The eyes never seen before (3)

Roxy was out in the middle of a road that stretched to the horizon. There was nothing else. Nothing and no one else.

More importantly, she wasn't even sure how she had gotten here in the first place.

Nothing about the situation made much sense. Where were the others? And why didn't she remember how she'd gotten here, whatever they'd been doing before this?

Roxy's first thought was that she must be dreaming, but it all felt too real.

The desert heat. The sweat clinging to her skin. Her shortness of breath. This couldn't be a dream.

It was definitely real.

She knew well that reality could be more unreasonable than any dream.

She would gain nothing by sitting around waiting for the others, if they were around. If they were... alive. Although she didn't like to think about it, it was a definite possibility.

In her job, they lived by necessity with the possibility that definite separation could come at any day.

At any moment. Without even giving them time to say goodbye.

Roxy shook her head. She was going off on a tangent. In any case, she had to keep walking. That was life in a nutshell.

A constant struggle. But no matter how hopeless things seemed, as long as you kept walking, you'd get somewhere sooner or later.

So Roxy kept walking down that endless road, under the sunlight whose heat was mercilessly browbeating her.

■

The tangle of snakelike wires that had come out of the face of the thing that pretended to be her mother headed toward her.

Mary made to withdraw the fork with which it had pierced her hand, sticking it to the table.

However, she wasn't quick enough.

The tentacles curled around her forearm, squeezing hard enough to break bone.

Mary gritted her teeth. Pain shot up her arm in an instant, she knew she had indeed broken something, and for a moment she thought it was all over.

That she would lose consciousness and, of course, be killed before she could open her eyes again.

But Mary didn't lose consciousness.

At least for the moment. If it kept up, she doubted she would be able to hold on much longer. She had to give it everything she had. While she could still fight.

Mary had no idea what was going on, or what she was up against, and the only thing she had as a weapon was a damn fork. But that didn't give her permission to give up.

There were things she had to fight for.

People important to her... She couldn't remember, but the feelings still burned in her heart. Like sparks from a bonfire.

Those feelings, and the certainty that they were real, were enough to give her the strength to fight.

Mary struggled against the tentacles.

Her mother... no, that "thing" was on the other side of the table.

You could say that was the only good thing about this situation. Once she closed the distance, she'd be really screwed.

In the midst of the struggle, Mary managed to grab another weapon from the only thing she had on hand. Namely, the cutlery.

She wielded the knife and used it against one of the tentacles constricting her.

To her surprise, she cut it off with relative ease. It rolled across the table and fell to the floor, where it writhed like a fish out of water, only it didn't spit out water, what it threw out were wild sparks. It also gave off a burning smell, of course.

It didn't look like something a simple kitchen knife could cut through so easily.

It was, undoubtedly, strange.

So what, you're going to complain because something is easy?

Yeah, that was just what she needed. Not accepting what little luck she had. One way or another, Mary shook her head.

She didn't have to think at all. The only important thing was her survival.

If it had worked once, why not twice? In other words, she tried to cut the next one. This time, however, she didn't get very far. For a moment she thought she'd gotten out of its grip, but then she saw that she hadn't.

This time it didn't work, not because the knife cut worse now, suddenly, for no reason.

It didn't work because the snakes that had been holding her lifted her overhead. Because the thing that had been her mother threw her, without letting go, against the counter.

It was terrible.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs. The pressure of the tentacles must have broken bones in her arms, or at least caused major damage, but this impact would also surely have taken its toll on her back.

Not to mention a good blow to the head.

It wouldn't have been strange if she had died from such a blow, but Mary didn't even lose consciousness.

Again.

That horrible creature circled the table, but still felt the need to push it aside. It did so casually as it passed by, putting hardly any force into it, but the table went flying against a wall and exploded into a thousand pieces.

Heedless of any of it, the thing continued to approach her.

With every step it took, her arms seemed to be squeezed tighter and tighter. It was only a matter of time before they were both ripped from her.

Truth be told, she wasn't sure how they were withstanding such force.

And how her brain was enduring so much pain, keeping her conscious. Maybe it was like the fact that really severe wounds didn't hurt.

Maybe she wasn't losing consciousness because it hurt too much.

"This is..." Mary muttered, almost without strength. She couldn't even say three words in a row because the effort caused her to cough. She coughed several times, hard, she thought she would vomit blood, and she did. Mary sprayed the kitchen floor with her own blood. "Absurd."

But she had to fight the absurd world and carve out a place for herself in it. That was what life was all about.

A constant war, but it could be won.

She would win.

If she was anything at all in life, she was a warrior.

Mary slowly rose to her feet, enduring the pain of her arms being crushed, enduring even the shortness of breath that was making her feel dizzy.

Feeling as if she might pass out at any moment.

