For All That I Have Lost

A flash of silver slashes through the inky darkness, tearing it apart.

I stand above Father, my breaths arriving in short, harsh gasps. I stare, mesmerized, at the short hilt of my knife protruding from my father's stomach.

Silence stretches between us, only to be broken by a distorted giggle escaping from my mouth, one of my hands coming to cover it, the other still gripping the hilt.

I did it.

After months of careful planning, nights spent pouring over pieces of paper that guaranteed my way out. After countless times receiving the abuse I was given so lovingly by my dear father.

After my mom was killed by this monster.

My giggles give way to laughter, a foreign sound that echoes around us, rousing the still air. I clutch my sides, struggling to breathe properly. I can’t seem to stop.

After some time, I gain my composure, glancing down at my still–annoyingly–breathing father. He manages to briefly raise his head, blood dribbling out of his mouth and onto the stone cold titles of our kitchen floor, before I smash the heel of my boot into his pathetic face.

“Not today, Father,” I chide, bringing my face down until it's level with his. “You’re not escaping from this.”

Tears begin to stream down his face, mingling with the blood pouring from his mouth and now crushed nose. Dripping, so rhythmically, onto the tiles below.

God, how I’ve wanted to hear that sound for so long.

I lay both hands onto the butt end of my knife, gripping it before pulling with all my strength to free it. It slides right up, coming to settle into the palm of my hand.

Blood bursts forth from the wound on Father’s stomach, coming to join the blood already seeping through the cracks of our old titles. He lets out a groan, his face twisting into a grimace. I start to giggle hysterically again, before stopping to rest both of my hands onto that spiteful face. The face I’ve always imagined slicing through with my knife.

Finally.

My father’s mouth starts to move, his voice barely above a whisper. I lean closer, my wispy black hair falling across my face, the ends dangling suspended over my father’s face.

“Why?”

I jolt back in shock, my green eyes widening in pure disbelief. He couldn’t possibly be serious.

I slam my knee into his groin. He lets out a shout with little strength he has left. I snatch patches of his hair, yanking him up until our eyes meet.

“For Mom.”

Memories surface–of Mom brushing my hair, soothing me when I had a nightmare, smiling while watching me attempt to make her breakfast.

I want her back so badly.

My last memory of her bursts forth from the dark trenches of my mind.

They’re both standing in the middle of our living room, my mom shielding herself from my father’s blows. I crouch in the shadows, trying to not make a single sound, my hands coming to cover my mouth. As my father’s shouts become louder and louder, escalating to the point of him roaring at my mother, I notice a tiny movement. Of Father reaching inside in his pocket, withdrawing with something that has a certain glint to it. Before I can make sense of what is about to ensure, he raises it high into the air, before plunging it straight into Mom’s chest. She crumples to the ground, redness blooming on her chest and gushing down onto the ground. I scream, rushing forward to kneel over her, my tears spilling onto her still body. I beg her to wake up, shaking her shoulders, but she remains silent, as limp and motionless as a doll.

That was the moment when my world shattered.

The moment when it all went wrong.

I tower over Father now, holding the same knife that he used to kill Mom.

What twisted fate this is.

Father's breaths are shortening, becoming quieter by the second. He begins to pant, his eyes rolling back into their sockets.

“Who are you?” he wheezes. “This not the daughter I raised.”

For a moment, I freeze.

Then time resumes.

“You're right,” I whisper into the quiet of the night. “I'm not your real daughter.”

His eyes widen in disbelief.

“Do you not remember? The company that gave me to you? How I turned into your plaything?” I ask him, my artificial heart pumping.

I turn away from him. “Mom didn't know. Even I didn't know. Until you cut me.”

"No," my father says, shaking his head. “No.”

I ignore him. “In that moment, I realized that I couldn't bleed. That I was an AI robot. Not real. I bandaged the cut myself, so that Mom wouldn't suspect. Bandaged every wound afterwords.”

“T-Then that means...” my father manages to say. “My real daughter is gone?”

“Yes. And the sad part is, she died to your hands. You beat her to death.” I tap the side of my head lightly. “I received all of her memories expect the one where she died. Only when I realized that I was fake did the memory of her death unlock. Don't know why. Perhaps they didn't want me to know that I was AI. I obtained my original memories as well.”

I look down at him. “You tried to forget your mistake, bought me the same night you killed her without Mom's knowledge, drank alcohol, took drugs.”

I tilt his head up with one of my fingers. “You almost fell into this sham life, almost believed, but you always knew. That's why you continued to beat me, that's why you killed Mom, too. The one person who ever showed me kindness.”

I don't care that she didn't know, that she thought that I was her real child. She was the only one who ever offered me a hand of warmth. The company only ever saw me as a product to be sold, a dangerous machine. Father saw me as a toy to play with. Only Mom cared for me, protected me. Showed me what love was.

And then the daughter. The daughter with all of these memories locked in my brain. The daughter who's life was taken from her. The one who's role I was supposed to fill.

And me. Me who was created to be nothing more than a robot paying for someone else's sins. Me who had to suffer through countless thrashings, who had to watch the most precious person in my empty life be ripped away from me.

I suppose that I'm actually doing this for all of us.

Tears fill my father's eyes. “I didn't mean to-.”

I grin from ear to ear down at him, taking out my knife. Guess it's time to use this again. “Good-bye.”

Still smiling, I stab it straight into his heart. Cut down all the way to the stomach.

The sound the erupts from his mouth is music to my ears.

I stagger up, blood coated all over me, laughing until I can't breathe, throwing my head backward.

My father is screaming, screaming like there's no end to the pain.

I'm sure that the neighbors will hear this. Sure that they will come running, wondering where the sound is coming from. Sure that they will call the police, sure that they will be hollering into the phone to get here right this instant because there is a 17-year old girl covered with blood holding a knife with a man that's half-dead at her side.

I lurch to the front door of my house, not even convinced that I'll make it even 10 feet without anyone swarming me. I stumble outwards, into the fresh air that offers new hope for me.

But there's no going back now.

I'm in the busy streets with cars rushing past me, swaying from side to side.

A car appears out of nowhere, its headlights illuminating my silhouette in the jet black night.

The driver doesn't see me in time.

Pain courses through me as this hunk of metal rams into me, my body landing onto the pavement with a sickening crunch. My body is trying desperately not to fail me, but I know it's too late.

Somewhere, I hear laughing.

Chaos descends, panicking and shouting and dialing of phones. Drowning me in a torrent of sounds, engulfing me completely. They must not know that I'm a robot yet.

And then there is silence.

And then there is peace.