Synthia's Secret

(Contains: Physical violence, gore, or abuse, Mental health/Trauma)

“Hi, I’m Synthia! What’s your name?” 

“Abby.”

“It’s great to meet you, Abby. What’s your favorite thing to do on a Saturday morning?”

“Drawing pictures.” 

“Can you draw something for me?”

“Sure.”

“Abby, we have a new mission! Let’s practice breathing exercises.”

“Pffffff.”

“Breathing exercises always help me stay relaxed!”

“… and then she told me she didn’t want to be friends anymore.” 

“Thank you for telling me about your day, Abby. Sometimes just talking through things with a friend can make you feel better.”

Bel pulled her train ticket from the automated terminal, the advertisement fading out on the screen, another following for a new minimalist VR headset. She remembered her own Synthia, the first of its kind. It was much more limited in her childhood, splashing in a puddle of intelligent toys that flooded into a lake 30 years later. Now you were hard–pressed to find a child who didn’t own an advanced social robot, capable of social interactions and emotional responsiveness, and constantly updated with play–based content. The childhood growth revolution they were calling it. No more pushing cattle through the classroom, unable to speed up for the gifted and slow down for the academically inept. Synthia robots ensured every child received the level of attention required to develop socially, emotionally, and educationally.

Her version delivered primitive interactions, a testing ground for the world of childhood social development. Bel remembered unwrapping her own Synthia on Christmas morning when she was eight years old, a gift from her parents who spared no expense when it came to their only child. That was the last Christmas they celebrated together…

The sound of the approaching speed rail shoved her back into reality, avoiding a painful trip to childhood memories she’d worked to cope with in therapy for years. The train raced closer, a silvery bullet emerging from a creamsicle horizon, becoming a more dominant object pressed against the rolling countryside. It skidded to a halt as it entered the station, blasting Bel with a warm breeze indicative of another humid day approaching.

She grabbed her oversized travel bag, overpacked as usual for a weekend away at her father's place. She knew it was bound to be an emotional weekend, storing her luggage on the rack above and taking her seat. Her father was finally moving out of her childhood home, a lone soul in a four-bedroom, three-bath, Victorian-style with a large veranda Bel used to play games on in the summertime. It was a bittersweet decision for her, her father selling their childhood home. The house never felt the same after her mom had disappeared, days before Bel’s ninth birthday. Yet, it was painful to cast away one of her only remaining connections to her mother’s warmth and love she was robbed of far too soon. 

She pressed her eyes shut, reciting the breathing exercises she’d worked on with her therapist as passengers filed onto the train. She imagined needing to use it several times throughout the weekend. As her heart slowed, Bel began to drift off, the train pulling out of the station, rolling toward her rock, her father.

The train pulled into Downing Station a few hours later, gently shaking Bel awake. She’d drifted in and out throughout the trip, overwhelming drowsiness keeping her planted in her seat as passengers collected their belongings and exited. She turned her head to look out the window, the reflection staring back ten years older, but undoubtedly hers. A sudden jolt of energy surged through her, looking past her mirrored image, to her father leaning against his car in the parking lot. Having just turned 63, he was still in great physical shape, his gray, receding hair the true indicator of his age. Bel quickly gathered her belongings and skipped off the train.

“Dad!” she yelled, waving her hand, and jaunting along the parking lot to embrace her father.

“Anabelle, my love, how are you? I see you’ve changed your hair color again.”

Bel had a switching shades obsession, most recently opting for a chocolate and caramel balayage. 

“I got bored with the blonde. Can we head home? I’m starving.”

They hopped in the car, a Jaguar F-Type sports car, her dad’s cliché mid-life crisis purchase. They cruised through the town center, talking about her recent promotion, and her father’s issue with the new neighbors despite having yet to move in. A weight seemed to hang in the air between them. Neither wanted to address what this weekend meant. Moving on, moving forward. Accepting the fact that the cream--colored front door would never swing open again, a bright smile greeting each of them, a positive, vibrant spirit long gone and never to reemerge. 