She reached out, searching for a weapon. She had lost the silverware in the fall. She'd have sworn she'd kept them, but she hadn't. They had fallen out of her hands as she hit the floor.

Now they were lost out there. Out of her reach.

So what exactly was she looking for?

Another fork, another kitchen knife, perhaps?

No. Maybe this wasn't what she had been looking for, but she found it anyway. A hammer, her hammer. A real weapon, not just a kitchen utensil.

Now things had changed completely.

It only took two blows. Two measly blows. One to make the thing fall to its knees, bending forward, like a prisoner condemned to death presenting himself to the executioner.

The second was to the head, which exploded like a piñata.

This piñata contained a single gift, however, and the whole kitchen became covered in it.

Two blows were enough, but Mary didn't deliver only two blows. She smashed its head again and again, even after the spasms stopped. To be sure.

There was no point in settling for a simple victory. If you had a chance for a complete, crushing victory, you had to take it. That was exactly what Mary did.

She had learned that there was no mercy or hesitation to be had.

That was it. It was all over. Safe to assume that the thing was dead and wouldn't rise again. But Mary couldn't shake the feeling that she was forgetting something.

She soon discovered why.

She heard something, turning around. Then her sister attacked her, only it wasn't her little sister at all, but had transformed into a thing like that, only it no longer had a face but snakes of shimmering black like a creature from the depths of the sea.

Mary couldn't help but scream when it came at her.

There was more rage than fear in her scream, though. Yes, there was a little fear, too. But it turned out to be an unfounded fear, more from surprise than anything else.

Mary dispatched it as effortlessly as the other creature.

No, even more easily. Mary finished off the first one with two blows. With this one it only took one, the girl went straight for its head, making it burst into pieces. Like a melon.

Mary reared back. Her lower back hit the countertop.

She was bathed in blood from head to toe. But it was okay, since it wasn't her own blood. Mary took a deep breath, closed her eyes. When she opened them again, looking around, she realized she recognized this scene.

That it was something that had already happened.

Indeed, she remembered coming home to find this. Her mother and little sister murdered in the kitchen. Blood and guts everywhere.

She had had nothing to do with it, of course. She didn't even see the one who did it.

But it didn't change that this was the outcome she'd had to witness. And that she'd had to endure their absence for a long time, while it tore her up inside. No, she was still enduring it.

It was horrible.

It was when the world came crashing down on her and she left it all behind. But it had happened years ago, hadn't it?

Yes... Memories began to come back to Mary slowly.

Memories of who she really was. And of what this was.

■

Roxy kept walking down the road.

She couldn't stop walking. Stopping was the same as dying. Life was a sad and fragile thing. It took so much careful effort to hold on to something, while for it to go to shit all it took was....

To forget it. To let it go. That's why she couldn't stop. Ever.

She certainly couldn't stop.

Why would she die, was stopping really worse than continuing to walk? She was tired, that was the truth. Tired of going from nothing to nothing.

Always walking forward while her surroundings didn't change. Dry and empty, always.

She was too tired.

Soon after, her body made the decision for her. Put another way, she fell to her knees.

Roxy dropped her head until her chin touched her chest.

Her breathing was as heavy as her body. Even if she tried with all her might, even if she possessed the will to try still, she wasn't sure it would be enough.

Well. And if it was she surely wouldn't be able to stand for long.

In the midst of lamenting over her fate, she couldn't help but notice the gun lying on the floor between her legs. Had it been there all along? Yes, it sure had been, it couldn't have just appeared out of nowhere.

She shook her head slightly. The heat was getting to her.

And... so much more.

Now...

Life was a constant struggle. A real war. As long as you were alive, you had to keep walking, even if you weren't getting anywhere.

Yes. Those were the key words.

As long as you were alive.

Evidently, the struggle of life had nothing to do with those who were dead. And there were many ways to speed up the process, so to speak.

Like the gun in his hands. It would all be over in an instant.

She would finally be able to rest.

Roxy brought the barrel of the gun to her mouth, sliding it in. She threw her head back, squinting her eyes. A few tears blurred her vision, ran down her cheeks.

But was she sad about this?

Did she have any reason, even one, not to pull the trigger and end this whole charade? If she did, she wouldn't remember it. Which was the same thing.

Roxy started to pull the trigger.

■

A kitchen filled with the corpses of the strange robots she had destroyed and, at the same time, all-too-human blood, a vibrant crimson, wasn't the best place to sit and reminisce.

That was what a part of Mary's was telling her, at least.

Also that if she had encountered two hidden enemies, why wouldn't there be a third?

Another part of her thought she understood how this worked. That there wouldn't be a third enemy, because she didn't have a father.

None of that mattered. Because she didn't have a choice.

She was subjected to a cascade of confusing memories. And she didn't have a choice but to endure it until she came out the other side. Breathing raggedly, as if she really had been drowning under a waterfall.

