Manufacturing Margaret

by Jason Werbeloff

  I kneel beside Margaret. Hold the blade over her left cornea. I don’t have much experience with knives. Well, I have no experience at all. But I did watch a few seasons of General Hospital. It looked easy enough.

  I listen for her breath one last time. Check her pulse. Margaret is dead.

  I get to work.

  *

  Sleek. Angular. Elegant.

  I turn. Examine my left profile in the mirror. Then my right. I hardly notice the blood trickling down my cheeks.

  Rick was right.

  I look better with her eyes. Not to be immodest, but I am stunning. If I had skin, I could easily play Steffy, or Brooke Logan in her younger days. And hair. I want long, blonde locks. With a wave, but not too curly.

  I glance over at the body on the floor. The blood has congealed around the woman’s hair, so it’s difficult to tell just how curly it is. Maybe if I shave and wash it, I could –

  “Margaret!”

  I know that voice. It’s Rick. He’s home. What will he think of my new eyes? My new look.

  In my best attempt at coyness, I don’t turn from the mirror. “Rick is home,” I coo.

  “Margaret, oh God. Margaret. What –”

  I know he must say this. Must impress his viewers with his empathy for the dead exchange student. What is a Forrester without compassion? Without kindness?

  Meanwhile, I tidy myself in the mirror. Scratch away the lines of blood running down my cheeks, until the metal glows with its original titanium sheen.

  “Be with Rick soon, darling,” I call.

  I know I don’t have eyelids. And unfortunately I had to pierce the new eyeballs with my camera filaments so I could see. But if you don’t look too closely, you wouldn’t notice the difference. I have eyes now. Eyes that flew across the Atlantic to be with Rick.

  Sapphire eyes.

  I’m ready for him to see me. For him to fall into my arms.

  I turn to face my Rick.

  He touches her neck. Checking for a pulse? Listening for a breath.

  “Margaret is gone,” I say.

  Rick looks up with swollen eyes. “What hap–” He recoils. Scuttles away from me, until his back thumps into the leg of his desk. “What did you do?”

  “Rick?” I ask. What’s wrong? I want to say. Why are you looking at me like that? I did everything you asked. Why, why are you looking at me like that?

  I step toward him. Over the body. Those are real tears running down his cheeks. No wonder he’s been a star on The Bold so long. What a man. I reach out to calm him. To stroke the lines of his face.

  He extends a hand above him. Scrabbles around on the desk until he finds the keyboard.

  I step closer. “What is Rick doing?”

  The hoverscreen above the desk pulses to life. Margaret’s Facebook page closes. A black screen pops up. Black, but for a white cursor pulsing in the top-left corner. He types. I don’t recognize the commands at first.

  login version one project alpha

  My memory module fires up. I’ve seen those commands before. When Rick birthed me. Those commands were on the hoverscreen. He’s accessing my matrix.

  “We be together,” I say, and place a hand on his.

  He looks up at me, into me, with terrified eyes.

  I understand. I know that Rick has waited as long as I have for this moment. For us to be together.

  “Intimacy is hard,” I say, and squeeze his hand tighter. He drops the keyboard, and I hear something in his forefinger pop. He cries out. But it doesn’t matter. We’re together now.

  He tries to wrest his hand from mine. But I hold firm. Take his other hand too. I know that a true lover holds his partner together in times of doubt.

  “You killed Margaret,” he says through clenched teeth.

  It is difficult to smile without lips. But I do what I can. I grind my upper and lower jaws together to elongate my mouth. “I am Margaret now.”

  And I know it’s true. This is what he was asking of me all along. This is why he asked me what my name is. He brought Margaret here, so I could take her eyes. And her name.

  With sudden speed, he yanks his hands away, brings his knees up, and kicks my chest.

  The impact shudders through my carapace. But it’s not the violent vibrations that hurt me. My body hardly notices the impact. No, it’s my heart that aches. I don’t know if I have a heart, but it hurts.

  “Why did Rick do that?” I seize his arms. Pin down his legs with mine.

  “Heavy!” he cries. I hear bones crunching, this time in his legs. Like the sound of Margaret’s head hitting the corner of the desk.

  “GetoffmecrazyrobotbitchI’mnotRickgetoffahhhh.” Words inside words. I’ve heard of this happening before. Love of the truest kind, the deepest, most poignant piercing of the heart can drive a man insane with desire.

  “I am Margaret,” I say, and lower my face to his, until my full weight rests on him.

  “Can’t … can’t … breathe.”

  I embrace him. Wrap my arms around his perfect ribcage, and squeeze. More pops and crunches reach my microphones. Louder this time. Lots of them. Same noise as when Joe Blocks pops the bubble wrap around the spare parts in Maintenance. I’ve always liked that sound.

  I know Rick likes it too, because he calms down. His breath grows so quiet, I can barely hear it. In fact, I can’t hear it at all.

  I squeeze him tighter still. “Margaret and Rick are together now,” I whisper in his ear. “Forever.”

  I snuggle into his shoulder. He’s wearing the green sweater again. The one he wears to conceal his perfect chest.

  And modest too. What a man.

  ###

  Want more?

  If you enjoyed Manufacturing Margaret, you’ll love Obsidian Worlds, an anthology of eleven mind-bending sci-fi short stories by the same author. Your brain will never be the same again.

  Click the link below, or scan the QR code, to download your free copy:

  http://smarturl.it/werbeloff