Photo by Marc Schaefer on Unsplash

“My God, Charlene… He’s barely alive.” Contempt tainted Haley’s voice.

I didn’t respond. She dug in her tool bag, grabbed a long silver instrument, then she peeled back her palm, revealing the gaping hole in his chest.

I watched her frantic movements, letting the gun spin in my hands. She clamped lines, sopped ooze, trying to save him. I began to question my decision to call Haley. She was the best in her field. Maybe too good. I mean, what would happen if he lived?

“Charlene, will you give me a hand?”

I could tell by her tone, she wasn’t asking. She expected me to jump and do her bidding. She was my friend, but her only concern was saving him, not helping me.

“Charlene?”

“Doesn’t he deserve to die?”

“I can fix him,” she offered, almost pleading.

“Like you did last time?” My voice sounded harsh even to me.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I’ve heard that before. I’d be a fool to help.”

A scenario flickered, then exploded in my mind.

“It’s been you all along, hasn’t it? You’re in love with your creation, your darling automaton. His devotion to me is killing you. You’re programming him to kill me.”

Haley’s face crinkled and felt her simmering hate.

“Yes, when you’re dead, he will love me.”

I saw his processor flicker, and his right hand grabbed her throat. He didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” were his last words, as I placed the gun in Haley’s lifeless hand.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer