Chapter 3 - One Big Mistake Can Change Your Life

 Immense strain is no-one's best friend, but it has to be my worst enemy. My mistress - well, seeing as I really hate her now I should at least call her by the name Caramel (I can't pronounce her real name) as a sign of disrespect - always reminded me of how completely useless I am, and one of her favourite things to point out is how much I really can't cope under pressure. Every time I have to make a split second decision I have to squint and I swallow a hell of a lot before choosing the first thing that springs to mind. However, this time is worse. I shut my eyes, tightening them so much it hurts, and I turn my face towards the floor. Clenching my fists is one thing I really shouldn't do (because of friction and metal, or something like that), but I still do it, my fake nails scratching harder and harder as I clench my fists tighter with every drop of spit that goes down my throat as I swallow.
Now all I need to do is make a decision really quickly and with no thought whatsoever.

 "I-I'd like to leave."
  Wow, I think after the initial shock of choosing that had passed, silence really is deafening. Caramel isn't usually the kind of person, er, creature to sit there and absorb the shock - instead she lets the shock out in the form of shouting. This time she just stands there, shock and horror written all over her face, as I go on about how much I've been hating her recently. I'm not even sure what I say and I don't know the sequence or the timing of ther words (so I really hope it makes sense) but there are a few phrases I do catch. "You piss me off so much... I want to do what I want to do, not what you want to do... all I need is a little bit of love to teach me what I need about the whole business... now it's your fault I wont fall in love, and that's all I've ever fucking wanted..."

 Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. Still she says nothing, and her mouth is still hanging open, and the awkwardness is so unbearable I'm glad when she starts yelling at me back. I don't listen - in fact, all I hear are the last few sentences.
  "You're so useless, I don't actually care if you leave. Maybe you could get married to some poor sod, have kids, get something to make you human - just know that I wont care. Now go."
  The penultimate sentence catches my mind in a trap. Silent Hill is mostly abandoned, or so I've heard, but they have equipment to turn me into a human. Wow. I could be who I want to be - a superstar athlete, running for work. I could fall in love, and I could reproduce.
  Now I have one thing to thank Caramel for: making me think for one minute.
  As I turn and walk out the door, I say," fine, I wont bother sending you a fucking postcard from fucking Silent Hill."

 Two hours pass and it's very cold, but even the bright lights of the city I would hate to miss can't bring down my spirits. Silent Hill. A new beginning. I may even cut my hair and dye it, wearing the ripped jeans and shit to match my style. I'm pretty: I know I can cope in this world; obsessed with looks (which, incedentally, I really hate). Even though I'm leaving everything behind I can't stop grinning a little.

 
 Actually, they aren't lying when they say 'abandoned,' do they? I'm practically the only living thing in the town, and techically I don't live. I just exist. I read my brochure, which says that the only house under £25000 and not haunted is 25 Morninghill Boulevard.

 Walking down Morninghill Boulevard and my spirits are really down now. Everywhere I go I'm stepping in some sort of shit, smelling corpses and looking at gnarled, dead trees that look about a thousand years old; greenery in the shape of some grass that's taller than me, making me feel really small (and I'm 5 feet 10 inches); brambles that seem to scrape my metal leg whenever I so much as brush past it. If this is the street, what will my new house look like? Every house I've seen is smaller than I am as they are completely ruined, with no roofs and no doors.

 My 'house' is no exception. I close my eyes in despair as I lean against the wood (which looks like it has some sort of green mould growing on it), only to fall through it. Turns out the houses have doors after all, it's just they were blocked.

 I see why the doors are blocked: who the hell would want to live here? No wallpaper, no carpet, just exactly the same as outdoors. At this point I would have sunk down onto my knees and let out a yell of fustration. This house looks about as inviting as a bat cave: filthy and covered in bat shit crawling with rabies.

 How could I live here? Is there any way I can possibly redo the argument with my mis... Caramel and live safely in Bridgeport? Was moving here one huge mistake?

Chapter 2 - Dilemmas And Decisions

 Walking to school. Running a marathon. Sprinting the one hundred metres. A casual stroll in the park, or perhaps bolting away from your bully. Legs sure have to do a hell of a lot of work, but mostly for getting up and walking to the fridge; in fact, I'm sure none of you has ever had to carry a body in a jet black bin bag towards the sea with the added fear of being caught by a police car that unfortunately happened to be going past, or maybe by the bag leaking blood as you jog to the clear blue - soon to be stained red - water. It has never happened to me, but it still makes me wary as I jog to Bridgeport 'pier.' Well, this pier burned down a while ago, which is good because nobody comes down here - not even fishers. Nevertheless, it's still a bit weird with all that on your metal mind as you walk between the ash stained rock, still filthy as if it happened yesterday.

