Chapter 3
Electra
Electra groans, rolling over into the sanctuary of the charcoal-colored blankets cocooning her. “Go away!”
A few days have passed, or maybe a week, since she woke up in this hellscape called the future.
She has only enough energy to wallow in misery and yell at the man whose bedroom she’s taken over as her own personal cave.
A bedroom with a plush yet masculine warmth that is in direct contrast with its owner, from the excessive pile of pillows to the artwork filling two of the four walls.
The large square canvases depict hazy landscapes, the dark, muted colors and soft focus creating a deeply soothing effect.
Actual paintings, she guesses, though she’s only emerged from her cocoon to eat and for quick jaunts to the bathroom.
The covers shift. Is he tugging on them? She buries her head in the pillow, gripping the blankets tighter. Her voice comes out muffled as she says, “I told you, I’m not leaving this room. Ever,” she adds for emphasis.
“Ever?” he asks, tugging more insistently.
Grumbling, she throws the blankets back, instantly inhaling something that smells like food. Her stomach emits a pained rumble. Res6 takes a step back, holding out a takeout container to her like he’s trying to tempt a hungry bear that might swipe at any moment.
“I brought you something to eat and a pick-me-UP nourishment packet,” he offers tentatively. His gaze sweeps over her hair, then down his rumpled shirt that she still wears. “Maybe a shower first?”
“Not so sexy now, am I?” she mutters under her breath, which earns her a wince.
He sighs, heading toward the door, but stops to throw a concerned glance over his shoulder. “Listen, this cannot continue. We’ve been going back and forth like this for a week now, and it isn’t normal.”
She shrugs, eyeing the container. “What’s the point?”
“The point of the shower? To get clean. Did you not have them during your time?” He frowns, head tilting as he studies her. When she only answers with a glare, he suggests, “I could decommission you. That is an alternative to consider.”
That has her sluggish pulse firing. She shoots up, swinging her legs off the bed. “No.” It’s all she can think to say, because since she’s entered her sloth/depression era, there’s no compelling reason to offer him for keeping her alive. “That would be murder?”
He chuckles. “What happened to the lively, clever woman from the day we activated you? I much prefer her to whatever this is.” He waves his free hand in her general direction, his nose wrinkling.
The words are on her tongue before she can stop them, even as the bed feels like it might swallow her whole.
“So sorry to disappoint. That woman hadn’t realized that everyone she cares about is lost to time—that means dead, in case you haven’t been following—and that she’s trapped in some inescapable sci-fi plot completely alone.
Actual people aren’t meant to live those plots! ”
He blinks, extending the food again as if the depth of what she’s said is beyond his capacity for response.
She swings her legs off the bed. The concrete floor is cool against her feet, and the grounding sensation offers her a tremulous stability. His features pinch in a pained expression as she takes the meal from his outstretched hand. “Thanks,” she says.
He’s right. They’ve played out some semblance of this routine every day since she woke up in the future. He’s still frowning as he turns to leave, and suddenly there is a part of her that is overwhelmed with guilt. Instinctively, she grabs his arm to stop him. He flinches but turns back.
“Look, I know this isn’t what you planned either, right?” she asks, really hoping the answer is yes, because the first day is a bit of a blur now, and she’s pretty sure she was an accident.
He nods. “You were an experiment, but I assure you, I did not intend for you to be real.”
What a relief. “I appreciate your patience. This can’t be easy for you either, having a strange woman from the past in your home who is so depressed she can’t get out of bed. Who you’re suddenly obligated to. So what now?”
He lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I see that you’re struggling, but I am not adept at offering comfort.”
Electra steps back, snorting. Does he mean compassion?
“Yes, I noticed. I realize I gave you a hard time about lacking experience with an actual woman, but you’re coming across as rather clueless.
I mean, some of the things you say make my head spin.
And you leave me alone here for hours with nothing to do but let my thoughts spiral. Haven’t you ever had a girlfriend?”
He’s so glaringly attractive, there must be dozens of women willing to overlook his less than stellar personality.
