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.