The living room lamp is still on in the house when Victor pulls into the driveway, pale and weak against the curtains and the predawn light. Victor remains in the car, seat belt cutting against his neck, legs slightly too tense in the Sentra’s small footwell. The discomfort isn’t enough to drive him from the car; it certainly isn’t isn’t enough to push him into the house with its peeling paint and overgrown yard. Victor watches the lamplight grow dimmer and dimmer against the morning. Two of his hands grip the steering wheel.
Eventually, the birdsong and his beeping watch force him out of the car. Victor moves stiffly, automatically, his leaden steps leading him to the back door. He has the key in a hand, but the door isn’t locked. Victor tilts his head. When he steps inside, it’s with caution, eyes scanning for anything out of place, with two of his hands balled into fists. But there is nothing out of place--no more than usual, anyway. Papers stacked, dishes stacked, bottles and jugs clustered where it was most convenient. The corp-issued nurse dozes in a chair gone concave with her constant presence. In her sleep, the lines of her face go slack and soft.
Victor eases his coat onto the back of the couch. He pads quietly through the house, but he knows the nurse can’t hear him over the machine in the bedroom. Victor pauses with pill bottles clustered like bouquets in his hands. His sounds do not wake her, but his gaze--a gaze that fixates on her and refuses to drift toward the bedroom door--the weight of his eyes settles on her and rouses her. The wrinkles stream back onto her face, the glow fades. She wipes off a trickle of drool with her sleeve.
“Mister Snow!” The nurse pushes herself out of her seat. “I--I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” She never did. “I changed him, and the sheets, and I just…” She shrugs, but the gesture is as worn and slumped as her chair. “He’s due for his next set of pills, and his saline probably needs swapping. I can…” She keeps her face schooled, but Victor notes the slightest quiver in her body. The smallest of shivers.
“No,” Victor says. “You’re fine. You’re all set.” He sets down a few handfuls of pill bottles so that he can accept her clipboard; he ignores the way she stares as he signs off on her time. He ignores her backward glance at his four-armed coat spread across the back of the couch as she leaves.
Victor stands where he is for a long time after the door closes. But the machine in the next room beeps, and he has to answer. He finds his eyes locking on the sagging ceiling as he steps into the room and the sound of the machine grows louder. Another sound here, one that makes Victor’s skin crawl: wheezing, struggling breaths. The nurse cleaned him up, but there’s still that smell here of musty skin and urine.
This is a sickbed--a deathbed, but it’s against policy to call it that. The narrow twin bed with silver rails like a cage. A small side table with a vase that once, long ago, held flowers. On the other side, taking up the bulk of the room, the machine. It breathes for him, this invalid, and monitors every lifesign. Will he recover? The machine measures, judges, calculates, and feeds the details to headquarters. So far, it says, Not a chance. But I’ll keep watching. Victor’s eyes follow the path of the tube from the machine to the bed. The translucent plastic proboscis that gives instead of taking, hateful life. Victor follows the tube to its end--and then freezes.
The man’s eyes are open. Victor sets down his pill bottles on the machine. He picks up a small bottle of saline solution and leans over to drip it in first one eye, and then the other. The man’s eyes flicker through reflex, but cannot close by themselves. Victor hesitantly closes those staring eyes with a finger, his artificial fingers more gentle than anything organic could manage. He feels like he should place coins on those eyes, but the man still breathes--or the machine breathes for him. But half of the man’s face twitches in thanks, or maybe a question.
“You’re welcome,” Victor says. He turns and begins distributing pills into his cupped second-right hand. The man’s face twitches again. “They’re okay,” Victor says. “Helpful. Haven’t dropped anything in months, since they calibrated ‘em. Everybody at the climbing gym hates me.” A wheeze that could be a laugh.
The old man’s clawed hand flexes--just slightly--as Victor bends over him, and the atrophied fingers brush the harness that hold the second arms. “They want to give these all to you through the IV,” Victor says as his free hands hold the man up and adjust his pillows. “They don’t like their readings being disrupted. But I tell them, if you never get that thing out, it’s going to grow there.” He eases the tube out of the man’s throat, ignoring the gagging, ignoring the wheezes. It slides further and further--how could there be so much more of the insectoid, tentacular tube that far down?--and finally slides free with a wet pop.
Victor keeps one hand on the man’s chest, feeling the fading breaths. He lifts the man’s head, angles the mouth, and drops the pills down one at a time. The machine beeps, warning--threateningly?--but Victor ignores it in favor of carefully dripping water down the man’s gullet. He turns away before the man can try to voice the word spread across his twitching face: please. Victor turns back with the tube, and they reverse the process so much more painstakingly than the tube came out. Please read the twitches in the man’s face. Victor’s eyes drop from there as he works, and he catches glimpses of the scars on the man’s chest through the gap in his hospital gown. Victor flexes his artificial limbs.