But he doesn’t reply, so she presses on.
“What about your mother? Surely you saw another adult in her life offer her compassion when she became upset.” When he still doesn’t respond, she suggests, “Some other family member, then?”
He stiffens, his knuckles going white on the door handle. “There are factors you are not privy to. Factors I don’t care to share.”
Seems she hit a nerve. That’s okay. She isn’t happy either. Still, he wants lively. Some fight. Fine. “It appears we’re stuck in this situation together. If I’m guessing correctly, I’m not a legal person, so it’s not like I can just call up a therapist or go to a grief support group, right?”
“You would be difficult to explain,” he says.
“So that means for now, you’re all I have. Therefore,” she continues, “you’re going to get a crash course in being a compassionate human being. How does that sound? Because the alternative is me never leaving this bed, which you’ve already expressed your disapproval of.”
“Electra, I appreciate your distress . . .” He trails a hand through his lustrous sandy blond hair. “But with everything I’m juggling . . . I have work.”
His rejection is enough to shatter her brief attempt at strength.
Of course this is happening. You thrive on connecting with people, so here you are, in the future, with a—get out of your head, Electra. Try explaining things. Communication is how connection is formed, after all.
Electra clears her throat. “When I was little, we lost my mom to a form of breast cancer that should have been curable.” His brows raise slightly.
Encouraged, she continues. “We didn’t have money for the expensive treatments.
After she died, my dad held me and told me stories of what she was like when they first met.
We spent hours talking about her and a bunch of unimportant nonsense.
Then when he became disabled through a work injury, my friends and my stepmom Janet, who is,” she clears her throat, “who was a licensed therapist, sat with me and helped me process my grief and fear while Dad struggled through his physical therapy.”
Somewhere during her monologue, his brows furrowed and—did he drift a few inches closer to the door? “I’m listening but unclear about what you are asking of me.”
“Those are examples of how people support each other when life gets awful. I would count this unfortunate circumstance among my worst life moments. You claim you feel responsible for bringing me here. How about offering me some compassion? You could sit with me and listen as I talk through . . .” She trails off at the deer-in-the-headlights expression he now wears.
Is it reasonable to expect help or compassion from this future man?
Maybe she’s the one being unrealistic. Too bad she didn’t wake up in the future to a woman.
Such is her luck. Granted, for all she knows, future women are just as emotionally constipated.
He’s right, though. They can’t go on like this. She can’t stay locked away in his bedroom forever, as comforting as the dark walls are. “You can’t just drop off food like I’m some sort of lab rat and expect me to crawl my way out of bed. People don’t work like that. Isolation isn’t healthy.”
He stares at her unflinchingly. If only she had someone to call.
One person she could talk to. To actually check on her, not just drop off food and tell her she needs a shower.
Even growing up as poor as she did, she had community.
When things went wrong, as they often did, people chipped in, and they got by.
“I can’t,” he says, and she notices the twitch in his clenched jaw before he once again turns away.
Calmly, she sits, placing the container in her lap. “Great,” she says without lifting her stare from the meal he delivered. Her hands tremble as she opens the lid. “Then it’s as I suspected. I’m perfectly fucking alone.”
He said I can’t, not I won’t. Is that worse or better?
Either way, it really fucking sucks. Unbidden, tears stream down her face.
How embarrassing. He can’t even sit with her and talk because he clearly finds her just as horrifying as she does his manupartners.
Now she’s crying in front of him. They’re never going to get anywhere.
Thankfully, the door clicks shut, and she is left alone with only a box of flavorless mush she’s loath to waste and a spork for company.
October 9, 2390.
The next morning, she’s halfway through choking down another box of bland noodles when a knock sounds at her door. Considering Res6 hasn’t demonstrated that he understands the concept of knocking, she isn’t certain why he’s doing it now. Irritated, she barks, “Enter.”
Instead of the startlingly attractive man whose bed she lives in, it is one of the lab coats. Tommy, the assistant, she thinks.
“Hello. May I come in?” he asks, inching his head inside the cracked door.