. He wants me to work alone and suffer by being a servant, doing all the work in silence, and I have grown accustomed to that. So why did he hire a new servant? One who talks to too much? Was he going to fuck her as well? Or did he want me to suffer more by changing my environment, the environment I have grown to find safe? I didn't care if he slept with other men or women, I didn't care what he did, I didn't care about anything about this family, the family that I have been forced to distance myself from.

He doesn't want me to see my children, he doesn't want them to see me, he doesn't want me to talk, he doesn't want me to be happy, he doesn't want me to conserve myself, he doesn't want me to sleep, he doesn't want me to rest, he doesn't want me to feel safe, so what more did he want from me?!

"Sir, are you okay?", she asked.

I didn't answer her. I kept quiet. My eyes were burning and my feet were aching. I tried to calm myself down and tried not to press force on my hands because then I would break the plate. She was about to open he mouth again to ask the same question when I cut her off. "Just... Shut up...," I growled out.

My growl wasn't menacing nor was it enough to intimidate someone, but she could hear the annoyance and irritation in that growl. She kept quiet and continued preparing breakfast as I washed the dishes. Once I was done, I placed the dishes back where they belonged in the drawer and cabinets then headed down to the basement. I couldn't eat because my husband hasn't told me to eat yet, and I think the last meal I've had was... uh... three weeks ago...? I don't know. I couldn't count the days anymore. Not that it mattered.

It never did.