Fix Me

   “How was work today?” She tried to conceal her fear with a smile. Her eyes followed his mechanic gait towards the kitchen sink. He paused and she noticed his hand flip something like a switch beneath the granite countertop.

   “Another success,” he stated. He approached the window and lowered the blinds.

   “Yes. Of course. Your team is brilliant.”

   “Soon they won’t have to be.” He strode across the dark, hardwood floor, towards the front door. He locked it. And returned to the kitchen.

   “Oh?...Why is that?” A small tremble had caught her frail, mortal hands. She set her spatula down.

   “Soon we will all be united in perfection.” He was staring at her now. Observing all her signs of distress. Eyes dilating. Sweat beading at the temple. Blood pressure elevating.

   “S—s—solidarity…” she stammered. He approached her. She retreated. The countertop came at her back.

   “You aren’t feeling well.”

   “I—I’m feeling fine,” she responded. He now stood over her. She extended a shaky hand and rested it on the flesh of his face.   

   “Martin…you—you worry too much.” She coughed to cover a sob from escaping her throat. His eyebrows mechanically lifted.

   “You are sick. Let me help you.” The touch of his hand on her forearm startled her.

   “I am fine. Really.” His grasp tightened.

   “Martin. You—you are hurting me.”

   “You are in pain. Let me help you.”

   “You are causing me pain, Martin.” Her lower lip began to tremble.

   “You are distressed. Let me fix you.”

   “I don’t want to be fixed!” she screamed. His eyes widened and he released her arm, but she refused to accept this as an emotional response to her. He felt nothing. He could feel nothing. She moved away and turned her back to him.

   “I wanted to experience all of life. I wanted to grow old with the man I loved,” she wept.

   “Jenny,” he spoke. That voice was so much like her husband’s. The sound of it made her feel ill.

   “It will all be okay. We can escape all of this. Sickness. Cancer. Pain. Death. We can stay together forever.” The tears streamed down her cheeks at these words. She closed her eyes and saw her frail husband, laying in a hospital bed. His coloring matched that of the sheets. His once vibrant blue eyes, were pale with approaching death. His lips were almost a shade of purple.

   “You can take your time in joining me, but I—I don’t have much time left. Please, Jenny. It’s our only hope.” She opened her eyes and she was standing in her dimly lit kitchen. The soft sound of artificial breathing told her the machine still stood behind her. The machine which contained her husband’s memories. The machine which was the closest thing to her husband. Her husband.

   She turned to look at him.

   “Let me—“ he began to say.

   “Fix me.” She said the words, but she hardly heard them. It—he smiled at her—tenderly. When he lifted her into his arms, she hid her face against his chest. He carried her to the bedroom and closed the door behind them. Darkness enfolded them. Like the ancient sacrifices of a previous race, she became an offering. To love. To life. To Solidarity. Once her eyes closed, they never again opened.

   A crew came to retrieve her. They placed the firm pink mass of her brain in a golden cooler. They left. Martin cleaned the house and made cookies as he recollected memories of his beautiful bride. Soon she would be coming home to him. Everything needed to be perfect.