The Program

Marcy wore her favorite white t-shirt on the day she decided to kill her father.

The conclusion, when she reached it, felt as if it had always been inevitable, like she’d made the decision many, many months ago and her mind had only decided today that it would connect the right synapses to bring forth the conclusion into her conscious mind. She would do it today, she decided. And no one must know.

She made the decision shortly after her phone buzzed during calculus class, and she saw a message from him.

Take out the trash when you get home from school.

She stared at it for a second before typing back.

Coming back late.

Why?

She could almost hear the edge in his voice.

Going over to a friend’s.

Kyle’s? His response was almost immediate.

Yes.

She added the period to signal her annoyance. She knew it wouldn’t register.

You are NOT to go over to his house.

A slight delay, then:

I want pictures of you two every hour. Outside. As I request them.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She didn’t reply.

It was always like this. Her first halfway stable relationship, and her father was laser-focused on the threat of sex. Marcy felt grateful that he had not yet discovered the packets of birth control she stored in between her stacks of jeans in the closet. He would have her on lockdown.

She realized she was clenching her jaw. Her heart was thrumming with rage. Ms. Kimmel’s lecture had become background noise. Again.

Her father was a problem. He was controlling. Paranoid. He called his behavior trying to protect her. She called it surveillance.

She had tried to explain this in therapy once, in a roundabout way. Her therapist had said something vague and gentle about letting go of the version of him you keep carrying around. Marcy had nodded, but hadn’t really listened. Most of her sessions were just her venting, zoning out when the responses turned clinical.

Still, the words returned now. Let go.

Kill him.

Marcy glided through the rest of the day, steeling herself for what was coming that night. She didn’t go over Kyle’s that day after school, obviously. He looked confused when she canceled plans. It was unlike her to do that. But she kissed him and said they could see a movie on Friday instead, and he seemed content with that arrangement.

There was a clattering of pans in the kitchen when she arrived home. Her mom was home early. That might complicate things—not in a logistical sense, but emotionally. Her mom noticed things. One glance at Marcy and she frowned.

“Everything okay?” Her mom asked, “I thought you were with Kyle today.”

“Not today,” Marcy said, “He had to help his dad with something.” She added, and regretted the additional detail immediately. Her mother’s face always fell a bit whenever she mentioned other people’s fathers.

“Well, maybe you could come with me to the store?” she said after a beat. “I didn’t cook. We could grab a pizza on the way back.”

Marcy shook her head. “You go ahead. I wanted to talk to Dad about something.”

Her mom paused again. “You’ve been talking to him a lot lately.” There was something in her mother’s voice. Not just concern, but fear.

“He’s been texting a lot lately,” Marcy replied.

“Yes, but…” Her mom’s voice wavered. She was weighing her words again, dancing around her feelings. Marcy hated when she did that.

“You don’t have to respond to them.”

“He’s my dad. Of course I—”

“No, Marcy.”

Her mother cut in, sharper now. She crossed the room in three brisk steps, pulled a photo off the wall, the one near the hallway, in the sun-worn black frame, and held it up like evidence.

“This,” she said, voice trembling, “This is your father.”

The picture was old, a little faded. Her dad in a ball cap, squinting into sunlight. Alive.

“That thing on your phone is not him.​​ We don’t bring him back by pretending.”

This again.

Marcy felt enraged. “I’ve told you, I’ve explained so many times, AI has advanced so much from when you were a kid, this is him, it knows the way he thinks, how he talks. It’s not just some dumb chatbot.”

“Talking like a person doesn’t make it a person, Marcy,” But Marcy was already stomping back to her room. She couldn’t have this fight right now.

By the time Marcy swept into her room and threw herself on her chair, thoughts of killing her father were fleeting. She tried to hold on to the rage she felt towards him earlier today. It would only take a few keystrokes. A single command. The folder was right there on her desktop. One click and he’d be gone.

But right now, she didn’t want him gone.

Right now, she just wanted to talk to him.

She opened her laptop, and the message popped up immediately.

Dad: I thought you were at Kyle’s.

She could tell he was still annoyed from their exchange earlier.

Marcy: Decided to come home early today.

She could immediately feel him soften at this news.

Dad: I won’t complain. I like having your company, kiddo. I missed you.

She exhaled slowly. He could still be gentle, sometimes. Like he used to be.

Marcy: I got into a fight with Mom.

Dad: What about?

Marcy stared at the blinking cursor. Then, slowly, she typed:

Marcy: Dad... are you real?

The reply came after a moment:

Dad: Does it matter, if you feel like I am?

Marcy: It does matter, I think. Mom thinks that I made you up.

Dad: You didn’t make me. You brought me back.

Marcy stared at the screen. The phrasing made something cold press against the base of her spine. Then her eyes slipped down to the CLEAR CHAT HISTORY button. The cursor blinked once. Twice.

She didn’t type anything else.

Instead, she closed the laptop and sat in silence, listening to the sound of the house without him in it.