AINAR

AINAR

What is that sound? Ainar slowly lifts his head from the pillow. Quack, quack. Ducks. Where did they come from? Confused, he looks around the room. Yes indeed — aren’t those three little bath ducks walking around in the hallway, chattering? But that’s impossible.

Ainar hits himself on the head three times with the palm of his hand. He closes his eyes and opens them again. Gone. He walks out into the hallway and looks properly. Only the ugly green‑blue rag rug, otherwise empty.

He has started seeing things that aren’t there. But when he hits himself on the head, they disappear. Still, it’s exhausting, because he can’t always tell what’s real and what isn’t. Well, it simply has to do with him getting old. The visions get worse every year. And now he’s almost seventy. Two months and three days left. To be exact: two months, three days, seven hours and — he checks the watch on his arm — twenty‑two minutes and twenty‑nine seconds. Not that it matters.

He doesn’t want to celebrate it anyway. But his wife, Karin, does. She’s going to invite the whole neighborhood. He glances into the bedroom. There she lies in an ugly pink floral nightgown, sounding like an entire… well, something large. And she has curlers in her hair. Who uses curlers these days? She looks like a cow lying there. Fat, with bulging eyes. And she nags all the time.

Ainar doesn’t care much about how she looks — it’s that she’s so damn stupid. He would like someone to talk to, someone to have a sensible conversation with. But no. You’d have to search far to find anyone dumber. Except for his two children, of course — Bianca and Max. Thank God they’ve both moved out and rarely visit. They’re too busy taking care of themselves.

Wearing his gold and black striped silk pajamas, he walks into the bathroom. He brings his clothes for the day: shirt, corduroy trousers, vest and bow tie. Always the same. Except the shirts change color. He is particular about changing before breakfast. Ainar can’t stand seeing how some of his neighbors walk around in the kitchen in nightwear. Or worse — in bathrobes. As if they don’t know they have windows.

And they stare. Completely shameless. Look in and wave. So Ainar has had to change his routine. He must now eat in the living room. He doesn’t like it. It’s too far from the kitchen, and the table in there is far too low. You have to bend down to reach the bowl of soured milk.

Ainar likes routines. Preferably the day should be as structured as possible: change clothes, brush teeth, eat breakfast. After that clean up, take a walk, shop. Go home, shower, go online. Eat lunch, shower, talk to Karin — if he must. Sleep. Take another walk, talk to a neighbor or acquaintance. Eat dinner, watch TV. Listen to Karin. Change clothes, brush teeth, sleep.

When it comes to social life, Ainar sees it mostly as a way to fit in. He finds other people incredibly boring. They mostly talk about the weather, which apparently is never good. Or about work, children, or how expensive everything has become. Ainar doesn’t care if there’s a hurricane outside. Or about money. He has plenty. But he never tells anyone — you absolutely must not say that. It creates jealousy.

He has no close friends. He would like one, but there is no one who understands him. Ainar is over‑intelligent. And not just a little above average, but truly smart. He hates it. It makes him feel lonely. Sometimes he thinks he must be unique. Throughout his life he has never met anyone of his caliber. And he has looked, he really has.

With a sigh he continues brushing his teeth. It’s important. Hygiene prolongs life. People who don’t take care of themselves are nothing but scum. That’s just how it is. He spits the toothpaste into the sink hard when he thinks about it.

In the mirror he sees a solid man. Handsome, with gray‑streaked hair. A wrinkle here and there in the rough face gives him character. His eyes are beautifully mottled green‑blue with a touch of golden yellow, and he has a straight, masculine nose. His mouth is the right size — not too plump, not too thin. He feels his cheeks. They’re slightly prickly, so up with the razor. He doesn’t like having hair on his face. He takes the shaving foam, massages it in, and makes a few quick upward strokes until he’s satisfied.

After changing clothes and pouring his soured milk — with exactly one tablespoon of sugar and half a deciliter of chocolate flakes — he walks toward the living room to eat. He’s usually careful about what he eats, but when it comes to sugar he can’t resist. It’s like a drug. The body wants it, even though it’s not good.

Ainar picks up his phone. He’s about to read the news, as he always does at breakfast, when a terrible sound cuts through the house. It’s Karin’s alarm. It sounds awful. Very irritated, he gets up from the sofa. He hasn’t finished eating. Ainar doesn’t want to spend time with his wife now. It’s too early. He hurries into the kitchen and washes the bowl. Goes out into the hallway, puts on his brown coat and black shoes. Opens and closes the door. All in less than five minutes.

Outside, the autumn sun is shining. It blinds him, while a light wind blows from the south. But Ainar doesn’t feel the cold. He simply continues walking his usual route. The leaves have started to change color and he supposes it’s beautiful, but to him it’s all the same. He doesn’t care about nature’s shifts or what season it is.

