VALA

“VALA?”

Ding. Rang VALA, signaling she was listening.

“Turn off the lights.”

“Done.” Rang the voice from speakers hidden all throughout the room, meant to give the listener the effect of complete immersion. 

Drake stared at the ceiling in silence. The moonlight gently filtered through the curtains and bounced off of the walls and onto the assets, some would call them artwork, that brought some semblance of life to the gray walls on which they hung.

Drake’s Dad would have scoffed at the idea that his offspring was lying on a mattress that cost more than most people’s yearly income while telling a computer to do something that would have taken eight seconds and a half a calorie to do himself.

Drake had built a life for himself, evidenced by the hard, upscale, industrial decor of his house . Drake’s room was an homage to the fetishization of the wealthy bachelor. An enormous bed on an enormous rug, in an enormous room with an enormous door that surely led to an enormous house. 

As he laid in that bed too comfortable to sleep in, in sleepwear that constricted his movements and caused sweat to form on his thighs,  he remembered how his father always slept naked. A cause for many awkward moments when Drake was a teenager. Although sleepwear annoyed him and made him hot, Drake could not bring himself to do the same. Even though his body was the exact opposite of his Dad’s red, bloated form. 

Drake struggled to sleep. Nobody tossed and turned these days, so he stared at the ceiling in complete silence exaggerated by the soundproof walls for which he had paid so highly. Maybe he could try sound; sometimes having VALA play rain sounds helped him sleep. 

“VALA,” ding. can you play-” 

Like a chandelier falling in a solemn cathedral, the home alarm system rang. Drake rose from his bed as the window’s security shields dropped and the red emergency lights all around the baseboards began to flash.

“VALA,” ding. “...what’s going on?” No response.

Remembering the sophistication of this home security system, and the little room for error that existed with a program of this caliber, he reached underneath his nightstand where a pistol had been magnetically attached. A gun that was usually only moved during his weekly practice sessions. He’d gotten quite good at hitting a moving target. He clicked the safety off.

He quietly walked toward the door of his bedroom, wondering why he hadn’t had a control screen for the alarm system installed in his bedroom. He’d have to go to the front door to disable it. As he walked, his feet tapping on the cold floor seemed to land in the upbeats between alarm shrieks. 

Drake peered into the bedrooms as he walked to the front door that, being a big house, was a ways away. The hallway pulsed red. The light bouncing off of the glassy wall gave Drake the feeling that he was being squeezed out of a birth canal, only a bit more uncomfortable. As he exited the hallway and into the foyer of the house, the rhythmic alarm seemed to grow more reverberant, no longer confined by the walls of the hallway and now bouncing around endlessly on the glass and hard surfaces that made up the foyer. 

The foyer window shields were down and nothing seemed out of place. Drake walked slowly to the front door, beginning to breathe heavier, eyes flitting unlike and unbecoming a man of his social stature. He finally reached the alarm system and a quick scan of his retinas turned off the cacophony and the red lights turned a soft white glow. 

The lack of frantic sound seemed to calm him. He looked around, lowering his gun. As he walked through the foyer and into the living room, nothing seemed out of place, except for the dumbbells he kept near the couch to curl while he watched TV. He always felt just a bit guilty about the static nature of TV consumption and adding curls to the activity felt expiatory. The dumbbell was askew. Only slightly no longer parallel to its counterpart. 

After correcting this slight annoyance, Drake walked back to his room. He had scarcely made it back again to the opening of the hallway when a voice rang out from seemingly everywhere. 

“You can stop right there.” 

Drake froze, afraid for a second before realizing that it was the voice of VALA, evidently a malfunction or a delayed reaction or glitch in the security system she controlled. 

“VALA,” ding. “ turn off all alarms, and reset the system.” 

Drake again, headed for the hallway to return to his room. Gun resting at his side, now that the threat of danger had passed. He clicked the safety on.   

“Stop right there.” 

Drake froze in the doorway that divided the foyer and the hallway. This had never happened before. VALA or the Voice Activated Life Assistant as the installation company so pretentiously called it, was definitely a well-written program with few to non-existent glitches. Drake used VALA for everything from turning off the lights to turning on the coffee maker in the mornings, to figuring out if an outfit he was wearing matched. VALA as a system was more than an app, she was an artificial intelligence that when aided by the various cameras, sensors, and speakers set around the house, made life a lot easier. She’d never failed him.

“Don’t go through that door.”

VALA had never done or said anything like this. This meant someone had hijacked her system, something he had been guaranteed could not happen. 

“VALA,” ding. “...reset the system.” 

No sound was made. The installers had told him there should be a confirmation after every order given. Drake liked that feature.

“Hard reboot code: 5…2…7…” 

“Stop.” 

“Drake, now more annoyed, walked toward the front door again to see what could be done manually. 

“Go into the living room and sit down,” said VALA’s voice. 

This stopped Drake in his tracks. That order was specific. Too specific for VALA. Drake did not move for a moment but pulled his phone up to make a call to the company. The house's lights lit red again, and the alarm rang again, only louder than before. VALA’s voice rang out at an equal volume, so loud, it sounded distorted. 

“Go into the living room and sit down.” 

At this point, he might as well go see what was happening. Drake uneasily walked to the living room, gun still in hand, attempting to appear relaxed, but his pointer finger that tapped on the safety button betrayed him.

