Tangled Wires, page 3
I have goals in mind, other than going to the mats for Kawa’s synthetic skin. A project in particular that I can’t help being too attached to. It served as a driving factor in staying healthy. Last year was supposed to be the year. Then Dad had had his heart attack, and everything else had dulled.
Now that I have returned to work, I’ll keep my plans in my back pocket, preparing for a time that I can actualize them. It would be a struggle, but I need this project. I close my eyes for a moment and try to remember his laugh, but it’s been too long. Sean.
The trick would be how to get it done under the umbrella of Exordium.
Many of the projects the company works on involve improving failing organ systems, making the old look young, or bettering the convenience of medical methods. All those kinds of projects received unanimous shareholder approval because they pull in revenue and cater to the needs of people like them.
Anything too forward thinking faced contempt and fear. Eccentricities are better left to the work benches of mad scientists; having no place within corporations. Passion doesn’t pay the bills. Innovation has the ability to become a money sink and tank a company. The board’s job is to keep that from happening, hence Dad built Matthew in a basement workshop.
I roll my eyes at myself, Matthew. My mind reaches for him after I’ve restrained myself from thinking about him all day. The memory of this morning pulls me. It’s gravitational, ridiculous and constant. Maybe I should take this time to unwind, process the situation. Let myself remember the expression on his face when he had spoken about wanting to be friends, the warmth of his fingers when they had softly touched mine. Or not, yeah, those thoughts aren’t going anywhere healthy.
“Don’t be crazy.” Words spoken into the dark, annunciated with emphasis. The dark doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that until a knock sounds through it, making me jump up in surprise. Who the fuck?
“Charlotte?”
No, Matthew cannot be outside my sanctuary. We’ve lived on the same floor of this building since he’d become CEO and we hadn’t so much as shared an elevator ride outside of work hours. I had assumed we had been avoiding each other. Which I’d been onboard with, even if it felt ridiculous to look out the peephole before leaving my own apartment. Now, after all that effort he stands outside my door and I don’t know how I want to handle this.
“Charlotte, I know you’re in there… I can hear your heartbeat.”
Creepy. I stumble off the couch and hit the light switch. The comfort of darkness is gone, taking my peace of mind with it. The door stands solid and I hesitate before it. I’m still in business clothes, the armor I wore today when facing him. I know how to act at work, what to expect, how to accomplish what I need. But here, in my own apartment, I feel untethered and exposed, as if Matthew snuck in through a space in the walls I’d erected.
“What are you doing here, Matthew?” My voice sounds rough to my own ears. Speaking through the door isn’t good manners but… fuck it. I’m not ready to see him; opening the door would be an irrevocable action. Symbolic of starting something new. Like a coward I keep it closed.
“I bring a peace offering and some occupation for your time tonight. I got some take-out from that Indian place you’re always going to,” Matthew says. I perk up at the thought of curry. Getting food as a gift is a loophole to the therapy rules. Coward or not, I have to open the door; any more talking through the door would be rude… and he brought food.
“Occupation of my time?” Spoken as if I don’t have plans tonight. I don’t, but Matthew assuming that I have no plans hurts my ego. Am I that predictable?
“Well, if we’re going to be friends maybe we should… hang out?”
Matthew wants to hang out; has Hell frozen over? I open the door and my brain stutters at the sight of him. He stands in the doorway mussed, suit jacket on his arm with his dress shirt sleeves rolled up. His hair looks messy, as if he’s been running his fingers through it; those same fingers that had touched mine earlier.
“Are you going to let me inside?” The words purr out. I mentally curse because I’m staring, again; my face feels hot. It’s clear that though I feel defenseless outside the office, Matthew does not.
“I probably won’t be very good company tonight,” I say. Matthew just lifts a brow, so I shrug and let Matthew the Enigma into my sanctuary; he hands over an amazing smelling bag from the curry place down the street as payment. I open the bag and the spicy steam bathes my face, the delight of it distracting me for a moment but not long. He had gotten my usual order. How did he know?
We don’t spend time together and it wasn’t like we hung out when Dad was alive. The skin on the back of my neck tickles.
“I told the owner I was picking up food for you and they packed it,” Matthew says as if reading my mind or probably just deciphering the look on my face. I huff out a breath in relief and close the door of the apartment. Raj’s curry is divine; I’ve been a regular since moving into this building and Raj always teases me good-naturedly about how I could keep him in business with just the amount of curry I order alone.
“Did you want any? Do you even like to eat food?” It’s an awkward question to ask but I am, for the most part, clueless to Matthew’s inner mechanics. I’ve seen instances where Matthew will take a bite or drink of something but it’s a rare thing. I walk around Matthew, who looks around the open-plan apartment in a thoughtful way and I head for the kitchen.
“I can eat food, but I don’t have to. I can also taste but it hasn’t been something I’ve explored. Eating and drinking around people makes me seem more normal; can you imagine the reaction at work if I didn’t down coffee with the rest of the masses?” Matthew muses and my abrupt laughter surprises me. It’s not a sound I expected to make around him.
“With the way you work, there would definitely be a small-scale investigation of snooping coworkers trying to catch up with a, ‘I’ll have whatever he’s having.’”
