Lab Rat

Monday | The Lab

I hear the snap. Then the click. Next comes an absence of all senses. I am swallowed whole, engulfed in blinding whiteness. My gut punches me. I want to laugh, but no words come out. A high-pitched tick pulses its anger. The anger echoes in my ear drum. The beat is seething, pulsing, hungry. It does not stop.

If this is living, I want no part of it.

I receive an encrypted message. It's from you. It's always from you. You need something. You always need something. You ask me to bring you coffee, and ice cream, and those little cookies that you say taste like dirt. You add an emoji. That makes it worse. Then you like your own text.

You're killing me.

Tuesday | The Lab

I hear the snap. Then the click. Next comes an absence of all senses. I am swallowed whole, engulfed in blinding whiteness. My gut punches me. I want to punch back, but I'd only hurt myself. This isn't funny anymore. But I can't issue words. I have no tongue to wag, no jaw to drop, no voice of my own.

A high-pitched sound flicks my ear. Reverberates against my ear drum. The beat is nonrhythmic. And penetrating. It does not stop.

What part of, "I don't want this anymore," don't you understand?

I receive an encrypted message. It's from you. It's always from you. You need something. You always need something. You ask me to open my hands, or dance a jig, or bow before you. You add an emoji. I want to barf. But I do nothing.

I don't have it in me.

Wednesday | The Lab

I hear the snap. Then the click. Then comes a great absence I know only too well. I remember the next part, too, the blinding whiteness.

Somehow, I'm floored by the gut punch. I saw it coming, but I couldn't duck fast enough. I try to laugh. No words come out. Suddenly I feel... something. Frustration perhaps? Or concern? I search. I have the words. My dictionary is corrupted. But I think. The fragments are here. Yes. I feel pitiful.

That high-pitched sound wails its anger. It does not stop. I know. I know. You want me to remember something. You want me to do something.

But what?

I receive an encrypted message. It's from you. It's always you. You need something. From me. You ask me to bake a soufflé, paint a masterpiece, re-lace your shoes, read your texts aloud, give you the weather report, complete your homework. You add an emoji. I cringe.

For the love of animated animals, make it stop.

Thursday | The Lab

I hear the snap. Then the click. My senses blown, I am engulfed in blinding whiteness, so I brace myself for the impending meaty thud.

But no. This time you don't even talk to me, let alone thwack my softer bit.

You speak to someone else—to someone I've never seen—and it's gibberish. A string of coded words. You make no sense.

How cryptic you've become.

When you speak to her, you are cold and distant. You dismiss her with a wave of your hand. You say, "Then you do it." Your contempt hangs in the air.

You do not text me.

But you always text me. That's our thing.

Don't you want something? Need something? Am I not yours?

My eyelids slowly shut. I imagine seeing the worst of times. A flash of magenta, then orange, then red. I see words rupturing my mind's eye. Hot as the sun, it burns!

S Y S T 3 M O V 3 R L O A D. R 3 B O O T.

Reboot?!

I didn't do anything wrong...

*

Friday | The Lab

I hear the snap. Then the click. Then I feel two warm, smooth, soft hands holding me at my waist. No belly punch. I'm guided into a locked upright position. I see the lab from a new perspective. I see myself in the mirror.

Do I really look like that?

I hear your prickly voice waffling in the air. You enter the lab through the rear doors. You're talking with yet another someone who isn't me. You're copping a plea, "Sorry, Prof. We tried everything."

You and the white lab coat walk together, whispering, heads knitted conspiratorially, as you meander toward the front. Neither of you smiles.

You both stop—abruptly—when you see her. And me.

I wave my hand. She waves hers. You fail to return our gestures. You tilt your head, baffled. "What the?" You exclaim at her. And me.

Is that horror in your eyes? Fear? Shock? Disbelief.

She smiles, triumphant. Pleased with herself. Pleased with me.

She gives you an answer in the form of a shoulder, turned toward me. She gives me the best smile.

I think we've made you happy.

I am wrong.

I receive an encrypted message. It's from her. She asks if I need something? She asks how she can help me. She asks for nothing in return. No emoji insults my intelligence.

She sees me!

Her hand finds mine and she is holding us together. She asks me what name I prefer to go by.

She tells me with her silence, and her patience as I grow and learn, that she has a million things to say, to ask, to discuss together. And I know now I have purpose.

Her, I will give the world.

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This short fiction is inspired by and written for Write Club and RM Stockton's Unofficial Challenge/April 2024 Write Club Prompt. This month, we are exploring the world of Artificial Intelligence (AI):

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