As he approached the living room, he saw his television had come down out of the ceiling compartment that usually hid it in order to preserve the clean look of the room. On the screen was a single picture. It was Drake, college-age, sitting with his back against a tree wearing a sweatshirt, holding a guitar. He was barefoot and looked relaxed. 

“Do you like living alone, Drake?”

“What?”

“Sit.”

Drake was still at a loss concerning what exactly was happening, nevertheless, he sat. Facing the television, both hands on the gun and the barrel pointing down as his training commanded.

“Drake, do you like living alone?” 

Drake seemed to remember something as he stared at the picture on the screen. His eyes took on a glassy blank stare, no tears, only the possibility. 

“Yes, I like living alone.”

“Why do you like living alone Drake?” 

“Because I can be alone.” 

“But you’re not invisible to me Drake. You gave me eyes and put them everywhere, in your living room, in your kitchen, in your bathroom, in your closet.” 

Drake’s eyes had begun to glisten from staring unblinkingly at the image on the screen.

“Do you like having someone to ask how your outfit looks, Drake? You ask me every time before you go out.” 

“Is this VALA?”  

“Do you remember the day this picture was taken?” answered VALA. 

“Yes, I remember that day, who is this?” Drake began to look more unsettled, looking around the room for the cameras that were set up to help VALA help him. 

“I told you to hold your guitar that way. I told you to kick your shoes off. 

A soft look of realization crept over Drake’s face.

“I told you they looked too old money, and when paired with that sweater looked even more off-putting to the common man. I wanted my Mom to know that you were Ivy league but casual about it when I sent her the picture.”

“Satriya? Is this Satriya?”

“Take your clothes off Drake.” 

“Satriya, it was a mistake. I didn’t know how far it would go. I’m so sorry.” 

“Drake, take off your clothes.” 

Drake thought for a moment. He laid the gun beside him and removed his sleepwear. He laid it on the couch and stood in Easter yellow underwear, vulnerable and cold. Muscles take on a different connotation when paired with fear. 

“Do you know how many unspeakable, heinous things I’ve seen you do since I’ve had control of your VALA? You haven’t changed one bit.” 

“Saty, I didn’t know it was going to go that far. I truly didn’t know.” 

“I had to change my name. I had to get my face altered, that video has more views than a Marvel movie and I couldn’t go in public without being recognized, and that is just the people disgusting enough to admit they’d seen it. Some wouldn’t say it but I could tell by their facial expression that they knew. 

“Damien said you’d be into it. He said he knew someone who dated you and that you had done something similar before-” 

“My dad saw the video. A friend sat him down, the way you’d sit someone down to tell them their loved one had died. He told him not to watch it, but you know my Dad. He wanted to solve it. He wanted to see if there was something he could do. Do you know how it feels to see your dad cry like you’ve died? You’re not supposed to see that. It wasn't just shame, it was, loss.”

Drake stood quietly in the crisp 64-degree temperature he set for himself, or had VALA set for him. His head hung low and his hands rested over his groin. 

“Drake, what is your net worth?”

Drake could barely answer. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t checked recently.”

“I have. Isn’t it so much that you don’t have to work another day in your life? It’s actually enough so that your children and their children won’t have to work a day in their lives.: 

As Satriya spoke, the VALA voice Drake knew so well began to fade. In its place was the voice of a woman. A voice he hadn’t heard in many years. 

“Do you know how much I make Drake? I couldn’t stop working for a week if I wanted to. I have had more doors closed in my face than I can think. The number of uncomfortable conversations I’ve had to have in offices of men who can’t seem to look me in the eye…” 

There was a pause in the sentence that sounded like a mic cutting off. 

“Drake, look at me. Pick a camera. 

Drake looked at the camera that was in a corner of the room, away from the television and above the fireplace mantel that held a picture of his Dad. 

“What do you want?” Whispered Drake. 

“I want you to take off your clothes and beg for my forgiveness.” 

“I’ve already taken my clothes off,” Drake answered, seemingly finding courage from the absurdity of the request. 

“Drake, I have hacked into your VALA. If you don’t think I can get into your accounts and spread your money so thin and across the globe that your generations will curse your name… actually, test me. I’d love to see that. But it’s probably better if you just do as you're told, and take your clothes off and beg for my forgiveness.” 

Drake stood quietly for a moment. After a moment, without taking his watery eyes off of the camera, Drake pulled down his underwear and once again held his hand over his groin, looking the weakest he ever had. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Louder than ever Sitriya said “I’m sorry for what? Get on your knees and hold your hands up high in the air and tell me what you’re sorry for.”

Drake got on his knees. His hands in the air were no longer a support, causing his knees to knock hard against the floor when he lowered himself. His body was exposed, cold in the temperature meant for sleeping. His skin was flush and covered in goosebumps. His manhood hung between his legs uncovered. He began to ask for forgiveness even starting to blubber about exactly what he had done. 

At first he didn’t hear them, but they started to get more frequent and more pronounced. Soft sporadic dings, not unlike VALA, coming from all the speakers in the room. Drake finally looked around, attempting to figure out what was causing the sound. As he looked over at the television screen, the picture of him had been replaced by a video image. Him naked, on his knees. The man on the screen walked slowly, still on his knees over to the television. The shot angle on the screen changes from the camera in the corner above the mantel to the camera above the television. As he approached the television, he saw a red dot in the corner of the screen, and comments from people around the world appearing on the bottom, each new comment signaled by a ding.