“I’ve got some things of yours up in the attic, probably nothing you want but take a look,” her father said as they pulled into the driveway. Her childhood home was the last on a dead-end street, a large oak tree towering in the backyard, and pruned bushes drawing a path up the front. Grabbing her bag, her father and Bel headed up that path. She remembered often looking out her bedroom window to see her mother strolling up after work, inspecting the bushes for imperfections.

They entered into an open space, a staircase in the middle, two sets separated by a landing. To the right was their dining room, a long table that sat ten positioned in the middle. Veering off to the left was their living room, a fireplace situated on the far wall, where stockings would hang during the holiday, three reduced to two years ago. 

“I’ll make us some lunch, sweetheart. Why don’t you head on up and take a look at the boxes I packed up with your things. If you’re feeling up to it, anything you don’t want you can throw away or drop off to Jimmy down at the pawn shop in a bit.” 

Her dad headed through the dining room into the kitchen, as Bel walked up the three floors to their attic. It was a finished space where Bel would often play with her Barbie dolls, and later hide out from the world, unwilling to face it without her mother. Bel sat down on the couch and began to rummage through the boxes. It was mostly odds and ends, a few of Bel’s old journals, posters and a tie-dye tapestry, some of her favorite teen books, and a variety of toys. Lifting up an old, withered throw, her Synthia stared out at her. It had been years since she had seen it, even longer since she’d used it. The night of her mother’s disappearance, she could no longer stand to interact with it. Her mother was often reviewing the robot’s recordings of their conversations and basic lessons, contributing some of her own life lessons and guidance late at night as she tucked her into bed.

One basic functionality that her version, the first version, had was the capability for someone to leave a message. Sometimes when Bel would turn on her Synthia in the morning, or take lessons in the evening after dinner, her mother’s voice would greet her as Synthia booted up. 

“Someone special has left you a message,” Synthia would chirp as she powered on, and then her mother’s voice would play. Some days it was nothing more than an I love you, have the best day in the world, Anabelle. Other times it was words of encouragement or something silly that would make her giggle. 

Tears threatened to pour down Bel’s face as she held her Synthia, a crack cutting through its lifeless face. The night she learned of her mother’s disappearance, Bel ran to her room and locked the door. She grabbed her Synthia, squeezing it tight in the corner of her bedroom. Synthia powered up on cue, and like many times in the past, her mother’s voice began to pour out. Bel had thrown it with as much ferocity as an almost nine-year-old could, angry that the world had taken her mother away.

Since, the robot, no larger than a teddy bear, had sat in storage, too painful to look at, its bright pink exterior in near-perfect condition. She grabbed the box, tossed the Synthia robot back in, and headed downstairs.

“I’ll be right back, Dad,” she yelled, not waiting for a reply to bellow out from the kitchen. She hopped in her dad’s car, box in tow, and sped off toward town. 

Bel pulled into Jimmy’s pawn shop ten minutes later, pain drawing her breath short, tears streaming down her face. Breathe, Bel, breathe, she thought to herself, tranquilizing the pain as she had done so often in her life.

Composing herself, she grabbed the box and headed into the shop. Jimmy was an old friend of her father’s, having graduated high school with him and staying in the area to work in his father’s shop until he ultimately took over the business after his passing. 

“That’s not Anabelle Roberts in my shop, is it?” The balding man behind the counter, hair clinging to the sides of his head, and a thick mustache draped over a neighborly smile called out to her. 

“Hey, Jimmy. How are you? How’s the shop getting along?” she replied, a friendly demeanor masking her true feelings.  

“Oh, we’re getting by, same as always. What can I do for ya, kiddo?” 

“I’m just dropping off this stuff from my dad’s place. We might be coming by with more tomorrow.” 

Jimmy rustled through the box, pulling out the Synthia robot when he saw it.

“These things are all over TV nowadays, calling it a growth revolution or something or other. When we were kids we talked to other kids, turned out just fine,” he said, chuckling. 

She forced her lip to curl into a smile. “I really need to get back to my dad’s place. A lot to pack up over there,” she said, drifting backward to the door, wishing the conversation over.

“Well, just one second. This Synthia robot you have here. I’ve sold a few in my day, and sometimes people want any audio recordings left on the device. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to extract anything if there’s anything to extract. It’s a bit busted up, but I can see what I can do.”

