A Walking Shadow Vol. 1 Read online

A Walking Shadow

  By Ameilia Foster

  Copyright 2014 Ameilia Foster

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  Chapter 1

  Not-so- fun-fact: did you know you could die from a broken heart? I’m serious. Even I didn’t believe it. When I first read about it in a medical journal three years ago, I thought it was a bunch of—what did Father call it?—horse puckey. According to the article, when you lose someone you love, all the stress hormones that your body releases can cause an artery in your heart to swell and restrict blood flow, slowly and painfully killing you.

  I thought about this as I stood in front of Father’s casket on the second worst day of my life. At the time, when I was reading the article, it seemed silly. Like something that someone made up to make soap operas and big-screen romances more interesting. But now, as it felt like my heart was collapsing in on itself and rotting away inside my ribcage, for some reason, it started to make a lot more sense. I didn’t think that human emotions and ailments like this could occur to me, but here we are. I held two fingers up to the pulse on my neck. I wondered if I was dying.

  I really did. Yesterday morning, when the pain first started, I thought I was having a heart attack. I woke up shivering and covered in sweat, which I admit could possibly have been attributed to the bad dream I was having. That’s another strange thing. I never really had naturally occurring dreams when I slept; if I wanted one, I had to specifically ask Father to program one for me. But that night I did. Anyways. There was also an unbearable pressure and burning pain inside my chest, like someone had tightly wrapped my heart in barbed wire. I panicked and called out for Father before remembering he wasn’t there. The wire wrapped around my heart tightened.

  I usually had no need to take human medications, but I once heard on TV that taking a couple aspirins in the early stages of a heart attack can help reduce the risk of dying from one. I didn’t know if it would work on me but I took two. It was four in the morning, and Doctor Frederick probably wasn’t in his office, so I called his home phone. I remember he picked up and he sounded really tired and annoyed, so I told him, “Doctor, you’re probably really tired and annoyed that I called you, but I am having a heart attack.”

  This seemed to confuse him. “Heart attack? Jonah, you’re twenty years old and in peak physical condition.” He hesitated for a few seconds before continuing. “And, you know, you’re a robot. So.”

  Doctor Frederick knew about me and what I was. I should probably mention that he is not a real, bone-fide doctor. He’s actually an engineer who used to work with my dad and he happened to have a second degree in medical science, but he’s only ever a doctor when he does checkups for me, or at times like this when I’m waking him up at four in the morning with crippling chest pain or whatever was ailing me at the moment. Obviously, I can’t go to a regular doctor because 1) a regular doctor would probably be very confused when they go to give me a shot and the metal under my skin breaks the needle and 2) when I was created, the government declared that no one can know that I exist.

  I explained to him how I woke up cold and sweaty and that my heart hurt really bad, and when I said that, he got really quiet on his end of the phone. I had to say “hello?” twice before he would respond to me again, and when he did, his voice was gentle.

  “Son, you’re not having a heart attack. You’re just suffering from a broken heart.”

  I told Doctor Frederick that this was a very serious situation and there was no time for jokes seeing as how my life was on the line, and he just laughed, in the with-me kind of way and not the at-me kind of way. And then he got serious again.

  “You just lost your father, Jonah. And I know you loved him very much. What you’re feeling right now? It’s called heartbreak, and it happens to everyone when they lose somebody they care about. It’s natural, son, and there’s no need to be ashamed of it.”

  “So I’m not dying?”

  “It may very well feel like you are, but I assure you, you’re not.”

  I thought about this. I touched my chest. It felt like a hole was burning through it. I didn’t say anything for a while.

  “Jonah,” Doctor Frederick said eventually. “You may be a robot. And I know you think that you don’t have a soul. But you have human skin and blood. And a heart and a brain. And because of this, you are subject to human emotions. They might not be as strong as everybody else’s, but they’re still there.”

  I wanted to tell Doctor Frederick that he was wrong, that I really didn’t have a soul. I was created inside a lab. All my organs that he aforementioned had grown from Petri dishes. I was not naturally born, and thus could not possibly have a soul. And you need to have a soul to have emotions. Whatever “feelings” that I had, sensations vaguely similar to what human beings would call pleasure or disappointment or whatnot, were merely pre-programmed responses that allowed me to respond to stimuli from the outside world. A way for me to process external data like the machine that I am. I pursed my lips but said nothing. Doctor Frederick said, “Son, get some rest. If you want, I can talk to you about your Father and this entire situation later, alright?”

