What a weird thought to think. I think it looking out of these boring blinds at the boring sky. 

Mama keeps crying about it, and I don't understand why. I suppose it's because I'm still a child. But, see, it's only my body that’s going to die. This thin, light brown hair will never grow past my chin. It’ll crumble away. These pale, skinny arms and legs probably won’t change much, really. The bit of me that’s 

I don't say that because of some religion or God or anything. We aren't a religious family. We’re just rich. My parents have bought a Shell for me. My mind is going to be put inside it, and my stupid, sick body will be allowed to die.

sick at the moment, but they want to make the transfer before I am. Just in case something happens. Doctors time it wrong, sometimes, Mama says. 

The other thing is, the state of my body will affect my mind. Mama says it's like when she puts leftover tomato soup in a tupperware tub. The soup takes on the shape of the container, and the container remembers the soup, too. So they want to upload me at exactly the right time.

I'm not sure how I feel about it. A bit scared, I think. What if something goes wrong, and I really do die? All of me? I won't even be able to rely on a god and an afterlife, because this is Against the Laws of Nature. I know that because the painted signs outside my window say so.

My parents chose the Shell. They showed it to me and got me to agree. It's beautiful, but I'm not sure I like it.

"But it- she's old!" I say. "Why can't I have one that looks like me?"

They look at each other, and then back to me. There was a big, long silence. Dad rubs his hand over his scratchy chin and clears his throat.

He’s a tall man, and he folds himself into one of the little hospital chairs beside the bed. He rests his elbows on his sharp knees, and leans forward, lacing his fingers together. He’s going to say something important. His blue eyes are fixed on me like they will never look away, but they do. 

The pause stretches out so long I think he might never tell me what the thing is. Mama comes to his rescue. Her hand feels cold on mine. For the first time, I look at her and I think: 

. I glance at Dad. They both do. Mama droops. Her eyes, her mouth. Her clothes, all different colours of chocolate, hang off her. 

"You've seen the protests, haven't you, honey?"

Of course I have. I eat my lunch out of a plastic tray every day, listening to them chanting. 

"We don't know if this will still be allowed in five years, or ten. We don't want you to be stuck in the body of a child forever. Or they might decide to outlaw all the Shells that look like children and... Well, then they might shut you down."

They do that thing again, sharing a look. Something goes 

over my head. Dad jumps in and moves things along. "We know this isn't ideal, either. But we discussed it, and we decided it's better."

- but he cuts across me. "If you really don't like this one, then we can look at some more. Together. But they’ve got to be grown-up Shells. OK? That's non-negotiable."

I look away, at the tops of the signs I could see bobbing up and down outside my window.

"You'll live forever," Mama says, her voice cracking. Dad glares at her, but she doesn't see it. 

“Can I have some chocolate?” I’m going to miss it. I should sit up all night eating so much of it I’m sick.

Long after they’ve left, I’m still pushing square after square into my mouth. The room is darker, now. Not completely dark, though. It never is. The light from flames outside flicker orange and lively in this dull, sterile room. The little lights on the machines are like cold, coloured stars. 

While I’m sitting there, this thought catches up to me: I'll live forever, 

I shrug and lay down under the white sheets, soothed by the same soft beeping that had been there most of my life. That's what always happens, isn't it? You get born, you grow up, your folks die. It's sad, I guess, but it's a long time away.

The nurse came in ages ago and cleared away all the chocolate wrappers, tutting. I don’t feel sick at all, but there’s no chocolate left. Grown-ups don’t know how much us kids can eat before we feel bad. 

So now here I am, lying under those sheets, listening to the beeping, thinking about dying tomorrow.

I wonder if it'd be happening if my little brother hadn't died, or if I'd had any other brothers or sisters. Mama says she has 

, but I don’t have angel-brothers, or angel-sisters. I don’t even think of Caleb as an angel-brother. I hardly think about him at all. I only remember him a little bit. Mama would probably be sad if she knew either of those things.

