Are you a machine?
Name: carnivalgirl
Title: Are you a machine?
Rating & Warnings: PG, some non-graohic and brief references to institutional violence
Summary: A young man in a Victorian sanatorium wakes up to a beautiful day. He would not want to be a machine. Except for certain times in life. 541 words
Note: prompt: Are you a machine? This one has a bit of a backstory. My writer's group had a prompt to 'Write your character in another historical era'. As the protagonist of my novella has Asperger's Syndrome, I thought it was possible he might have, in the 1800s, ended up in an asylum. After going some research I was pleasantly surprised to find that not all Victorian asylums were brutal, some were much more humane, as also features in a Sebastian Faulks novel that made a strong impression on me, Human Traces. I based his behaviour on what mine was like as a child, and if I hadn't had the chance to go to school or have support . I thought of Elizabeth as a loving sister, and whatever means she had, she would use as far as she could for him. So I write a story for that prompt, and then a continuation for this prompt. I wrote this quite quickly, so I apologise in advance for any inaccuracies or issues.
Are you a machine? Not today. The first thing that lets me know it is the faint smell of bacon from the kitchen. Machines cannot smell or taste. At weekends we are indulged with bacon rolls. I always take breakfast in my room, as socialising with other patients taxes me. Though today, I feel a pressing need to talk that I haven't felt since I arrived here, almost six months ago.
My table is by a window. Machines cannot see. The landscape is so wide and generous I can trace a colour spectrum from the yellow of the fields, through all shades of green in the hills, shrubs and plants, to the blue of the summer morning sky. When first I arrived here, I could not sleep, and so I would watch the light move across the landscape from dusk to dawn. My sister brings me decorations for the room when she visits, but I have no want of
Shortly after breakfast the attendant comes to dress me. He fastens my cuffs, and apologises as always as he understands I do not like the feeling. Machines cannot feel touch. Hunter is his name, but it is not a right name for him, as he has been the most gentle attendant I have ever come across. When I look at his hands I find I cannot even imagine them striking me. Elizabeth promised me the attendants here never do that.
'My sister is engaged to be married,' I tell Hunter.
'Is that what she came here to tell you yesterday?' he says.
'Yes. Also to bring me the new Sherlock Holmes story.'
He crouches to put on my shoes, and I find I just have to keep talking about it. Machines cannot speak.
'Her fiancé's name is Tobias Adler. He is a labourer and a Jew.'
'What do you think of your sister marrying a Jew?'
'Elizabeth loves him. I suppose... he...would not like bacon rolls like we do.'
Hunter laughs. I'm not sure why, but he is a laughing sort of person.
'Indeed,' he says. 'That'll be a big change, then. Her marrying. You know how it is.'
Suddenly it is as though the air is moving away from me. I do not know "how it is", I have been in asylums all my life.
'How is it?'
'Why! She won't have the time to come all the way down here every month. She'll be with child within the year.'
She did not tell me that yesterday, or I did not think of it, and yet, I think I have known it all this time.
'Hunter? Will I have to return to Manchester?'
In a fleeting glance I see him smile. 'Doubtful, Mr McFarland. Your sister prefers you here. She wants you safe. Even if you are miles away.'
I do not really want to be a machine. I do not want the next bacon roll, or view of the hills, or Sherlock Holmes story to be the last. Most of all I do not want the next visit from my sister to be the last. I feel so much these things, I can only admit I want to live.
I only wish I could have a rest, from feeling so much.
Title: Are you a machine?
Rating & Warnings: PG, some non-graohic and brief references to institutional violence
Summary: A young man in a Victorian sanatorium wakes up to a beautiful day. He would not want to be a machine. Except for certain times in life. 541 words
Note: prompt: Are you a machine? This one has a bit of a backstory. My writer's group had a prompt to 'Write your character in another historical era'. As the protagonist of my novella has Asperger's Syndrome, I thought it was possible he might have, in the 1800s, ended up in an asylum. After going some research I was pleasantly surprised to find that not all Victorian asylums were brutal, some were much more humane, as also features in a Sebastian Faulks novel that made a strong impression on me, Human Traces. I based his behaviour on what mine was like as a child, and if I hadn't had the chance to go to school or have support . I thought of Elizabeth as a loving sister, and whatever means she had, she would use as far as she could for him. So I write a story for that prompt, and then a continuation for this prompt. I wrote this quite quickly, so I apologise in advance for any inaccuracies or issues.
Are you a machine? Not today. The first thing that lets me know it is the faint smell of bacon from the kitchen. Machines cannot smell or taste. At weekends we are indulged with bacon rolls. I always take breakfast in my room, as socialising with other patients taxes me. Though today, I feel a pressing need to talk that I haven't felt since I arrived here, almost six months ago.
My table is by a window. Machines cannot see. The landscape is so wide and generous I can trace a colour spectrum from the yellow of the fields, through all shades of green in the hills, shrubs and plants, to the blue of the summer morning sky. When first I arrived here, I could not sleep, and so I would watch the light move across the landscape from dusk to dawn. My sister brings me decorations for the room when she visits, but I have no want of
Shortly after breakfast the attendant comes to dress me. He fastens my cuffs, and apologises as always as he understands I do not like the feeling. Machines cannot feel touch. Hunter is his name, but it is not a right name for him, as he has been the most gentle attendant I have ever come across. When I look at his hands I find I cannot even imagine them striking me. Elizabeth promised me the attendants here never do that.
'My sister is engaged to be married,' I tell Hunter.
'Is that what she came here to tell you yesterday?' he says.
'Yes. Also to bring me the new Sherlock Holmes story.'
He crouches to put on my shoes, and I find I just have to keep talking about it. Machines cannot speak.
'Her fiancé's name is Tobias Adler. He is a labourer and a Jew.'
'What do you think of your sister marrying a Jew?'
'Elizabeth loves him. I suppose... he...would not like bacon rolls like we do.'
Hunter laughs. I'm not sure why, but he is a laughing sort of person.
'Indeed,' he says. 'That'll be a big change, then. Her marrying. You know how it is.'
Suddenly it is as though the air is moving away from me. I do not know "how it is", I have been in asylums all my life.
'How is it?'
'Why! She won't have the time to come all the way down here every month. She'll be with child within the year.'
She did not tell me that yesterday, or I did not think of it, and yet, I think I have known it all this time.
'Hunter? Will I have to return to Manchester?'
In a fleeting glance I see him smile. 'Doubtful, Mr McFarland. Your sister prefers you here. She wants you safe. Even if you are miles away.'
I do not really want to be a machine. I do not want the next bacon roll, or view of the hills, or Sherlock Holmes story to be the last. Most of all I do not want the next visit from my sister to be the last. I feel so much these things, I can only admit I want to live.
I only wish I could have a rest, from feeling so much.