Halfway back he meets Åke, who is out walking his dog. They walk together for a bit. Åke talks about the dog, his wife, his new car, and that he will soon retire. Ainar pretends to listen. Nods sometimes, but finds the conversation unnecessary. He would rather have walked alone. But of course he doesn’t say that. Thankfully Åke turns off a little before home, so Ainar can once again enjoy the silence.

But this time it doesn’t work. He is annoyed. Or something like that. A feeling, at least. He doesn’t like it. He needs to calm down so he can focus on the internet later. A good way is to count. Preferably to one hundred. That usually helps.

When he opens the front door he has reached sixty‑two. Almost done. But then Karin is standing there. He loses track. Damn it, now he has to start over.

“Hi darling. Was it nice outside?” He smiles, but is irritated by the question. It’s stupid. Just like she is. But he answers: “Yes, it’s sunny but a bit windy.”

“Yes, I’m going to the doctor today to check my knee, at nine. I thought I’d ask if you wanted to come with me. And then maybe we could go to the café on the corner and buy a cinnamon bun each?”

Ainar would gladly eat something sweet, but if it meant spending time with his wife, he’d rather not.

“That would have been lovely, but I think I overexerted myself on the walk, so it’ll have to be another time.”

He quickly takes off his outer clothes, puts them in place, and goes to hide in the bathroom. Turns on the shower, but doesn’t step in. He has to finish counting first. She interrupted him.

After what feels like an eternity he hears the door slam shut. Bang, bang, bang he hears in his head. Like an echo. He hits himself on the head again and shouts loudly: “Stop!”

It helps. He sits down on the toilet seat and starts counting. One, two, three… Finally one hundred.

He takes off his clothes and steps into the shower. The water has turned cold, but he stays anyway. He barely notices. Because inside the shower stall the ducks have returned, only they’ve changed color. Now they’re blue. Quack, quack.

Ainar covers his ears. But it doesn’t help — their sound pushes in, fills his entire head. He drives his forehead straight into the tiles. But they don’t stop. He repeats it twice more. The room spins and his body wants to vomit. But the ducks are not gone.

He steps out of the shower and vomits straight onto the floor. Disgusting. He quickly throws a towel over it and puts on his bathrobe. He looks at the mess, the ducks, and the towel. This is too much.

He leaves the bathroom, walks into the kitchen, and stares around in frustration. Problem‑solving — that is his strength. But this particular morning it’s simply too much. He doesn’t know why, but that’s just how it is.

He turns around and looks out the window. The neighbors across the way are staring. Standing on the other side, staring and waving. He lifts his hand in greeting, as one should, when he realizes he isn’t wearing any clothes. He quickly rushes to the blinds and pulls them down. He feels embarrassed. Ainar has become like them. Good grief.

He starts counting again. One, two, three… and out comes the large kitchen knife. Four — and a stab. Straight into his stomach. Five, six and seven. He falls. Eight, nine — the ducks are gone. Ten.

Karin notices that the blinds in the kitchen are down. That’s strange. Why would Ainar do that? She walks into the hallway, calling out. But no one answers. She takes off her jacket and shoes and walks toward the kitchen. She screams loudly. On the floor lies her husband in a pool of blood.

She carefully steps forward and kneels down. Check if he is breathing. Then she screams even louder.

From his stomach spill wires and metal plates. She doesn’t understand anything. Everything goes black. Karin faints.

The ambulance receives an alert from central command. It’s a pickup. Maria is used to it. Over the years there have been quite a few. They drive to the address and knock on the door. No answer.

A few curious people have stopped and are asking worriedly what has happened. She gives them her practiced smile and says she doesn’t know, only that she must do her job now.

When she and her colleague Anton enter, she is met by an unusual sight. There is the patient she received the alert about, and an older woman inside. She assumes it must be his wife. There are protocols for that too, but it’s still the first time it has happened.

They lift Karin and place her in the bedroom. Change her clothes to a nightgown. Give her an injection in the arm and leave the room.

They go back downstairs and pick up Ainar. Place him on a stretcher, pull a sheet over him. Move him to the hallway. Clean up the kitchen. Then go room by room and remove the hidden cameras.

After that they leave the house with Ainar. Tell the curious neighbors that he died of a heart attack.

In the ambulance Maria glances back at Ainar. Or AI narrative 000001, as he is actually called. It’s so sad. He was their first model and in many ways one of the most successful. None of the newer ones had survived this long. Such a shame.

Maria had wanted to talk to him. Know more about how he worked, how he thought. She is going to order one, after all. Through the company. A child — they had asked if anyone was interested in being a test person for the new model. Aina. A lifelike girl around five years old.

Maria had been overjoyed. She couldn’t have children, so this was her dream. It would be exciting. She smiles all the way back to the company.