Usually the protestors have gone home by now, and I’d be asleep. But this is their last chance to stop this happening, so they’ve been chanting for hours. Waving their placards. Some of them are clustered around the fires in those big old drums. They start singing and that's what eventually lulls me to sleep.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. I should be listening to the doctor. I'm watching my spindly legs dangle while he goes on and on. I'm trying to imagine them all long and tanned in a grown-up skirt and heels. No. I don’t like that. Jeans, then. And trainers. (He’s still talking. He’s leaning too close. I can smell his breath, which is like coffee, and see his bristly brown moustache and the big pink bags under his eyes. Dad looks more like a doctor than this man. This one looks like a man who sells sausages.) 

Someone else comes into the room. I look up. It's a lady. She’s crisp-looking, with a crease down the front of her trousers and a pointed nose. My doctor says her name is Dr. Suzanne Jareth-Atkins. I try to pay attention. She's a consultant. That means another doctor. A special one. She's good with computers and she's going to help me with this change. Help me stay at the right temperature and tell me what to do instead of sleep, that kind of thing. She doesn’t say, Call me Suzy or anything like that. She doesn’t smile.

I lie back. They tell me to count from ten down to one, like always. It's funny to think it'll be the last time I do this. The last time I sleep at all. I hardly have time to think that thought and-

It's dark. Did they do it? Did it work? Am I dead? Do I feel different? I don't feel anything at all. I feel numb all over, inside and out, and everything is black. I panic a bit, 

Mama's voice cuts through it all, and everything is... well, not alright. Not even better, not really. I don't feel like I'm feeling and thinking everything at once anymore, and that's something.

She keeps talking, and I like that, because I can keep listening to her voice. But she isn't telling me anything, and I don't like that. I'm confused. All I know is, I'm not dead. At least, I don't think so. I hold on to that, and to her voice.

I thought I’d go home fast once I woke up, but it takes a long time to learn to be a computer. The first thing I have to do is open my eyes, but I don't know how to do that. I bet you open your eyes all the time, probably, and you don't know how, either. You just do it. Computers don't work like that. You have to tell it what to do, and exactly how.

They say blinking will happen by itself, and lots of other automatic things have been carried over as well. But opening my eyes on purpose is something I’m learning how to do, like babies have to learn to walk. The specialists helped me move my lids the first time. And that was just the first thing. I have to learn how to move my arms and legs, walk, stand, sit. They’re trying to teach me to do those things so it looks natural, as well, so I look like a real person. They're trying to teach me to smile, too, like I don't have enough things to learn.

On my last day here, they are all cheery and brittle. There’s a bell the children ring when they get better. They don't have to lift me up to reach it. I hit it very hard, and it breaks into pieces. I curve my mouth up in a grin for the first time in this Shell. Mama has gone white and her eyes look wide and shiny.

I remember going to birthday parties a long time ago. It's been ages since I got home, I'm sure some of the kids I know have had birthdays. I wonder what that'd be like now. Me all grown up with my hard red mouth and long legs and these weird breasts. (I poke one. It's just a lump, it doesn't feel like me at all.) Playing pass the parcel, eating jelly, with kids all around. 

It’ll be my birthday soon. Ladies have balloons, right? I can have balloons. I'd be good at musical statues. I won't be able to eat the cake, but I could practise blowing out candles. I think about sighing.

If I wasn't in this Shell, Mama and I would fight a lot. It's Mama and I, not Mama and me. I know that, because of the Database. I know lots of things. I think about going back to school and sitting at the back of the class with my hand in the air all the time. I don't really need school. I don't need anything. 

Except Mama, maybe. But we’re broken. She can't make me do anything, and I can't make her see anything. I'm not her little girl anymore. I can't feel the things she wants me to, or want the things she wants me to. 

