Walter had always wondered why they’d programmed him to dream. He considered how strange, and arduous, it must be; imparting onto someone else an experience you yourself don’t fully understand. “Is that really what they feel?” he’d ask himself, imagining that he could only access some skewed emulation of the concept. On occasion, his wife would begin to stir in her sleep; her limbs sprawling and contracting in tentacular motion, furrowing her brow and murmuring under her increasingly heavy breath, until finally awaking with a climactic, horrified expression. This confused and even startled him at first, but he’d grown accustomed to it over time.
“The man tied us to chairs in the basement,” she explained, detailing one of her dreams while trying regain her waking composure, “and he was holding a knife to your throat. I screamed for him to stop, and he killed you right in front of me.”
“Well one thing’s for certain,” Walter responded in a deep exhale.
“What’s that?”
“You’re fucked up.” He smirked. She clutched a nearby pillow and she hit him hard.
He never suffered night terrors. Fear was sometimes present in his dreams, but it didn’t take the wheel like they apparently did in Delia’s. Perhaps he was fortunate, even if this wasn’t “the real thing.”
Dreams came through his resting mind like a slow-rolling cloud cover, easing in and out with the ebb and flow of a quiet tide. Bubbles of color would begin to saturate his view, gently erupting; their boundaries crawling towards one another and eventually bleeding together.
“Perhaps Byron was a painter.” Walter mused, hazily studying the shifting canvas before him.
As the colors settled, images from the day pressed up from beneath its surface. People, objects, symbols; all baring a topographical imprint as the material stretched to accommodate their forms. His perspective receding, a frame formed along the border of his vision. The imprinting continued until, in an instant, the whole piece fell away into a violet dark. An endless, illuminated array of similar pieces appeared behind it as it filled a space amongst them.
“All my days.” Walter felt his eyes widen, despite being sealed shut.
Just before waking, he would notice the same shape marked in the center of each frame. A woman’s face. Delia’s face, but not quite. Her skin was wrinkled and spotted, hair thinned and wiry. Her mouth was gaping in disbelief, with tears streaming down her cheeks.
He couldn’t help but love her. The warmth in her voice; the joy in her low, thorough laugh; her eyes, set in crystalline hazel; the grace of her touch. He didn’t mean to. It was effortless.
“’Til death do us part,” she’d said, not knowing that Walter wouldn’t age, wouldn’t die. He shuddered in that moment, tainting his joy.
It was colder before her. That’s most of what he could remember; frigid steel beneath him. He lay motionless for hours, days, inhabiting a body he couldn’t control; his eyes fixated on a harsh light against the surrounding black. On occasion, he could make out figures hovering over him. Fluttering fingers eclipsed his view as they poked and prodded at his face, tearing at his skull.
His consciousness came and went with the abruptness of a flickering light switch. The numbness of his being, which he’d never noticed before, subsided with every awakening. It was as if he was unthawing after a thousand years of dormancy.
One of the figures took interest in him. A pale, blurred ghost in a halo of light craned over the table. For hours, it would study him without a single touch.
“I know you’re in there, Walter,” it said in a hushed, deep register that seemed to echo around him.
Walter’s tongue and lips twitched, trying to formulate a response. Where the fuck am I? He wanted to scream. He could feel the muscles in his neck begin to strain, tendons flaring. For a moment, the figure moved closer. A man’s face came into view. He had greying hair, shallow wrinkles, and a short stubble. His brow furrowed as he inspected Walter’s reaction; his pale blue eyes probing him.
“Jesus…”
His name was Byron Whitman. He was one of three founders of IPP, the Intellectual Persistence Project: an underground facility that aimed to push the boundaries of artificial intelligence and blur the line between digital and biological life. Nearly seven years before, in the year 2086, an android had attempted to escape one of the major laboratories and had ended up killing more than a hundred people before being destroyed by a military ballistics missile. Mass hysteria ensued. The government immediately enforced strict regulations on the development of such systems and oversaw a complete dismantling of all projects. Byron, an industry leader, spoke out against them to no avail. Someone had sabotaged that android, he was sure.
He explained all of this to Walter when no one else was around. Walter was beginning to learn how to speak. In his mind, he had no shortage of things to say, but when it came to vocalizing them, there was a physical barrier. Sounds bellowed from his diaphragm and he slowly but surely sculpted them into words. Byron was astounded. In his eyes, Walter could see that the man had found something miraculous in him.
“S-so what about me?” stammered Walter.
“Well,” Byron said with a smile, “you’re the reason that I didn’t give up. You’re the reason the both of us are here right now.”
Walter was unsure what he meant, so he silently waited for more.
“I, along with other leaders in the field, started this project unbeknownst to the government… unbeknownst to everyone, really. I invited only my closest associates to join me in creating this facility.”
“Why take… the risk?”
“I’ve lived a life of fame and fortune long enough, Walter. I want to know what all this means. I want to know why I’m here.”
