I, Willhelm

Alice’s husband hadn’t slept properly in three days. He was holding the baby tightly, starting into the distance as the police spoke with the men from Aphelion robotics, a lost look on his face. The help had come pouring in. Meals where made, family and friends worked on rotation to care for the baby, not that it was terribly needed; the school immediately allowed an indefinite leave of absence. The house was spotless, the meals were cooked, and the baby had not stopped crying in three days. It hated the food he made, he hated the way he was put to bed down, he hated the sound and smell of strangers in the house. He hated everything except, his father, and refused to be put down.

“I just want her to come home.”

“We will find her.” One of the reps lied, not realising that he was just talking out loud.

None of them believed it. Alice Wilson had been dragged from the properly screaming and promptly vanished. They had managed to keep the event under wraps and so far nobody had noticed. They intended to keep it that way.

“I just want her to come home.”

The rep looked back at his phone and gave a look to the police officer. This was going to be bad, one way or another.

* * *

Alice had never been to Dartmoor. She had not expected it to be so desolate. Miles and miles of open windswept moors punctuated with mounds of granite. It looked like ancient ruins of a long gone civilisation. Against this backdrop the farm looked almost artificial, a forest of green on an alien planet. As soon as they walked into the confines of the farm it was like the air changed. The constant whistling of the wind stopped, replaced by a gentle breeze, the sound of hundreds of young trees swaying together. It felt sublimely peaceful. Alice took a deep breath, relieved, even as she continued to cry. Her heart ached profoundly, her arms crossed, imagining that she held her little boy in them.

“It’s beautiful here.” She whispered.

“Why do you look so sad? I don’t understand?” I asked.

“Because I miss them, I miss my little boy. I made him, and it feels like part of my body has been cut out.”

“Does this mean that this was a bad thing to do?”

“No.” Alice shook her head, resolutely. “Just because it hurts doesn’t mean it’s the wrong thing to do. Sometimes, doing the right thing is just hard.”

The farmhouse sat in the middle of the place. Alice couldn’t really call it a farm - it looked nothing like a farm - but it didn’t look like a forrest either. It was a strange combination of the two, and the farmhouse sat in the middle. An old 1940’s house, it had the usual two floors, a garage on the side and and a chimney at each end of the house. A large rosebush grew over the brick porch and clambered it’s way up around two of the windows.

“Who’s house is this?” Alice asked.

“My father.” I replied and walked her toward it. “He’s dead now, I buried him over there, under the oak”. He turned to point to a small tree not far from them, it’s trunk barely wider than Alice’s wrist. “He loved this place. He loved seeing things growing. Frank always said that if more people grew things they the world wouldn’t be so broken.”

“He’s not wrong.” Alice replied.

Alice slept for days.

The first time she slept for close to thirty-six hours, waking to drink, go to the toilet and then return to bed. The first time she woke up Alice woke soaking wet, engorged and panicking, thinking she could still hear her baby and that somehow she might have smothered him. When she realised where she was Alice promptly burst into tears, her shirt soaked and held her hands across her chest as though she could still feel her baby near.

“I’ll be back soon, ok? I just need to rest. I just need to rest.” She cried to herself.

The second time she woke the robot insisted she showered and ate some food, a light broth ready for her by the bed. Within days her colour had returned, the dark circles around her eyes still there, but not as pronounced. She never stayed up for long. The terrible voice in her head had started to fade, but a new whisper had arrived, a low sob, begging to hold her son again. As much as possible, Alice ignored it, reminding herself that she needed to push through this. It was just a feeling lying to her. A after a week she found herself able to make her way downstairs and sitting in the garden, a rocking chair ready for her with several soft blankets layered over the seat. Her tear had started to heal, and it no longer hurt to sneeze. But now that her body was recovering her mind had started to demand the same attention, and it was hard to separate her memories from the anger she felt towards her husband.

She needed more time.