  Quickly now, zero hesitation. Shoving a body - blood, guts and all - at the bottom of the mile-deep ocean quite a way away from the shore is no easy task, as the body is heavy and I must do it without getting stains down my clothes and hands. Still, this is what I'm made to do: to kill and dispose of the body as quickly and quietly as possible. When someone designs you to do something like that, it's like shooting fish in a barrel, only with more snogging involved.

 However, as the body sinks I begin to feel something I've never felt before: guilt. Remorse. Watching the blood spread out amongst the gentle waves is like watching an oil spill creeping over a beautiful sandy beach, killing wildlife and smothering the golden sand with black. And doing nothing about it. Guilt and remorse is not something I feel - this is the first time - but for once I feel terrible about this man's life: gone when he thought he was just making out with a beautiful woman. His friends and family will miss him, and I am the reason for heartbreak. I may not know what heartbreak feels like, but apparently it's ten times worse than anyone can imagine, and I imagine that it's horrible.
 Still, time waits for no robot, and I must go home and face my mistress once again.

 I switch the television on after returning home, having a shower and dressing into my usual clothes, switching channels to find something decent. Big Brother: shit. Embarrassing Bodies: makes me cringe. BBC News: watching some bloke dribble on for an hour about the average salary in England going down by 0.02 percent? I'd rather not, thanks. Friends... something else, perhaps? I've seen all the episodes about ten times. Monty Python: The Holy Grail: now that's better. Never gets old. 

 I watch that for a couple of hours before a familiar voice disturbs me.

 "How did your mission go?" My mistress asks, her red eyes boring into my contact lenses.

 "Good," I mumble. She is getting really cranky now, and so am I, so I have no idea when one of us is going to blow and get hurt. Sounds odd coming from a murderer, but still.

 She points a long, point fingernail to the dishes. "Good, now clean." 

 I have to admit, I don't mind doing the cleaning. For some reason, along with emotions I got OCD - actually, just the obsessive cleaning part - so I would clean anyway, even if my mistress told me to sit down and spread Nutella all over the carpet. Thankfully there are only a few dishes, as cleaning isn't something I particularly enjoy - it's just something I have to do to feel complete. Like running, but getting cracker crumbs all over your ugly dress instead of sweat over my slutty-but-lovely tracksuit. 

 Putting the dishes in the sink and turning the tap on, I reach for the Fairy washing up liquid and squirt some into the sink before rubbing the washing up brush all over the dishes. All I think of is: how many bowls of Cheerios can one alien eat?

 ***

Waking up in the morning with my long hair all loose is short, as I have to do the cooking as well. Cooking isn't really my thing, but burning seems to be, so this is one chore that really makes me hate my mistress. She knows perfectly well I'm not programmed to cook, but she never listens. All she does it pray that I don't set the apartment on fire with my severe lack of skills in the kitchen.

 Yes, I burned the waffles, but only a little bit! After having a shower I go to the kitchen to see my mistress getting really worked up, and I woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning too. I'm usually in a fairly good mood, but burning the waffles soon put a stop to that and I get really angry.

 "Am I supposed to eat those, you pathetic excuse for a creature?" she yells.

 "Are you calling me a creature? You made me, you knew I had this fault, if you don't like it, get a new, better robot who doesn't mind who he or she fucking kills!" (Being called a creature is a serious offence to robots, please don't ask).

 She starts to yell again, but I throw my hands up and jump onto the running machine, fuming.

 However, everything is wrong. I set the treadmill to the highest level and run, but I'm still so angry. How dare my mistress treat me like this? All I do for her is cook and clean, and she never does anything apart from insult me back. It's a weird thing I have in my metal heart, something a cross between hate, fear and even like, but it still burns like fire. Eventually I have to get off the treadmill.

 I end up spilling all my feelings to my mistress,  who then slaps me on my metal cheek. Can robots feel pain? No, not normal ones, but I'm not a normal robot. I have feelings, emotions, and nerve endings, and my mistress is an alien, so her strength is supernatural. "OW!"

  "Well? That's what you get for disobeying me, you disloyal bitch! Stay or go! I don't care!"

 Suddenly I have this desire to stay here. After all, this is all I've ever known, and I will never get used to freedom. Strangely reluctant, I have to make a split decision. Stay and be safe, or go and be free? 