Prototypes are problematic.
Eventually, the birdsong and his beeping watch force him out of the car. Victor moves stiffly, automatically, his leaden steps leading him to the back door. He has the key in a hand, but the door isn’t locked. Victor tilts his head. When he steps inside, it’s with caution, eyes scanning for anything out of place, with two of his hands balled into fists. But there is nothing out of place--no more than usual, anyway. Papers stacked, dishes stacked, bottles and jugs clustered where it was most convenient. The corp-issued nurse dozes in a chair gone concave with her constant presence. In her sleep, the lines of her face go slack and soft.
Victor eases his coat onto the back of the couch. He pads quietly through the house, but he knows the nurse can’t hear him over the machine in the bedroom. Victor pauses with pill bottles clustered like bouquets in his hands. His sounds do not wake her, but his gaze--a gaze that fixates on her and refuses to drift toward the bedroom door--the weight of his eyes settles on her and rouses her. The wrinkles stream back onto her face, the glow fades. She wipes off a trickle of drool with her sleeve.
“Mister Snow!” The nurse pushes herself out of her seat. “I--I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” She never did. “I changed him, and the sheets, and I just…” She shrugs, but the gesture is as worn and slumped as her chair. “He’s due for his next set of pills, and his saline probably needs swapping. I can…” She keeps her face schooled, but Victor notes the slightest quiver in her body. The smallest of shivers.
“No,” Victor says. “You’re fine. You’re all set.” He sets down a few handfuls of pill bottles so that he can accept her clipboard; he ignores the way she stares as he signs off on her time. He ignores her backward glance at his four-armed coat spread across the back of the couch as she leaves.
Victor stands where he is for a long time after the door closes. But the machine in the next room beeps, and he has to answer. He finds his eyes locking on the sagging ceiling as he steps into the room and the sound of the machine grows louder. Another sound here, one that makes Victor’s skin crawl: wheezing, struggling breaths. The nurse cleaned him up, but there’s still that smell here of musty skin and urine.
This is a sickbed--a deathbed, but it’s against policy to call it that. The narrow twin bed with silver rails like a cage. A small side table with a vase that once, long ago, held flowers. On the other side, taking up the bulk of the room, the machine. It breathes for him, this invalid, and monitors every lifesign. Will he recover? The machine measures, judges, calculates, and feeds the details to headquarters. So far, it says, Not a chance. But I’ll keep watching. Victor’s eyes follow the path of the tube from the machine to the bed. The translucent plastic proboscis that gives instead of taking, hateful life. Victor follows the tube to its end--and then freezes.
The man’s eyes are open. Victor sets down his pill bottles on the machine. He picks up a small bottle of saline solution and leans over to drip it in first one eye, and then the other. The man’s eyes flicker through reflex, but cannot close by themselves. Victor hesitantly closes those staring eyes with a finger, his artificial fingers more gentle than anything organic could manage. He feels like he should place coins on those eyes, but the man still breathes--or the machine breathes for him. But half of the man’s face twitches in thanks, or maybe a question.
“You’re welcome,” Victor says. He turns and begins distributing pills into his cupped second-right hand. The man’s face twitches again. “They’re okay,” Victor says. “Helpful. Haven’t dropped anything in months, since they calibrated ‘em. Everybody at the climbing gym hates me.” A wheeze that could be a laugh.
The old man’s clawed hand flexes--just slightly--as Victor bends over him, and the atrophied fingers brush the harness that hold the second arms. “They want to give these all to you through the IV,” Victor says as his free hands hold the man up and adjust his pillows. “They don’t like their readings being disrupted. But I tell them, if you never get that thing out, it’s going to grow there.” He eases the tube out of the man’s throat, ignoring the gagging, ignoring the wheezes. It slides further and further--how could there be so much more of the insectoid, tentacular tube that far down?--and finally slides free with a wet pop.
Victor keeps one hand on the man’s chest, feeling the fading breaths. He lifts the man’s head, angles the mouth, and drops the pills down one at a time. The machine beeps, warning--threateningly?--but Victor ignores it in favor of carefully dripping water down the man’s gullet. He turns away before the man can try to voice the word spread across his twitching face: please. Victor turns back with the tube, and they reverse the process so much more painstakingly than the tube came out. Please read the twitches in the man’s face. Victor’s eyes drop from there as he works, and he catches glimpses of the scars on the man’s chest through the gap in his hospital gown. Victor flexes his artificial limbs.
Prototypes are problematic.
Third read, and I just noticed the part where he puts down "a few handfuls" of pills.
ReplyDeleteS'good stuff.