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.