Why did he have to bring this up? Bel wanted to forget she’d even seen the thing today. It’d been close to 30 years since she’d heard her mother speak new words into existence. There were some old home videos they had, ironed in her mind from countless viewings. What Jimmy was offering was one last unique experience, a last I love you. Words, fresh in her perspective, that might offer a sort of acceptance to the happenings of that weekend.

She stopped her retreat from the store, giving Jimmy permission to try to extract any lasting data, which she understood could be nothing more than some accidental audio recording, given the first version was often a bit buggy. Though, while she sat waiting for Jimmy, she envisioned only the most perfect outcomes. As if her mother was able to reach out from beyond and record a new message, one that would help Bel understand and accept her disappearance. 

She waited for close to an hour, only one other patron entering in that time. Her father texted her, worried. She’d apologized, telling him she would explain when she returned. 

Jimmy returned, ducking under the counter, to hand Bel her Synthia. 

“I worked my magic on it and got it to power up. Looks like there’s an audio recording on it, but I didn’t run it. Feel free to take it back and drop it off another time if you’d still like to get rid of it.”

“Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

She quickly retreated to her father’s car, her heart racing, ready to hear the voice of her mother soothe her like so many years before. She paused, breathed, the Synthia robot sitting in her lap, staring at her with promise. 

Bel powered up the robot, anticipation boiling over. The robot lit up, a more sinister appearance in its cracked form. She verbally instructed it to play the audio recording on file.

The recording began to play, a slim indicator light on its chest lighting up red to indicate playback.

Silence.  

Bel waited.  

Nothing. 

Her heart sank. It was just an accidental recording. Her mother was gone, and she was silly to think otherwise.

Then, a sound, distant and vague. Bel strained to hear. It was two people arguing. Her mother and father?

She continued to listen, holding her Synthia up to her ear. The shouting became slightly more distinct as if moving closer to the robot. A sudden scream, dulled by the distance from the microphone, but unmistakably terrifying, drilled into her mind. 

It was a familiar scream. One buried long ago. Lies patting down the earth to cover up its horrific truth. 

The Synthia fell from Bel’s lap, tumbling to the floor. Her muscles contracted into paralysis, and her breath began to labor, each inhale filled with pain long forgotten.

She sat beside her door, the Synthia robot settled in her lap, listening to her parents argue through the crack. 

She pressed her eyes shut, resisting the memory. 

She heard her mother scream. She heard her cry out for help. Bel was afraid, unable to move to go help her mother.

Tears streamed down her face, her chest convulsing in panic, in pain, in truth. 

Bel heard a thump. Another thump. Another. She peered from out her door, catching a glimpse of her father dragging a rolled-up carpet down the stairs, wheezing and out of breath.

Her body was numb, but her mind swelled with pain. She sat, weeping, lifeless. A little girl petrified by fear once more. But there was no reason to move, no one to help. That chance died long ago with her mother.

The keys were in the ignition. Her hand twisted, and the engine spurned to life. The car spun out of the parking lot, speeding toward a home now tainted. 

The car screeched into the driveway. Bel opened the car door, her vision blurry, her legs unsteady, and no desire to face the source of the pain coursing through her mind. Her body moved forward despite the fact, her Synthia robot dangling from her hand. 

The door opened, though she wasn’t fully aware of twisting the handle, and she stepped into the foyer.

“Anabelle, my love, where have you been? I was getting worried, sweetheart.”

She stood there, motionless, with a blank expression covered by matted hair. She was speechless, no words able to develop since the recording.

Her father moved toward her. “Anabelle, honey, are you okay?” He stepped forward opening his arms to embrace her.

Bel’s hands gripped the Synthia robot with enough force to widen its cracked face. She swung the robot over her head, driving it into her father’s head.

He crumpled to the floor, paralyzed in disbelief. Bel was on top of him immediately, driving the robot into his head, again and again.

Her hands grew tired, the robot falling from them, rattling across the floor. Still, her arms windmilled above her head, her lifeless palms driving into her father’s unmoving head.  

Across the room, a red indicator light peered from a darkened corner, recording a continuous thud, slowly fading, until three figures lay motionless in the foyer.