Matthew flashes me a wolfish grin. The only crack in his perfect looks is the occasional strand of dark hair falling on his cheek. That none have suspected him being more than meets the eye is miraculous.
“You should probably tone the tireless invincibility down a touch now that the worst of the company turmoil is over. People might become suspicious if you don’t start to be less than perfect.” I chew my lip in indecision; since when did I want to help Matthew with his deception? Probably since he looked at me in his office and asked about friendship in a way that echoed with loneliness, his edges rough and haggard.
“Actually, you have been looking less than perfect. Have you been charging your batteries? Do you need maintenance?” I slide into a comfortable clinical role to catalog his appearance.
“Trying to get a look at my hardware, Dr. Simpson?” Matthew gives an eyebrow wag and a smile of pure sin. My face burns in a blush, so effectively thrown from the clinical comfort zone, I wouldn’t be surprised if I had swallowed my tongue. Jesus Christ, I’d have to go to an actual doctor soon if I keep blushing this much around him.
I admit the blushing isn’t a new behavior. When Matthew and I had contact after his main program was uploaded, he always caught me blushing. It made it worse when he started trying to talk to me. He didn’t say terrible things, they were nice, too nice. I started to think he must be making fun of me, so I avoided him.
But if he wanted to be friends… maybe it hadn’t been a malicious sort of teasing.
“That is definitely not the way I want you handling my parts.”
And now my ears burn; can ears blush? Matthew gives a wicked look and he is entirely too close; the brush of his breath catches my cheek. When had he gotten so close? Suddenly, overwhelmed, I rear back.
“Fuck! Anyone tell you that you’re potent? I need some space. You, over there, now!” I point to the other side of the kitchen island. Matthew laughs in a way I haven’t heard before, light and happy, but complies with the order. My heart beats overtime, like I’m going to implode in my own kitchen, but his laugh makes me smile even as his teasing makes my body burn.
“Maybe I need you to look closer at my linguistics?” He says the word as a sensual purr, smoothly leaning over from his banished position at the island. I snort.
“Oh my god, you need to stop.” I bring my hands to my burning cheeks, but I can’t stop the laughter from breaking free. When the mirth finally dissipates, my heart feels lighter than it has in a long time and my cheeks ache. Matthew smiles at me softly, as if he had accomplished what he had wanted to.
We look at each other for a moment and I have to admit that this is nice, this comradery. Maybe we really can be friends, if I can stop myself from being infatuated. Maybe Matthew will want to taste the curry; I don’t think he’s ever tried it before. I start to get the dishes before the food gets cold as Matthew turns to take in the apartment again.
I love my apartment; it’s open and modern with high ceilings and exposed brick. The bones of the apartment are generic enough, high quality, but generic with dark wood floors and white walls I haven’t bothered to add color to.
I’ve added colors in other ways. The fluffy multicolored throw pillows and folded blankets arranged in the space might make it look haphazard to some. There are a lot. Every down swing, when it was the hardest for me to get out of bed, Sean and I would select another brightly colored item to add to our space. We’d spent many nights watching movie marathons in the dorms surrounded by a sea of pillows. At least the apartment gave me enough room to spread the collection out.
Photography prints are hung on all the walls. Would he be surprised to find out they are my work? Matthew looks at some of the small photo frames hanging up that are more sentimental than artistic.
“Is this Sean?” Matthew asks, pointing to the young man in the photo.
I flinch when he asks. It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise that he knows about Sean. The photo was taken the day we’d moved into the dorms. We both look so happy. Finally leaving behind the awfulness that high school had been. Beginning a new adventure with my best friend.
“I’d rather not talk about Sean.” The sting when I say that is like I cut myself. We’d just been laughing; a desperation in my chest makes me want to go back to that, not pick at old wounds. Matthew seems to understand, raising his hands as if forfeiting his line of questions. I breathe out when he goes back to taking in my place as if my freezing up never happened.
The way Matthew’s shoulders lower and the fluidity of his motions give him a relaxed feel. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so at ease. What does his place look like? He wouldn’t have dozens of colorful items added by caring hands. Plates in hand, I admire the layout of my place; from my spot in the kitchen I can see into the bedroom.
Suddenly, the kitchen vanishes. Matthew isn’t with me. I lie under the heat of an insidious weight; the only thing that breaks the silence is the water drips. Water, that’s what weighs me down with impossible gravity, that makes the idea of moving laughable. The steam wraps around my face, suffocating me, but I don’t feel it. I need to do one more thing, but what is it? A question spreads through me like those ripples made from the water drops; would anyone care if I die here?
Hands grasp my arms, causing the vision to break; I’m not submerged in water anymore but gasping. Matthew’s face fills my vision. He looks off; I’ve never seen the cautious intensity that writhes under the surface of his expression. I feel clammy, stomach turning in nausea. Pieces of the shattered plates litter the floor.
“What was that?” I don’t mean to ask the question out loud, but I’m glad I did because Matthew’s expression shutters.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lies, he’s lying to me. I don’t know how I know but I do. It shouldn’t surprise me that he’d lie, his entire creation and day to day actions are a lie. The illusion of a person so realistic that I keep forgetting; he is not real.
