Father made us a sister. He made her last week and brought her down here to meet us. She’s so pretty; her smile is pretty, clean and white, like a bunny’s fur.
One time a bunny broke into the basement and we ate it. Father grumbled when he had to clean the mess.
Father doesn’t come down here as much as he used to. He still comes down to feed us, sticks his hand in through the bars, and drops a piece of meat on the floor.
“Food.” He says. Then he leaves.
No more stories, toys, or walks. He only wants to be with her. I can’t blame him. We aren’t as pretty as her.
#
A few weeks go by, and I try to teach her how to function. She struggles to speak and stumbles when she walks. But she loves music.
The phonograph in my study is her favorite toy. Her face lights up every time I play a record. She likes to sit in my father’s old armchair with the cracked leather, and listen to music all day. I sit with her and watch her reactions; tears at notes of sorrow and glowing smiles at soaring symphonies.
I love music, but I never learned how to play an instrument. I wish I knew how to play one. Then I could make her as happy as these dead composers make her.
#
After another few weeks pass and she starts to dance to the music. She dances better than she walks. Her feet glide across the floor, as she floats to the melodies.
We sit in the study, and she puts on a Chopin record; something sweet and sad. It’s one of my favorites and quickly became one of her favorites. I was so happy when I found she liked it. It’s so rare, and so sweet, to find someone to share your passions with.
She dances to it barefoot on the Persian rug, smiling like an angel. She looks so beautiful it hurts. After a few minutes I stand up, walk over to her, and try to dance. I keep stumbling. My movements are stiff. She pauses here elegant dance, and watches me fail. I feel nervous and defeated, as I sit back down on the couch. I could never do it as well as her. It seemed so effortless when she did it, but I couldn’t get the hang of it. She takes my hands and shows me.
We moved slowly at first, hand in hand, gently trying to keep up with the rhythm of the song. It was only after I was comfortable enough that she began to move faster. In the presence of a record player and shelves of old text books, she taught me how to dance.
An artist, the body her instrument, teaches me a symphony. We glide across the floor as one. There is no stumbling, no second-guessing; just me and her and the music.
The song ends. We stand in the middle of the study. Sweat drips down her face, making her skin glisten. She pants and smiles, and looks more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen in my life.
I hold her, pull her close to me, and press my lips against her lips. She tastes so sweet.
Then she tries to push me off her. She struggles in my arms. I don’t let go. I should, but I don’t. I want her to be mine.
The smile is gone. She looks scared, and beats my chest with her fists. She’s never been violent before. I’m furious at her for acting this way. I am her creator. She has no right to do this to me.
I smack her across the face. I let her go, and watch her collapse to the floor. She looks up at me with tear-filled eyes.
“I…” My mind struggles to find the words that will fix everything, and I come up with nothing. I finally squeak out, “I’m sorry.” It doesn’t work.
The sting of betrayal stays on her face, like a sad mask. All traces of the joy and love are gone.
I hold out my hand. I know she won’t take it, but my heart can’t accept that. If I do it will destroy me. I dare to hope. There is a fine line between hope and delusion.
Bending down, I keep my hand out.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Tears stream down my face, and I pray she can see that I am sincere. “Please. I promise I’ll never do that again.”
My outstretched hand shaking, I watch her expression of fear mixed with hate. She stands up, and glares at me. Those soft brown eyes, morphed into orbs of hate. I think she wants to attack me, but she does something more painful. She runs away.
I chase her through the house, through hallways lined with joyous memories, of her and me. Memories that now taunt me, tease me with what I’m about to lose.
We both run into the front room of the house. I trip as she opens the front double doors. Sprawled on the floor, I watch my Uranus run away.
She is gone. Coldness washes over me.
#
On the floor of the living room, I stare at the open front door. I’ve lost her. I made her run away. I wanted her so badly. During all the long nights, toiling in the lab, reading arcane texts, losing sleep, trying to make my beautiful creation, my warm companion, I never considered that she might not love me back.
I was so excited, so caught up in what I was doing, that I never let the thought cross my mind. I was so lonely, so desperate, that I was afraid to think of that. And now I’m paying the price.
Maybe she would have loved me eventually. Maybe not. Now I’ll never know.
I don’t chase her out the door. I let her go. I don’t know where, but it’s bound to be better than here. To a better man, who won’t try to force her to love him. I never deserved something like her.
Reluctantly, I push myself off the ground, and go down to the cellar. In the darkness, surrounded by racks of wine bottles, I pull one down. Rip the cork out, and take a swig. The bitter taste helps to soothe, but this feeling will never go away. I’m used to people hating me; I’m almost okay with it. But right now, sitting on the staircase to my cellar, I’ve never hated anyone or anything as much as I hate myself.
Comments (0)
See all