“So do I,” said Walter plainly.
Byron chuckled wholeheartedly, despite Walter not seeing his own response as a retort.
“Of course, of course. You see, I started this project to create sentient life.” He studied Walter’s expression. “And… I think I’ve succeeded.”
All Walter had known before Byron was pain and confusion. Though those feelings persisted for many of his waking hours, threatening to completely rid him of his sanity, he had something to pine for at the end of each day. Soon, the procedural tests and adjustments to his body began to subside and his time with Byron grew. Walter had no shortage of questions, ranging from the existential to the mundane. Byron tried his best to answer them all.
He read poetry to Walter – Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself was a personal favorite – and projected films for him, both fictional and documentary, to give him some concept of the world beyond the walls of the facility. He taught Walter how to walk, how to dress, and how to cook, all in different rooms in the facility designed to emphasize a specific discipline in life. With all of this preparation, there was something greater waiting for him outside.
He wanted to see the sun, walk on a sandy beach, and know the feeling of love. Maybe he would even write his own poetry. Shack up in the woods for months like Thoreau, writing about nature and man’s purpose. On second thought, he could write poetry about the people he met. He pined to meet people of all kinds and dispositions. Byron was the only person he know; all the other workers at the lab shuffled around in his periphery. They never spoke to him or made eye contact, but rather watched from a distance and behind one-way mirrors. Their intention, and Byron’s original intention, was to keep keep him there indefinitely.
His hand clasped tightly in Delia’s as they strolled through Vermillion Park. Rusty, their affable beige mutt trotted along briskly in front of them, kept close by a leather leash. In the soft light of the spring afternoon, Delia recounted her work week. Walter listened and nodded, occasionally fragmenting her stories with jokes and words of affirmation. In the back of his mind, he fostered a solemn gratitude. He owed Byron his life; not only for its creation, but also for his freedom. It’d been about four years now since Byron drove him more than three hundred miles from the facility and given him a new life. Four years since he last saw the man that set him free.
“What are you thinking about?” Delia inquired, tilting her head slightly and admiring him.
Walter perked up, realizing he’d been lost in his thoughts for a few minutes.
“Just happy, I guess,” he said, setting his mouth into a close-lipped smirk.
Then it all went black.
Shivering.
What?
Steel cold as ice cubes on his back.
No. No. No.
Bright, blinding light bursting from above.
I don’t have nightmares. This can’t be real.
A piercing pain shot through his abdomen. Sharp screams sliced through the silence. Walter thought for a moment that they had come from him, but his lips were sealed shut. Tears welled in his eyes and streamed gently down his cheeks, abruptly dropping down to his bare torso. He forced his neck to turn, despite seething pain, to look at the source of the screaming.
A woman with radiant red hair lay on a table about ten feet away from him. Facility workers clad in grey jumpsuits stood over her with their arms extending down to her stomach.
“Pleeeeeeeeease… Nooooo!” She groaned then shrieked as a scalpel broke her skin again.
Walter could do nothing but sob.
Her wailing grew louder and louder still. She reared her head with each incision, saliva flinging from her teeth.
“You’re not alone.” A voice, overpowering the screaming, spoke to Walter as clear as a thought of his own.
What was that?
He stared at her face, as hard as it was to look. He began to recognize her.
“You were never alone, Walter.” Her voice. It was her voice.
“Sir, can you hear me?”
Walter awoke, gasping for air. He found himself still laying flat, but now the world was moving rapidly past him in streaks of light and color. One static element stayed within the frame of his vision; a young man’s face looking down at him.
“Stay with me, we’re getting you to the emergency room.”
He had woken from a nightmare (or whatever that was), into yet another. But this, he was quite certain, was real.
“What is going on!?” he said frantically.
“Sir, you just experienced a seizure in the park and lost consciousness. Your wife called the paramedics and got you here as fast as they could. I’m Ryan by the way.”
Walter looked from side to side, seeking Delia’s comfort.
“She’s close behind, I promise,” he said confidently. “You’re lucky to be awake at the moment; you took quite a fall during the episode.”
They rounded the corridor and entered a large room. A red sign emblazoned with “emergency” in bold, capital letters flashed overhead as they entered. Ryan opened a curtained section of the room and wheeled Walter inside.
“What now?” Walter asked, hardly any less flustered than he was upon awakening. “I feel fine.”
“We can’t let you go just yet, sir. We need to figure out what caused your seizure, as well as inspect for any damage from the fall. Can’t have you walking out of here until we’re sure your spinal cord will allow it.”
“So…” Walter tried to hold back his emotion. “You’re going to conduct a CT scan?”
“That’s right, sir. The Doc will be over shortly to explain everything. I’ll tell him you’re awake and feeling fine.”
Before he left, Ryan swiftly attached Walter to an IV.
Blood and skin. Those are the only things real about my body. And when I’m in that scan, they’ll know.