Mary couldn't say she remembered much, or very clearly, that she had taken much away from the experience.

But she remembered enough. She remembered that...

"There was something... Something of extreme importance..."

To her.

In other words, she had a reason to go on living.

That was what counted in the end. No matter how much you lost down the long road, as long as you got something new to fill that void, you could keep walking with your head held high.

That's how you "won" in life despite the constant losses.

If Mary was anything in life, she was a warrior. Indeed she was. But there was no warrior so good as to never lose a battle. True warriors knew how to lose.

True warriors were also survivors, in other words.

And she would. She would survive.

Mary looked around for what would probably be the last time, one way or another.

"I'm sorry." Those were the words that came out of her mouth, for some reason.

She wasn't at fault.

Mary didn't share the same fate as her mother and sister only by chance, because she hadn't been at home at the time. But she wasn't at fault.

Besides, she had been a child. What could a child have done to stop the massacre?

Nothing. Just as she had been unable to do anything to even find out why, much less stop the person responsible. Avenge or bring justice, whatever one would like to call it.

Nothing.

Maybe, deep down, Mary was still a child. And that was why she had apologized.

Mary wandered through the empty house where nothing lived and no one would ever live again as a ghost. Her feet carried her to the front door.

Entrance and exit, at the same time.

She pushed it open with both hands.

On the other side was...

A random street in the middle of the night. A sky so dark that neither the moon nor the stars could be seen.

Mary thought that on the other side was freedom, but it was just more of the same. In fact, it was as if she hadn't even left the house.

That was the feeling she had, undoubtedly.

That Mary still hadn't found her entrance and exit. It had to be somewhere and she had to find it. There was a "reason" to go back. Even if she still couldn't quite remember it, there was a reason.

That was enough for her.

Mary resumed the eternal walk.

■

Her hands were shaking, even though she didn't have a reason to go on living. Her eyes were still watering, even though she wasn't sad at all.

Roxy paid no attention to her body's incoherent responses; it was a basic survival instinct, but sometimes it had little to do with the human heart. Perhaps that survival instinct, which went against the voice of her heart, was the only thing that had driven her to keep walking all along.

Because she had nothing else.

Therefore, she threw aside the small fragments of doubt still embedded in her heart.

And pulled the trigger.

■

Jamie leaned back, heart pounding. But there wasn't much room. They were both in bed, after all. Her back hit the wall and her hands brushed the edge of the bed.

She had never seen anything like that... thing.

She didn't know what it was, but it definitely wasn't the real Jonathan.

She wasn't armed.

She didn't understand how she had felt that kick, as if she were pregnant. It was ridiculous, it couldn't be possible, but Jamie had a feeling that if she got up and tried to run away, she wouldn't get very far.

At least not on her feet. And if she crawled, she'd be caught soon enough.

Even if she didn't fall, if by some miracle she kept her balance, she wasn't sure she could go very fast. Her body felt too heavy.

"You're not Jonathan. Who are you?" As she tried to think of what to do, she blurted out that question.

Jamie had expected him to respond by attacking her.

Instead, the green glow in his eyes disappeared, returning to their normal color. Well, Jonathan's color, anyway.

And the thing spoke.

"Does it matter?"

"Huh?"

Of all the things it could have said to her, she hadn't expected anything like that. What was it playing at? Jamie thought he would at least try to deny it. Fool her again.

"I look like Jonathan. I sound like Jonathan. I'm also like him in personality. And... I'm just as warm. What's the difference?" At no point did he make any move to attack her.

There was silence.

His words sounded horribly persuasive. Partly because he was speaking those words in Jonathan's voice, the person she would do anything for, no questions asked.

Partly. But not entirely.

It was also because... A dark part of her heart was whispering to her that the thing was right after all.

If it was such a real copy, so perfect, where was the difference?

It wasn't really Jonathan, of course, but she could never have that in reality. So would it really be so terrible to escape into a fantasy?

The lower part of her, dirty and greedy, whispered that to her.

But that would be betraying him, she thought. I can't... Even if I never have this "out there," I can't betray him.

"This is the dream you've always wanted, and I can give it to you," the fake Jonathan said. "Just close your eyes. Stop struggling for a few seconds. When you open your eyes, you won't remember anything, and you and Jonathan will be together forever."

A sweet dream.

If Jamie wouldn't remember that it wasn't fake, then it would be like it was real. She could be happy forever. She could have everything she dreamed of and more.

Her friends were nowhere to be found.

They were important to her too. They were like family. Over the years, they had formed that kind of bond. But not seeing them anymore was a small price to pay for being able to be with Jonathan, right? Only it wouldn't even be Jonathan. Just a copy. Just… Yeah, but if she didn't notice the difference, did it really matter?

Fake Jonathan leaned forward, grinning from ear to ear. He seemed confident that he had already convinced her.

"I'll pass."

