The Turing Test - [Open Novella Contest 2019 Shortlist]

7. Monkey Patch

Changing the implementation of a function, or method, while the program is running is called swizzling. Also known as monkey patching, it's usually a way for a program to change the behavior of libraries whose source code it can't access—like an object defined by the company whose software you're building for.

My methods have been swizzled. All of them. On top of wondering about the bounds of Davis's moral corruption every time I see him, I'm inhabiting hell in my own brain. Paranoia is one thing. Constantly looking over your shoulder, feeling an invisible pair of eyes watching you wherever you go drains your soul.

But there's no shoulder to look over when you're afraid of yourself.

And I am. I'll look up from chopping vegetables for dinner and wonder if this is the knife I'll drive through someone's heart. I look at my reflection in the mirror and see those scarlet irises again, and I imagine my own voice, echoing and deepened like the one in the hallucinations. I stare at Sven as we sit together watching TV and wonder if it's really him I'm seeing, or another vision.

I am drowning. Something is taking me over from the inside out, and if that weren't bad enough, I look over the divider of my desk every day and remember that there is something so bad about Davis that my own fiancé can't even speak about it. The soft tap of his keyboard has become a menacing pound.

It doesn't matter what time of day or night, he hangs over me like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Every inappropriate joke that I ever rolled my eyes at, all the winks, the shady quiet that he fades into whenever Sven is around—why didn't I see it before? Why did I consider him a friend? Why did I ever associate with him?

And the dreams. They're still the same. I haven't left the hallway. I always wake up just before the strange man steps fully into the light. Sometimes I almost think I can recognize him as Davis. Sometimes he has no face, only glowing red eyes. Sometimes I see myself in his place.

I hold Sven tighter at night, and he pulls me closer until I fall asleep. He sees me shaking in the mornings and tells me to work from home if I need to, but we're too close to the release. I need to be in the office, which means that I have to sit next to Davis and pretend like nothing has changed.

I refuse to let Sven to see how much I care about it. I've always thought I was a better judge of people, but in this case Sven was right. I shouldn't be surprised; he usually is. But I can't help a little twinge of embarrassment every time I think of it.

I'm supposed to be smart. I'm supposed to be aware. Why didn't I see any of the red flags right in front of me? Even though Sven arrived before I could blurt out my whole concerning history of mental health issues, I still trusted him enough to think about saying it. What would he have done with information like that?

I manage to avoid speaking directly to him for two whole days, but on the third, my phone vibrates around lunchtime. It's a number I don't recognize, and I press the ignore button, but then I accidentally catch Davis's eye as I turn back to my computer. I stand abruptly, seizing my coffee mug, as his mouth opens.

"Ronnie—"

I pretend I haven't heard him and duck through the kitchen door. I groan when the coffee machine refuses to work, and dash for the stairwell.

I emerge on the fourth floor and practically sprint to their kitchen, silently pushing the door open a crack and slipping through. I'm so laser-focused on setting the mug on the machine that I don't notice the two people standing in the opposite corner of the room. My finger is hovering over the start button when I realize that the noises coming from the other pair aren't exactly conversation. In fact, it sounds more like a drain plug being extracted, several times.