One of the things we’d fight about is this: I want to drive. She says I can't, I'm a kid. I say I’d be a better driver than most grown-ups. She says I don't have a license. I say I’ll get one. She says I can't, I'm a kid. Round and round we go. But it's not really a fight. Neither of us can be mad. 

Dad sighs and leaves the room. I watch him a lot. He looks thin and grey, and he doesn't look at me.

My auntie is getting married. I want to wear jeans. Mama says no, I’ve got to wear a dress. I don't want to. Even the really prim dresses show off these breasts that aren't mine and that I don't want. Jeans are OK. I can't do anything about how stupidly long I am, but I’m more comfortable in jeans. I tell her this, and her face goes hard and still. Her eyes glint in a new way.

"Maybe," she says, and she’s quiet when she says it, "Maybe you need to get comfortable in all kinds of clothes. You can't wear jeans all the time. I should make you wear smart clothes, and skirts. I should make you practise, every week, so you can be properly dressed when you go to job interviews and things like that."

"You will. You'll need somewhere safe to stay when we... When we aren't around anymore. So you'll need to pay rent."

I think about shrugging, but it's simpler to stare. I don't tell her how I could get money easier (for me anyway) than blinking.

"It's not just interviews," she carries on. "You need to be part of the world, so you need to be dressed properly for different occasions."

No, Mama. You need me to be part of the world. I'm not and I won't ever be. 

I'm not even mad or sad when I think it. 

I don't say it out loud. I've heard them whisper that I might never grow up now. So sad, 

, to lose my childhood and not grow up at the same time... but maybe they're wrong. Maybe I 

growing, because sometimes I only say the things in my head and not in her face, where her heart would break in front of me.

"You need to be dressed appropriately for weddings or fune-" She stops, and she's trembling. 

I always win when we not-fight. But not this time. 

I wear the dress. I practise walking in heels. I sit so very still while she helps me with my makeup. I try on wigs. She looks away.

We shop together, so I have suitable clothes for anything. For parties, or, like she said, for funerals. 

She asks me to practise wearing the different clothes. "So that when the time comes," she says, "It will be easier. You won't have to worry about shopping or trying things on or getting comfortable." Her voice is too light.

The wedding is awful. There are lots of people who don't realise who I am. Some of the men look at me in a funny way. They say things I don't understand. Sometimes to my face, and sometimes when they think I can't hear. (I can hear very well. Better than anyone.)

I try the Database, but the parental lock is still there. That means they said something they shouldn't say to a child. 

I look at Mama. I don't know how to feel triumph, or put it on my face, so I just keep looking. She hunches over and becomes small. Some of the men go very red, or they stutter, or they laugh a bit too loud and then stay away from us.

I was right. She shouldn't have made me wear this. Any of it. Not just the dress. This Shell. It was a mistake.

I don't know why I blame her, and not Dad. I think about that for a long time.

I know how old I am. I know how many years and months and days it's been since I was born. I know how many seconds, even. But I don't feel any different than the last time I woke up. I don't really feel anything. I think I have gone from nine to one thousand in a jump.

It's been long enough, Mama says I should be going out with boys now. "Young men" she says, but they all look like boys to me. 

Markus Spiske

Ellie Nine One Thousand

Brace yourself; longer fiction is coming. Originally submitted to Symbiont Labs in their sci fi contest where it got an honourable mention.







 

Tomorrow, I'm going to die. 

What a weird thought to think. I think it looking out of these boring blinds at the boring sky. 



Ellie Nine One Thousand

Brace yourself; longer fiction is coming. Originally submitted to Symbiont Labs in their sci fi contest where it got an honourable mention.

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My Second Book Baby is Crowning!

Ellie Nine One Thousand

Brace yourself; longer fiction is coming. Originally submitted to Symbiont Labs in their sci fi contest where it got an honourable mention.

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of .css-13w9qce-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-accent);}L.C. Schäfer

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L.C. Schäfer

Comments (14)

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Keep reading

My Second Book Baby is Crowning!

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of L.C. Schäfer