Almost. But only almost.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed an axe embedded in the wall. Jamie was pretty sure it hadn't been there a moment ago, but what was one more falsehood? She grabbed the axe's pommel. Pulling with one hand, she wrenched it from the wall, then swung it at the head of the fake Jonathan.

There was a sickening sound as it sank into his face, shredding all the skin and flesh along the way. Jamie grimaced, looking away, as blood flew through the air.

She knew it wasn't Jonathan. That he was an enemy.

But she wouldn't be able to continue this if she looked at him.

One blow wasn't enough. She wrenched the axe from its skull, which was a bigger effort than sticking it in there, lifted it over her head, and brought it down hard.

Jamie repeated it again and again.

She wasn't looking, but she could hear and feel more than enough.

Those nauseating sounds of the axe slicing through flesh, or the burning wetness of the ever-expanding pool of blood brushing her legs, her thighs, staining her dress red.

Jamie didn't stop until a while after the enemy stopped moving.

To be sure. Speaking of which, though, she had to at least get a look at it. So she could really be sure. Jamie took a deep breath, steeling herself, preparing to throw up.

And she took that peek.

She didn't react as she'd expected. That image took away her nausea.

Because it made it obvious that not only was he not the real Jonathan, he wasn't even a living being. Beneath the bloody shred of skin and flesh was nothing but a tangle of wires, still twisting like leaves swaying in the wind, spitting sparks of electricity.

A robot, a copy made in Jonathan's image. Nothing more.

Jamie could be calm. She stopped holding her breath. The wires made it clear that the skin and flesh, as realistic as it looked, like everything else, had to be synthetic.

Having finished with this, now all that remained was....

To go back to her people. To her family.

"I have to get out of here."

There were no windows in the room. That wasn't necessarily strange, but it was strange that she hadn't noticed it until now. Like the axe that hadn't been there before.

Like so many other things.

It was better not to waste time thinking about things like that. It would only make her head hurt.

Jamie got out of bed.

With her body as heavy as it was, it took quite a bit. It made her feel old and useless. If she took it easy, bracing herself where she could, she should be able to do this.

She took a step forward, half crouched, one hand on the bed.

It was steadier than expected.

Jamie grabbed onto a bedside table, on which there was a wilting plant. What kind of plant? Well, she had no fucking idea. Botany had never been of interest to her.

Especially not now. She needed to get out of here, the sooner the better.

Fake Jonathan wouldn't be the only enemy. Jamie didn't understand the situation, she didn't remember anything, but at least she understood that. An axe wasn't much of a weapon, but it had served her well. She squeezed the handle tighter. Until her knuckles turned white.

Jamie felt kicks, again.

The implication of that feeling was ridiculous. The... The baby had to be as fake as the Jonathan she' d left mangled on the bed.

The important thing here was that this time the kicks were harder.

So she couldn't take it. Before Jamie knew it, her vision was getting dangerously close to the floor. Jamie made sure to land on her side, not her belly.

Even though she couldn't be pregnant. That, like everything else here, was a sham.

"I don't learn," Jamie muttered.

She couldn't help but laugh at herself. Sometimes she could be too nice for her own good, even though she'd been living like a mercenary for years.

Nice or deluded. She supposed they weren't such different things.

Jamie took a deep breath, gathering her strength to try again. She didn't feel able to stand up, let alone stay that way, at least for the moment.

But she could crawl.

Yes, she had finally ended up crawling as she thought she would.

Filled with determination, she crawled toward the bedroom door, the only way out. She tried hard to avoid thinking about the possibility that the thing she'd left in pieces on the bed might come back to life. And to get her.

■

■

Nothing happened to Roxy.

When she pulled the trigger, she had instinctively closed her eyes. In the first few seconds, she had told herself that what was happening to her was a phenomenon such as decapitated heads being able to maintain consciousness for mere seconds.

Although the bullet should have blown her brains out, killing her instantly.

But now she couldn't fool herself in any way. She opened her eyes. Nothing had happened to her because the Pistol hadn't fired.

Her hands began to shake even harder, but now there was more rage in that shaking than anything else, as she tightened her grip on it as if she intended to crush the Pistol for refusing to work.

Her eyes, of course, were still misty with tears. She hadn't bothered to wipe them away.

Roxy pulled the trigger one more time.

Several times, again and again, more and more furiously.

All, of course, to no avail. The Pistol was either empty or broken. It would never work again.

"Shit," she let out a choked scream.

Roxy tossed the Pistol aside, discarding it.

Breathing heavily, she threw her head back, far back, closing her eyes again. The wetness running down her cheeks wasn't just tears. It hadn't been from the beginning. Her face was bathed in sweat.

After a while, she stood up again, ready to move on. After all, she had no choice.

Roxy resumed walking.

If she could not die, she had to live. Indeed. Even if that was all she had, it was something.