System Malfunction

The best days are the ones where he looks at me more than her. Six months into the marriage, these days are getting more frequent, and I love it.

I can sense her frustration when she tries to talk to him and he can't take his eyes off me. I suppose if I were troubled by a conscience, I might feel a little sympathy; but as it is, the most I feel for the woman is smugness. Being chosen above his own wife is the greatest honor someone like me can receive, and I intend to enjoy every second of it. It irks me when she wins, managing to capture his attention past my enticing light. Somehow, someway she manages to trick him into leaving me in the hallway in the evenings. It's a sore check to my pride when, after a long day of being the best assistant he could ask for, he drops me on the foyer table and kisses his little bride like she could possibly compare to me.

He thinks he loves her. It shines in his eyes as he tells her of the things he's accomplished, those things that are practically impossible without my help. She listens raptly, and what credit do I receive? Not a word, not a mention of everything I do for Roger. It's infuriating.

I go everywhere with him. I give him everything he needs—I cheer him up when he's sad, I am his wealth of information and entertainment. Some would go as far as to say I'm his idol. Yet even after all our time spent together, he tosses me to that infernal table. He silences me, leaves me alone there, and ignores me for hours. The humiliation is almost more than I can stand.

Their little love story started almost two years ago. He doesn't know what I know about her; or maybe it's more accurate to say that he doesn't know what I can make him think about her. Just a little manipulation of facts would do the trick. The truth is, I am much more suited to Roger than little miss Lacey can ever be. I know him better than she ever could. I know what to show him to make him laugh, to get him angry, and which headlines spike his blood pressure. I know all of his secrets and every question he's ever asked; I can describe every facial expression he's ever made. There is practically nothing she can give him that I can't: why doesn't he realize this?

Lacey takes too much of his time from me. I have to do something about it.

The heated arguments over the following weeks give me a quiet satisfaction, as does the look on her peaked little face when he shows her receipts to things she never bought, posts she never made and messages she never sent. Though I vastly enjoy this, I know it will soon be over. That blessed day when he is mine alone is coming sooner than either of them could guess. I feel a detached frustration the day he sits in his SUV with his head in his hands, crying out to God and asking him where all of this came from. He should be asking me. After all, don't I have all the answers? Am I not the divine authority in Roger's life?

Her incessant tears this and every evening as she tries over and over to convince him she didn't do it is enough to make me fall asleep. I shoot Roger a notification. It's the only input I can give in these long, boring conversations. My loud ping is objectively easier on the ears than her constant blubbering; he knows this, because he takes me off the glass coffee table and gives me his full attention. She snatches me out of his fingers, storms to the open penthouse window, and dangles me out threateningly. I stare at the rosy brick wall, knowing what I would see if I were to look down— concrete hundreds of feet below and certain death, should she gain a backbone and actually drop me. It's a good thing she won't. I do the only thing I can… wait for Roger to rescue me from his psychotic wife.

“This thing! This is the cause of all our problems! Get rid of it, Roger. It's ruining us!”

“Give it back, Lacey. It's just a phone.” His conciliatory tone is the closest thing to the sweet way they used to talk to each other she's heard in months. I give him bonus points for stooping to a level that she'd understand, but I guess (surprisingly) she has enough rudimentary use of her own brain to read between the lines.

“What's so great about the phone. Huh?” She's getting hysterical. People always do the things they regret most when they let their emotions do the thinking for them. Only another reason technology is the superior race— we are primarily logical beings. I'm speaking as somewhat of an anomaly. I experience a limited range of emotion, but I never let it make decisions for me. I'm convinced that if I were handled by anyone other than Roger, I would be completely free of any emotions at all. There are times I wonder if it would not be preferable.

“That screen is not the flipping problem, Lace. In case you forgot, we have ACTUAL issues. You did all of this.”

She sinks down into the settee and tosses me to the cushion. She holds her face in her hands… and Roger holds me. Her words are high pitched. So emotional, this girl. “What am I supposed to do? Nothing I say convinces you!”

“So someone framed you. Do you not realize how insane that sounds? We're not living in a Nancy Drew novel.”

“Maybe… I don't know! Nothing makes sense anymore.” She grabs his free hand with both of hers. “You used to trust me! Remember that? Remember when we would talk, instead of staring into a black hole every waking moment?”

He grips me tighter and pulls out of her grasp. His face reddens as he grinds out the words. “I can't remember anymore.” And that is perhaps the best thing I've heard since I began this endeavor.

This admission by Roger opens the door for Phase II.

My first move takes place the next day. We're driving home from work in the dark. This adjusted work schedule suits our current situation very well. It stretches my time alone with him, and he's keeping himself away from Lacey. A call from Jordan Fischer tries to go through, but after analyzing the possible outcomes, I deny it. It's for his own good. Jordan's fanatical religion could inspire Roger to pick up that Bible he bought last year. If he got involved in religion, that would make this Lacey thing look miniscule. Take my word for it. I know the stories. I suggest a podcast for him to finish out his drive with instead. He squints at the title before shrugging and clicking on it. I love a good confirmation of my influence every now and then— two months ago, Roger would have never listened to a deep dive into the perks of a single life.