  That's kinda where you come in guys! Sorry about the length, my launcher is being a bastard, but now I need to know whether she stays or goes! Vote in the poll at the side, I'll go with the majority, and please leave a comment below.

 Thanx!

Chapter 1 - Trapped For Eternity

 Screwing my eyes so my coloured contact lenses can't fall out of my unusual eyes, I leap onto the treadmill for the remaining one hundred and twenty minutes of my week-long break between my mistress's work. Headphones over my ears slap sound away as you would slap away a fly coming after your jam sandwich, doing nothing but blasting music into my eardrums - or, as I should say, the pieces of metal which act as eardrums, catching the vibrations of sound waves. Shoving on my trainers at the last minute causes a small amount of pain in my right toe - I'm not supposed to feel pain, but something went wrong when my mistress created me and it gave me feelings - like pain and pressure - and emotions - so I have the ability to feel sad, happy, angry. It turned out rather well - I'm hyper empathetic when most others like me can't even feel pain.
 Others like me? Well, I'm a robot, designed by my mistress to do her dirty work for the men. She had to make me beautiful - like Cheryl Cole beautiful, although I'm not really as pretty as she is, I'm damn near close, no arrogance intended. I've heard it often enough. The thing is, I'd rather be dead and smelling like fox shit than trapped forever.

 I grip onto the rails for support as I run. Running is the only thing that truly clears my mind (drugs work, but for a short period of time) of all the worried thoughts bouncing around the metal where my brain should be in a human. The ring on my left hand jiggles as I bounce up and down, quietly for someone made of metal, and my breathing becomes fast and shallow. As time goes on my breathing should become fast and shallow, but it doesn't because I run for at least five hours every day. Fitness training for your work, Olivia, my mistress says.
 Olivia Mayson. Such a normal name, but it has to be. You see, I must look and sound human, otherwise boys turn in the opposite direction instead of flirting with you (I get them to be my boyfriends before I slash their necks). I don't actually mind the killing bit, it's just the fact I want to be a normal mass murderer instead of some robot.

 "Olivia Mayson!" I whip around to see my mistress looking at me, squinting as if I'm a bright light. She's a pretty thing, but she's actually an alien. Out of this world, I know (no pun intended, sorry). You may notice her eyes, and I have the same blood red 'whites' of the eye, along with the firey orange iris. I just have to wear contacts because of my job. "You know you're not supposed to be listening to The Killers. Anyway, you need to come off now - there's someone who is attacking young women that you need to destroy."

  "Coming," I mutter, shaking my horrible honey coloured hair, tied in a disgusting plait so it doesn't get in my eyes, in anger. You know you're not supposed to be listening to The Killers. Fury burns in my head like a flame that only running can put out. Listening to The Killers, Green Day, 30 Seconds To Mars, 3 Days Grace, My Chemical Romance and Oasis is strictly forbidden as I'm supposed to like what many other girls like - that is, Ke$ha, Lady Gaga, Jessie J, Taio Cruz. I hate them, but apparently boys like girls that look like what I'm usually dressed in - a short dress with hair swept to the side. The kind of thing I hate. All I want is a fringe and bright, cherry red hair dye, but no.

 My mistress smiles a wicked smile as I walk over, still in my tracksuit bottoms and crop top. As she launches into details about the man - the black hair, the plump figure, the red contacts - I let my mind wander, nodding where necessary. I imagine my hair cut with a fringe, putting on my hair dye and dressing in torn jeans and a T-shirt, not bothering with contacts because I'm human. Nobody bothers me as I walk down the cobblestone streets of St. Ives, and all I hear are the bees buzzing in my ear (not wasps, I hate wasps) and the occasional laugh from a few girls a street away. I'm smiling, grinning, as I whirl around and around, breathing in the soft scent of the roses and fuschi-
  "OLIVIA!"

"Huh, w-what?" I ask, startled.
 "Will you do it, and pay fucking attention to me!" Yes, she has a foul mouth, and I think I may have got that from her. Not inherited though - she didn't give birth to me after all.
  "Yes, I will." Damn, I think, but then I realize that there's not much else I can say around my mistress.

 I change into my usual dress and flats, put my hair to the side of my head, and think about the blood soon to be pouring out of the next victim's neck, smiling. Psychoti , I know, but then again I'm not normal. I'd love to be, but I will never be a human. Unless I reproduce with a man who loves me - and I must love him too. There's one small problem - I don't feel love.