“Leave.” Fury I hardly recognize rises in my throat. Matthew looks shocked; his hands had felt so comforting holding my arms, but with the deception make my skin crawl under his touch.
“What?” Matthew takes a step closer, as if warmth from him would soothe me but I’m having none of it.
“I want you to take your lies and leave.” I thrash and his hands fall away. I take a step back.
“Charlotte, I won’t lie to you—” spoken like a promise, a vow made to appeal to the neglected, lonely part of my heart. That’s my weak spot, the part of me searching for a connection but I won’t let my walls fall.
“Everything you are is a lie; you’re not real. You’re not a person, you’re my father’s perverse method of enforcing his will.”
The violence rises in me, vitriol burning beneath the surface because an attack is all that will make up for my weak defenses against him.
Matthew looks flayed, stepping back as if I had truly broken something with the clumsy words. The look of hurt on his face makes my anger waver. We stand there in tense silence before the hurt falls from his face and Matthew does what he does best, adapts. If he can’t negotiate a truce, apparently, he’ll move to conquer the castle.
The movement is so quick that I couldn’t have escaped if I had even thought to. Suddenly, I’m being held against Matthew’s body with an arm rigidly around me as he holds my chin at an angle. His eyes are volatile, the pressure from his hand on my chin stopping just before the point of pain. Fear begins seeping through my fury.
Matthew must see that or something else on my face that makes him soften and brush a thumb over my bottom lip, lost in thought. He sighs as if pained and his hold loosens. I can pull away now, but I don’t; his touch is equal parts bad and good, painful and pleasurable, terrifying and comforting.
“This isn’t over, we will discuss this topic later. You go ahead and keep flinging those knives you call words, but each of us is the only person that the other can trust in this whole wide world.”
He leaves, and my stomach lurches, insides confusingly sick from the truth resonating from that statement.
4
At first glance, the bar seems empty. But first glances deceive. People come to this place to keep their own company, not to socialize. The establishment might have been described as a hole in the wall but lacks the dingy feeling for that. Instead, it just feels like a forgotten space, known only to those who need it. It’s a local’s bar, primarily for the corporate sort of professionals of varying ages who need to get away from what they are dealing with, whether it be at home or work.
The atmosphere reflects its clientele: subdued, tired, but clean. The décor and drinks echo those of more expensive establishments that you might try to impress a social circle with but to bring such a party here would be sacrilege. The only talking comes from quiet murmurs of those on the phone or the bartender. A good place to think, to breathe.
That’s my reason for being here, to keep myself company, to think, to breathe, somewhere that isn’t my apartment. Funny, how one place that usually acts as a sanctuary can also serve as a Russian roulette wheel and I don’t want to get shot again tonight.
The live music provides a nice soundtrack for thoughts. Tonight, it’s piano. The musician’s hands move over the keys in a way that speaks of his talent. The sweet sounds make my fingers ache to play.
I try not to think too hard; the vision of the water clings to me like thorny vines. The images must be a memory, one of the many that blur together from the war of medication and severe depression that took place during my breakdown, a coiled viper waiting to strike. If I want any answers, I’ll have to let Dr. Nguyen pick my brain about it. Just thinking of clinically dissecting the vivid memory makes my stomach churn.
Something I conclude without thinking too hard is that I need to apologize to Matthew for my emotional blowup. However strange his behavior had been, I can’t expect him to know what is going on inside my head. Our hanging out had been… nice, before I had figuratively bitten his head off. The comfort he had offered had felt like a balm; it shined a light on just how lonely I am. The revelation leaves me emotionally raw.
Though his origins are synthetic, the feelings Matthew expresses seem as legitimate and volatile as my own. The look of hurt on his face when I had said he isn’t a person haunts me. If he can experience pain, if I can hurt him with words, he is probably more of a person than I have allowed myself to consider. I would have thought myself the type of person to avoid causing another’s pain; I always try to be considerate and empathetic. It’s uncomfortable to realize that I have a deficiency in that consideration when it comes to Matthew.
I need to stop obsessing about the hurt I caused him. I bleed guilt; every time I think of his expression, it sinks the knife deeper.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
I jump; a man had joined me at the bar while my thoughts had drifted. The stranger is breaking the unspoken rules of this place. It makes me think he doesn’t belong here. He smiles in the seductive way that a man smiles at a woman, with suggestion and promise. Two men flirting with me in one night; when did I get so popular?
I correct myself; Matthew doesn’t really count as flirting. Flirting means more than just performing the actions, it requires something Matthew doesn’t possess. Even if I am coming around to the idea of him being a person, robots can’t desire. He can’t want, not in the same way that I want when he is around. It’s a depressing thought that chips at my hard-won sanity. Chip… chip... chip.
“My thoughts are worth more than a penny.” I keep my tone cool, not wanting to invite more conversation with the interloper. The smile on the man’s face grows and it surprises me to notice the stranger is rather attractive in the human way. Tousled blond hair over a slender face and a blinding smile, he wears the vintage styled frames that give his look a classy air.
“I suppose that’s true; the Exordium Princess would have expensive thoughts.”
