Sunday

My watch reads 8:26 when I anxiously pull into the driveway—Mother might wring my neck since I’m this late.

A breeze rakes the air as I roll up the window, and leaves tumble across the smooth concrete road, rusted by autumn’s breath. I reach to open the hover-car door.

The snow-white mansion shines royally over the surrounding evergreen shrubs—all trimmed to perfection; its crystal clear windows glimmer in the sun, brimming with light. I hurry out of my car as Mother approaches me, her peppered gray hair blending with a fur scarf. If I let my eyes drift focus, her silhouette shifts into that of a wolf, coarse pelt and daggers for teeth.

“Come in, Blaise,” she sighs. “You are rather late.”

“Sorry, it won’t happen again,” I mumble hoarsely.

She ignores me, heels stabbing into the concrete. A marble fountain stands a little ways past her, and stone sculptures spewing glassy water flaunt their arched necks and elegant faces. No matter how often I see it, Mother’s residence boasts more radiantly with each visit.

She turns around sharply when she realizes I’m not following. “Blaise. Let’s go.” A malevolence brews under her placid expression.

“Yes, sorry.” I rush after her. The pills clattering around in my handbag sickens me.

Mother leads me through a set of grand mahogany doors. We walk through the ornate entrance hall—floral walls of velvet, saccharine tang in the air, portraits adorning white paint, exotic flowers beautifully displayed in vases. A center hallway between two spiral staircases lies at the end, but we turn left before it into a lavish sitting room.

I clasp my hands together and smile wide as soon as the door closes. “How are you, Mother?”

She gracefully crosses her legs in one of the pink, silky couch chairs. "Fine. Why are you an hour late? I thought we agreed on 8:00 every Saturday—sharp."

"Oh. Um, Dolores woke me up late today."

Mother rings a silver bell, a delicate timbre of eloquence hanging beautifully in the air. “Do we need to replace it? The newest model was recently released a few days ago.”

“No, no. I forgot to change her alarm system, so it’s not her fault.” I swallow, still standing beside Mother. “And Dolores is a she.”

The corner of her right eye twitches slightly. “I see. Of course.”

I open my mouth to croak another apology, but she rings the bell again furiously until a maid scampers into the room with a tray of tea and sweets. I frown at her hand; a pale, elliptic mark etches the center of her palm, almost invisible under lace gloves. Mother remains silent as the maid nearly drops the teapot and spills a few drops on the carpeted floor.

Her mouth tightens into a harsh line. "Leave. We’ll take care of it." The maid’s twin braids swing behind her as she darts away. "Here, Blaise.” Mother pours a cup. “Have something to drink. I’m sure it’ll help ease your nerves."

“Oh. No, thank you. I’m not really thirsty.”

She smiles coldly. “Not in the mood for tea? I’ll get to the point, then.” Somewhere in the mansion, a clock sings a mechanical tune of gears and raucous metal. “Today is likely your last. I suggest you enjoy it while you can.” Mother sounds like brittle acrimony.

“I…sorry?” My heels dig into the carpet flooring.

Her jaw tightens. “The results came in. It turns out none of the prescriptions are going to work long-term, so I’m taking you off them.”

“But—that’s…” Bile rises in my throat. “I, um. I guess what I’m trying to ask is, why now, out of nowhere? It doesn’t really—make sense. Especially when that would…mean…”

My words stutter as her face blurs in my eyes. Is Mother disappointed?—that her only heir was born relying on a dying heartbeat and finite years? Even if we don’t agree that the situation seems too surreal—too sudden, she must at least feel something.

Instead, she speaks calmly. “Are you worried?” There’s even a hint of amusement in her voice.

A dry laugh echoes in the sitting room. “No, not at all, Mother. I’m not worried about dying at all.”

I pick up a teacup to take a sip, only for Mother to glare at me when I drop it from trembling too much. Its porcelain edge slightly cracks. Tea splatters jaggedly; any darker, and it’d look more sinister than just Earl Grey.

“You won’t have to actually die, Blaise. There’s the alternative to consider.” She states all of this as if it were as simple as breathing. “I’m afraid, sadly, that I don’t meet the requirements, but you, you’re young,” she croons. “And the process is costly. You should feel quite honored for the opportunity.”

“…Honored?” I realize she hasn’t directly faced me once this entire time, wholly devoted to being a few degrees shifted away from me. “You think—I’d be honored?”

“There’s nothing further to argue about. You’ll do as I say.”

I step toward her. “Mother, I—”

“That’s enough, Blaise.” The wrinkle in her brow makes me close my mouth.