  I thought about this for a moment, and then I told Doctor Frederick that I didn’t want to talk about my Father, so he said okay and I hung up. I slumped onto the cold kitchen tile, focusing on the pressure inside my chest that felt like it was going to split me in two. If what Doctor Frederick said was true, and that what I was feeling right now was something called heartbreak, then I should probably be crying hysterically on the floor, screaming and banging my fists. But the tears never came.

  Today, the pain wasn’t as bad. But there was still a dull ache with each beat of my heart. It hurt more when I looked inside the casket at father’s cold, motionless body. I stared at his pale lips shot up with formaldehyde, and his thin fingers clutched together on top of his chest that no longer rose and fell with his breath. It was a strange sight. His body was there, but with nothing inside. Just like me.

  There was a hand on my shoulder and I tore my eyes away from Father. It was the priest, Father Leonard I think his name was, and his tired gray eyes were filled with pity as they bore into mine.

  “My friend,” he said softly, one hand still clutching my shoulder and the other one gripping the rosary hanging from his neck. “Is there anyone else coming?”

  I looked around the church. There were a total of four people spread out across the pews. Two of them were the maids that came by our house twice a week do all the cleaning and chores; the heavy-set woman with the messy blonde curls was patting away her running mascara with a tissue, and the skinny woman with the shaved head and piercings let her tears fall freely down her cheeks as she lowered her head in prayer. The third person was Bernie, an elderly African-American man who would play chess with Father at the park when I took him there every Sunday. His eyes were sad as they stared down at his leathery hands that he just kept rubbing together over and over. The last person was the twenty-something year old girl with the long black hair that reached past her hips who sold handmade sea-shell jewelry on the beach. Every time we went for walks along the shore, Father made sure to buy something from her. We probably had an entire box full of sea-shell bracelets from her back home.

  To be honest, this was a bigger turn out than I was expecting. Father never got married or had kids, and both of his sisters were dead. His nephews were big business tycoons who were probably too busy yelling at their stock brokers
somewhere to make it out to their only uncle’s funeral. I looked back at Father Leonard and nodded. “This is everyone.”

  Father Leonard nodded and patted my shoulder. “I’m going to begin the service then, my friend.”

  I sat down by myself in the first row. Father Leonard greeted all five of us in attendance, and began the service by asking us all to bow our heads in prayer. I wasn’t really the praying type, but I bowed my head and closed my eyes all the same. “Holy father, who art in heaven, hollowed be thy name…”

  When the service was over, everyone got up and walked over to me, red-faced and teary-eyed. They all offered me their condolences, and asked if I was okay, and told me how much they loved Father, and gave me awkward hugs as they cried into my neck, and it was really all very uncomfortable. I tried to be as polite as I could. If anything, I was the one who had to had to make them feel better, rubbing their backs as they hugged me and whispering it’s okay-s in their ears. I was worried they would pass out from dehydration if they cried anymore than they already had. But I could only take so much before I told them that we’d best be heading over to the cemetery for the burial. A few more rib crushing hugs were exchanged, and as they all sauntered out of the church, I waved after them and told them I’d meet them there after I had a little more time alone with my father.

  The complete silence that hung in the air when I was finally alone sent a chill down my spine. I closed my eyes and let myself take it all in for a moment. Total solitude. Something I’d have to get used to. Eventually, I took a deep breath, and I pulled out a large, brown, paper grocery bag that I had shoved under one of the pews earlier and walked over to the casket.

  I sat down, and folded my arms on top of my knees. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the hard wood of the platform holding up the casket. I counted each beat beat beat of my heart.

  What I really wanted to do was cry. I was his son, and I had yet to cry over his death. At the service, I was the only one who did not shed a single tear. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, thinking, Come on already. Father is dead. You’re alone, and Father is dead. Dead. He’s dead. Still nothing came. If anything, I was just starting to feel frustrated. I sighed and lay down, pressing my cheek against the dusty wood panel floor.

  What was wrong with me? I pressed the palm of my hand against my still aching chest, right on top of my pulse. Why couldn’t I feel something? But I really knew the answer. I may have skin, and a brain, and a heart, and veins that have blood coursing through them, but they were all artificial. I was artificial. Underneath all these layers of fake skin and blood was metal and wire. And nowhere inside of me was a human soul. And at that moment, as much as I hated every single fiber of my being and as revolted as I was at my own existence, I still couldn’t bring myself to cry.