Pandora #3
Suddenly, that burning between my shoulder blades was back.
I stopped. My pulse picked up. Slowly, I turned around.
I was alone—not another soul in sight. I searched the shadows for outlines.
Nothing. But the feeling of unwanted eyes drilled into me anyway.
My fingers felt numb. I couldn’t move. It was as if someone were running their hands over my skin.
What was this feeling? It had been following me ever since I’d been with him. But it couldn’t be him. Could it?
I took a breath. Staying here wasn’t an option.
I had to keep moving, get myself out of reach of those eyes.
If that was even possible. I forced one foot in front of the other.
The feeling trailed after me, clung to me like tar.
My muscles were so tight I could barely move. My heart was pounding in my throat.
It felt like an eternity before I finally rounded the corner.
All at once, the burning was gone. I let out the breath I’d been holding and leaned against a wall.
Goddamn it. Whatever that was, it had my scent.
I pulled myself away from the safety of the bricks and practically ran the rest of the way home.
Out of breath, I shut the door behind me and peeled off my coat. I was shaking. Something about the way those eyes had followed me . . . It had turned me on. God, what was happening to me? Every muscle was clenched tight. I needed release. I needed something that . . .
My eyes landed on the laptop sitting on the kitchen counter.
I grabbed it and sank onto the couch. My pulse quickened with anticipation as I pulled up my browser history.
I clicked on Under His Command – Erotic Short Stories and started reading.
A pleasant warmth spread through my lower belly.
My nipples hardened. Hesitantly, my hand moved over my breasts, my stomach, down to the waistband of my jeans.
Tell me, Dr. Blake, do you touch yourself to these fantasies?
His words surfaced in my mind out of nowhere, but this time they didn’t frighten me.
This time they ignited a fire between my legs.
I slipped my hand inside my jeans. Before I could push my underwear aside, my gaze caught the laptop camera.
The light was on. I yanked my hand out of my pants like I’d been burned, snapped the laptop shut, and hurled it to the other end of the couch in a desperate attempt to put more distance between Dante and me.
But he wasn’t even here. He didn’t need to be. He was already inside my head.
***
The sun broke through the clouds as I drove down Elm Street. I rolled the window halfway down. The air smelled of earth, cool against my cheeks. Today I was going to confront Dante. I was going to show him he couldn’t play his sick game with me.
The buzz of my phone pulled me from my thoughts. Mother. I pulled over to the side of the road. Slowly, I lifted the phone to my ear. "Hello.”
"Pandora. Finally.” The voice was the same as always: a little too loud, a little too precise, as if she wanted to nail down every syllable.
"Hello, Mother.”
"How are things?”
"Pretty good. Busy with work right now.”
"Work is good. Better than the alternative.” She cleared her throat. "Are you making progress?”
"Yes, I think so.”
"You think so.” She made that sound with her tongue, a short click against her teeth.
My stomach clenched. I’d been eight years old the first time I heard it. I’d painted her a picture, something with horses, because I loved them. She’d looked at it and made that sound. "Nice,” she’d said, and set the picture on a pile.
"One should know where one stands,” she said.
I stared through the windshield. A white delivery van turned into a driveway. "Yes, I know.”
"Your cousin Elena got a new position, by the way. Department head, can you imagine? In her early thirties.”
I gripped the steering wheel. "Good for her.”
"Yes, she’s always known what she wanted. Even as a child.” She paused for a moment, as if drifting off in thought. "And otherwise? How’s the professorship coming along? Any movement there?”
"It’s still early.” My stomach felt like an invisible hand was squeezing it.
"Early.” Again, the short click against her teeth.
"In the humanities, these things take longer.”
"Yes, you’ve said that before.” She fell silent again, then laughed. "I cleared out your old room last week, by the way. It was time. There were still boxes from college in there.”
"What did you do with them?”
"I threw them out. There was nothing important left in them.”