His heart was racing.
Delia will know.
No one knew that anything like him existed. At a glance they would be fooled but, with closer inspection, mortified. The narrative was already cemented in Walter’s head now. He would be detained and confronted by the government. They would take everything away from him and more than likely imprison Delia for harboring him. Then, without a second thought, they would kill him.
He had to get out. There was no other option.
His bare back lay against his bed. The blankets and thin mattress could hardly mask the metal that lay beneath, so familiar to him. As much as it was in his nature to contemplate his actions and to calculate each outcome, time was ticking away. Without hesitation, he slid the IV out from his arm and sat up. He swiftly moved a bit of the curtain aside and looked out to ensure that no one was coming his way. His feet pressed hard against the linoleum floor and his legs began to shake as Delia walked into the room. She was looking around the room, confused and worried.
He wanted nothing more than to console her; to hold her in his arms and tell her that everything would be okay. Warm tears began to well up in his eyes, but he had to avert his gaze. When she had turned to a nurse to ask where to find Walter, he fled for a hallway at the other end of the room. He walked briskly, trying not to attract any attention to himself.
“Walter!” He turned his head to see a man in a white lab coat start running towards him. Delia’s head swiveled towards his direction and with that he tore off down the hallway.
Nervous eyes glared from all around him as he weaved around beds and staff, patients and visitors gasping. He hardly noticed. He was fixated on the signs leading him to the stairs.
“Stop him!” A voice screamed out from a distance behind and just then, two men in police uniforms turned to face him at the end of the hallway. They were startled and he quickly slipped by them, his hospital gown flailing behind. Walter shoved the door open and continued down the stairwell. He could hear sound of the door slamming open again behind him as he reached the floor below.
They must think I’ve gone mad. This and other thoughts swirled around in his head like a violent kaleidoscope. The pounding inside his skull matched the harsh pounding of his feet during the descent. Shouting reverberated from above him but he was too panicked to make out the words.
Bursting forth through the door and onto the first floor, Walter could feel a heat building within him. He was unsure of whether or not it was physical or just in his imagination. Fear had never been so prominent in his mind.
He could see the main entrance in the distance, rendered in a tint of orange light cast through the window panes. Just then, dark figures, blurry in his vision, seemed to erupt from nearly every room alongside him as he ran. His legs sprung forward, breaking into a desperate sprint. The arms of the guards reached out to him, just barely brushing his arms and torso as he entered the lobby.
I’m so close.
He outstretched his hand, ready to open the final door to the outside. From there, he didn’t know where he would go. He blinked and just as he opened his eyes, two men stepped in front of the exit and grabbed his arms with an alarming grip. Walter winced in pain. They were gathering around him now, securing each limb tight to their chests. He kicked and struggled, but they wouldn’t give. His skin, he could feel now, was getting hot to the touch. There was something growing within him that he couldn’t explain.
“Somebody cuff him!” a voice shouted, blaring in his hear.
“Let me go!” Walter heard himself yell, muffled in the sleeve of a guard grabbing his shoulders.
“You’re not going anywhere, sir. Now please comply.”
Walter felt his forearms being bent towards his lower back and the sound of sloshing chains followed. The heat in his body was unbearable.
What is happening to me?
To his alarm, Walter’s arms pushed with unsurmountable force against the men. A rush of air left their lungs as they were launched aback in both directions, arms flailing in the air. Some fell to the floor while others hit the walls, breaking through he sheetrock with a cracking sound that filled the room. Walter could feel the heat dissipate instantly as if some immense energy had poured directly through him.
Silence surrounded him. Even the men who were still conscious, faces stricken with agony, made no sound as they watched him rise from the floor.
Crowds that had gathered stood motionless, their mouths were gaping. Amidst all of them stood Delia. Walter’s pained, suddenly weary gaze met hers. Even in her expression of horror, she appeared to look straight through him as if she had seen some apparition standing before her. He turned away, not able to bare it anymore. All of the eyes watching him felt like a heavy blanket; Delia’s like the sharpest knife he could imagine, thrust into his core. He opened the door and was gone.
Streetlights cast his elongating silhouette on the pavement. He’d run at least a mile from the hospital, but slowed to a tired walk. He was sure someone would be pursuing him soon enough, but he hadn’t an inkling as to what he would do. At one point, in remorse, he’d considered turning himself in.
Those were innocent people… I’m a monster.
Walter wasn’t sure how he had committed such a violent act, both mentally and physically. He had no intention to do what he’d done. It felt to him as if he’d been made to against his will.
Lingering on this thought, he paid no mind to the car that drove up slowly next to him. It gave a gentle honk that made him jump. As he stopped, so did it.
It’s her.
In the shadows, Walter could just barely make out a face so distant, yet so familiar. If only for a moment, his fear and his worry were absolved.
She smiled and opened her mouth to speak. As her lips formed the words, a voice inside his head whispered “you’re not alone.”