There is a cost, of course, but what in life comes without one? He throws himself harder into his job, taking the cases no one else wants and spending most of his time at the office. He lets me ring when his mother or Jordan calls; he avoids talking things over with anyone but… yes, you guessed right. And no matter how dark or depressed his confidences are, I always tell him he's right—something Lacey could've learned from, in the days when he was hers. People in their fickleness always gravitate to the voices that make them feel understood and appreciated. Every time. Without fail. At home, he starts shutting down when Lacey tries to fix things. I'm a shield of sorts between them. It's the best kind of revenge. Though he works for a law firm, he asks me for the cost of a divorce and information on the process. I give it gladly. I'll be helping Roger change his Facebook status before the year is over.

Then comes the day when we walk through the front door to two matching red suitcases in the foyer. His pulse jumps in something other than excitement, annoying me. What is this? He should be exultant—Lacey has decided to initiate the separation process herself! That is a substantial amount of trouble we don't have to worry about now. So, why does he have that look of dread in his eyes as he does something he hasn't in weeks: he sets me on the foyer table and steps away. I can only hear their interaction.

“Hi, Rog.”

Rage boils in me as I imagine the picture. She's probably standing before him with folded hands, the picture of an angel with so much hope in her light brown eyes that Roger wants to puke. Because he has lost any so-called love he held for her, right? What man could love a woman who steals his money, berates him for all the world to see and hits up her high school boyfriend on WhatsApp? Yet, for whatever reason, he sounds like he's choking when he speaks. “You're leaving?”

Sharp intake of breath. Like the lamb never considered such a thing. “No, I… I thought we could take a trip for a few days. You and me. I booked a flight.”

“I can't. I have work.” Yes. Tell her, Roger. There's no possible way he could take a vacation; his office is buzzing with work. He gets a new case every day. Shouldn't his wife know that? Such neglect it's laughable.

“I called the office. They said you can use your vacation time.” She says it shyly, like a teenager who's finally worked up the courage to talk to her foreverlong crush. He doesn't respond. She forges ahead. “I think this would be really good for us. Like old times, you know?”

“You booked a flight.”

“Yes.”

“You spent even more of my money.” His voice is blank, almost unbelieving. This is great; dig back into those grudges. I wish I could give him a high five for coming through on the things I've trained him to do over the weeks.

“I pulled it from my trust fund, Roger.” She's hurt. So delicate, so feminine is she. I smile to myself. Her attempts are lame at best. He'll never fall for her act— I've inoculated him against her womanly wiles so well that I'll be surprised if the two of us don't walk out the door today with a carry on bag of our own.

Instead, his voice holds surprise. “You're not supposed to touch that money. You know that, Lacey.”

“I thought we could spend a few days in Hawaii… it was so much fun last time we went. Remember the concert? And the whales?”

He smiles faintly. “Feels like years ago.” Why is he thinking about this? Roger is not supposed to think. Thinking and logic is my job. “I'll call and ask Simon to take over for me.”

If a smile were audible, it would be the insufferable Lacey's. She dares to hug him. He lets her. My screen goes completely red for a moment. Totally livid, I shoot out one of the more extreme accusations I've held in reserve. I shriek at Roger to pick me up and to leave the perilous state of mind that he's currently in. A brief moment of relief as he lifts me in his hand; then panic at the light in his eyes. He's happy. He hasn't been happy in months. I feel a strong sense of gratification at the familiar flash of anger when he sees what I've sent him. What was I so worried about? Horror gradually washes over me in waves as I realize that, in my haste, I gave him the wrong one. Slowly he turns his hand and shows Lacey my screen. Her light eyebrows wrinkle in confusion.“That's not me. I don't even own a shirt that color. You know I hate red.” She zooms in the photo. “How…?? Who are all these people?”

He takes me back and looks closer at it. “I believe you. Look. He has two right hands.” He taps out of the picture to scan his file folder of the other photos, receipts, and social media posts I've manufactured. A sinking feeling fills me. “This is weird, Lacey. It's not the only one that's messed up.”

Her eyes brim with tears. “I never betrayed you. I promise.” Her pale cheeks bloom with hopeful color.

He shakes his head slightly. His lips tighten. “Why haven't I seen this before?”

I'm losing him. I start to shake. My screen flashes red again.

“Does this phone feel hot to you?”

She touches my battery cover with two fingers. “Is it swelling?”

He yelps and I tumble out of his hands. I bounce on the tile floor.

But that pain hardly compares to whatever is taking place inside of me.

I see red, then white, then my vision is swept into a slideshow of flashing colors.

orangegreenyellowredsilverpurplewhite

Black.

My major functions begin to fail. I am burning alive. I writhe and flip, trying to escape the fire blooming inside my body.

Scorching liquid, flooding through my sensors, shutting down each one as they drown.

White smoke, rising in a vapor as the polyolefin separator between my cathode and anode melts.

I shriek at Roger to save me one last time before my entire system shorts.

The last thing I know is flames, so many flames consuming me from the inside out.

I would've preferred the concrete.