Mother, I want to ask, do you want to do this? Will you really give me away for something not quite human or machine?

I turn away, walking stiffly to the door. "Since there's nothing else to discuss, I'm leaving."

"Blaise. Did I say you could leave? Sit down. We’re not done talking."

My voice rises weakly. “I don’t want to, Mother. Let me go home.”

Mother’s sharp features harden into steel and diamond, obstinacy itself. The maid appears the instant she rings the silver bell a third time, swinging the door open inches from my face. It’s then I realize that I recognize her from my past couple of visits, the new hire Mother spoke excitedly about.

Mother juts her chin toward me. “Show Blaise.” Lace gloves drift to the floor. The maid draws a poker from the fireplace and points it at the mark on her palm—a pale, gnarled scar from branding, now that I can see it closely. Then she pierces her hand.

“This one was just an experiment.” Mother’s smile could cut glass. “Not perfect yet, but it worked out beautifully regardless.”

Where flesh and skin are supposed to bleed and rupture—where I imagine veins will snap like taught strings and bleed out—wires creak in their place; electricity sparks in little stars. Motor components and gears churn erratically when the maid pulls the poker out, dropping it stone-faced.

“Do you see now, Blaise?” Mother pours another cup of tea. “This is the reality we live in, where no one as young as you has to simply ‘pass away.’ And it’s about time for you to fulfill your role.”

“You…you turned her into one,” I gape, blinking. “But—why do I have to—”

She slams a hand on the table. “Because I will not have done all that I did just to end up with nothing.” Fury mars her face. “So you will swallow everything I pass onto you as my heir. Is that clear.”

“Okay! Yeah. Yes, that’s—clear.” Cold sweat stings my forehead, and the words prickle from my mouth in a slow drawl. “I just…want to know why we have to do—do this.”

The sigh from her carves its way into my chest. “Oh, please. What more could you ask for? Old age won’t faze you, your joints will never deteriorate, you never have to take another pill again—and all this—” she splays her arms at the extravagance around us— “it’ll all be yours, Blaise. Can’t you imagine that?”

Her eyes dart in a frenzy, jubilation one moment, envy the next; I can’t tell if she wants me dead now or if she’ll let me live long enough to watch my heart stop. But I can imagine her face for both—twisted in a prideful sneer. She wouldn’t regret anything. That, I know.

“So…it’s not my choice, then. I’m just going to, um. I’ll be—well,”

“Dead, yes, physically. We’ve been over this multiple times now, Blaise. I need your signature, so let’s hurry this along.”

I don't move. When she looks at me again, she does so with practiced pity. I wish I could believe in it as she stands to walk toward me, her rigid posture sinking the slightest.

“Blaise, dear. This is your purpose, don’t you understand?” Her hands cradle my face. Her arms wrap around me. “I love you because you’re always compliant, always subservient—that’s what makes me happy.”

It doesn’t cross my mind to panic, or weep, or beg at her feet. I stand, poised vigilantly, still focused on the maid’s robotic hand and Mother’s icy skin. That saccharine smell from earlier clouds the room, leaking from the severed wires—metal fingers like syringe needles.

Mother’s love, I realize, is gasoline. Rancid in its texture, its shapeless form, and a viscous grip intended to trap and hold. It’s black, dirty, greasy, an eroding poison through and through. And I am covered in this gasoline, gripping my hands onto filth. It would only take one little spark to burn both of us.

So why am I still lingering?

“I’ve made myself clear enough. The transplant happens tomorrow.” Mother steps away to fix her hair. “In the meantime, you have today to enjoy yourself. I’ll give you a few days to adjust before you start living with me here. And don’t worry about your belongings—we’ll get them transferred.”

The maid gestures for me to follow her.

And I do, maybe out of shock, maybe out of instinct, through the mahogany doors, then outside, where my hover car is still parked unevenly on the driveway.

Mother smiles at me as I turn the engine on. Her expression softens enough for my throat to constrict—for my stomach to drop. “Don’t be late, Blaise,” she mouths at me.

I grip the steering wheel with white hands, vision swirling and tunneling at its edges. Her demeanor is full of contradictions: sharp eyes and round lips, a thin nose and a wide smile—that smile doesn’t belong on a face like that. The words grate in my ears as I’m driving away to regain some semblance of control, pills rattling in my bag.

Don’t be late, Blaise.

Just one spark. The drop of a match. A hissing flame. One spark is all I’d need to see Mother burn a little before I go out.

I think out of spite, I’ll sleep in even later tomorrow.