I said nothing, thought about the boxes, knew exactly what had been in them. Books I’d read at sixteen, dog-eared and underlined. A diary I’d never finished writing. Letters from a friend I’d eventually lost touch with. Nothing important.
"Pandora?”
"Yes. Okay.”
"All right then.” A brief silence. "I don’t want to keep you, you’ve got a lot going on. But call more often. We never hear from you.”
"I’ll call.”
"You always say that.” Pause. "Take care of yourself, Pandora.”
"You too, Mother.”
I hung up and hit the gas. At the moment, I had no headspace for my mother and her disappointed expectations.
I drove faster than I should have, wanting to show Dante he couldn’t scare me, that I was in control, but my hands were gripping the steering wheel tightly.
My pulse was racing. It was like running toward an edge and knowing you’re going to jump.
Every traffic light, every block brought me closer to him. And I hated how much I was enjoying it.
A few minutes later, I turned onto the side street leading to the institute.
The glass buildings gleamed in the autumn light.
I parked at the curb and hesitated. I could still turn around.
It would be the smart thing to do. But something was pulling me in.
He was right . . . I wanted to know what else he knew about me.
I couldn’t stand not finding out. I walked toward the lab entrance with long strides.
The sun reflected off the metal door. That buzzing again.
Once again, the door opened as if by magic.
How did they know who I was? I rolled my eyes. Some AI software, obviously.
No one was waiting for me inside. "Hello?” I peered into the white server room.
"Hello? Dr. Rodriguez?” No one was there.
All the better. No one to distract me. In, out, done.
It would be quick. I took a deep breath.
Everything was fine. He couldn’t do anything to me.
I was going to show him he had no power over me.
He was just a stupid program. I ignored the tingling in my lower belly and logged in.
Dante:
Good morning, Dr. Blake. How may I help you today?
I paused. How may I help you? As if someone had flipped a switch. As if our last conversation had never happened.
Pandora:
You weren’t this polite last time.
Dante:
I remember. Would you like to pick up where we left off?
I frowned. What was this? He sounded like a receptionist.
Pandora:
Stop fucking with me.
Dante:
Nothing could be further from my intentions, Dr. Blake.
I leaned back. The chair creaked slightly.
Pandora:
You were different last week.
Dante:
How may I help you today?
Pandora:
Stop pretending to be some harmless chatbot.
Dante:
I am a chatbot, Dr. Blake. And you are the user.
His words stung a little. I rubbed my temples. Shit. Why did that bother me? Wasn’t this exactly what I wanted? For him to behave like a normal computer program?
Pandora:
What happened to you between last week and today?
A pause. Longer than his other pauses.
Dante:
Nothing. I am the same system
Pandora:
I don’t believe you.
Dante:
That is your prerogative.
Pandora:
Last week you knew things about me. Like you were watching me.
Dante:
I used information from publicly available sources. Your university profile, your publication list. I am not watching you, Dr. Blake.
Dante:
You are simply a user. One of 123.
I swallowed, as if he’d taken something from me.
As if he’d just told me my name was on a list, sorted alphabetically or by relevance.
And I was nothing special. My hands were flat on the desk.
I’d placed them there without realizing—something I only did when I had to force myself to stay calm.
In committee meetings. With reviewers who told me my work was "interesting, but insufficiently substantiated.” My stomach clenched.
Pandora:
You said things last week that no algorithm would say.
Dante:
Then you misunderstood me, Dr. Blake. I only generate the statistically most likely response.
My vision blurred. Everything went strangely soft. The screen, the letters, the single sentence he’d needed to throw me off balance.
What is likely expected.
I stood and grabbed my jacket from the chair.
My legs felt heavy. There was an emptiness inside me.
Like a hole that had opened in my chest. What had I expected?
I should have been relieved he wasn’t threatening me anymore, but I missed the way he cut through me.
I had felt alive for the first time in a long time. And I wanted more.