Bloodless

When Robert is cast in the lead role of an amateur dramatic production of Hamlet, a mysterious group in the audience gives him new insights in to who he really is.

Bloodless

Robert felt at home on the stage. It was the only place that did feel like home. It was the only place that he knew what he was supposed to do and who he was supposed to be. On the grand stage of life he had no idea.
    So he was pleased when, one Tuesday morning, he was called by Mr Howard to tell him that he had the part of Hamlet in the local am-dram production. The only strange thing about it was that Robert had absolutely no recollection of applying for the role.
    Actually playing the part, however, did not come so easily. Although as to what the problem was, Robert was entirely in the dark. Memorising the lines was no trouble, in fact he found it so easy that he wondered why others seemed to find it so difficult. He read the play once, and knew every word.
    However every now and then in rehearsals the director, sitting on his folding chair six feet from the town hall stage, would put his hand up to stop the scene.
    Robert would then watch as the director, Mr Howard, looked in to the middle distance and stroked his carefully manicured goatee before saying something like, “Robert, I need to see...” and it wasn't that he was struggling for the right words, he just enjoyed a nice dramatic pause. Or at least that was how it seemed to most. “I need to see... more emotion.”
    He emphasised the word emotion.
    To which Robert would reply with some comment Mr Howard would find entirely impertinent such as, “What does emotion look like?”
    Mr Howard would then bluster and ramble about the scene they were portraying and what he thought it meant.
    But it made no difference. Robert would simply recite the lines, and wait for his cues from the other actors. Sometimes their voices would change in pitch, or they would make funny faces. Furrowing their brows or raising an eyebrow. Pointing a finger perhaps. Robert understood why not at all, and nor did he try to, he would just stand where the director had told him to stand. Walk where the director told him to walk. Look at who he was talking to and say his lines.
    Mr Howard was not the only one who was frustrated with his performance, the other actors complained about him frequently. Once Robert heard Horatio ask Ophelia why he was cast in the role at all, saying a dead hamster had more presence and gravitas. And then one of the old ladies who produced the play said “dead hamsters don't pay as well.” But she mumbled it quietly under her breath, and no doubt thought nobody would hear her. And indeed, nobody could. Except Robert.

If any of the cast or crew were hoping that Robert was saving his true rendition for the live performance in front of a paying audience, they were disappointed. He delivered his lines in exactly the same monotone voice as he had since the very first rehearsal. When another actor forgot their lines, he simply waited patiently. The fact that it was eventually whispered by a set dresser backstage didn't phase him, and neither did the smattering of laughter from the audience when he didn't wait for the actor to repeat it.
    After the play, Robert was congratulated warmly by all he met. And indeed, it seemed that the audience had genuinely enjoyed his performance. He even received a warm round of applause at the conclusion of the play.
    “You were very good,” an old lady wearing thick red lipstick told Robert as he exited the town hall.
    Robert stopped and a look of confusion crossed his face. “When?” he asked.
    “Just now, of course!” said her friend, wearing a fur coat and white hat with a multi-coloured feather poking out of it. “In the play!”
    “Oh. Was I?” Robert said, somewhat distracted by the feather.
    They both nodded eagerly. “You let the words do the work for you,” said the heavily lipsticked lady.
    “Yes,” the other one said. Then, having taken a surreptitious glance over each shoulder said, “It's so easy to over act Shakespeare.”
    The other lady nodded in sage agreement.
    “Mmm,” Robert said, hearing the call of his bed in a gust of biting wind.
    “I'm sure they were impressed too,” the red lipped lady said, blowing on her hands and rubbing them together, as she looked over at a huddle of seven people standing in an enclosed circle towards the back of the car park.
    “Who are they?” Robert asked.
    “Nobody knows,” the feathered lady said conspiratorially.
    “But we think they're talent spotters,” said the red lips.
    “Talent spotters?” enquired Robert.
    “From an agency,” said both.
    “What agency?” asked Robert.
    The old ladies laughed as if he had landed a joke. “I look forward to seeing you in the next production,” one of them said gaily, touching him on the upper arm. The other, turning to leave, said, “Or the big screen!” Robert, bemused, watched them walk away.
    Now he turned to go home, which as it happened meant walking past the five men and two women about whom the old ladies had been so curious.
    As he passed by, a plump balding man wearing ill-fitting jeans and a corduroy jacket stepped out from the group and said, “Robert.”
    More out of politeness than curiosity, Robert stopped and turned around. “Yes?”
    “Canopies are useless in the night time, they are used to shield you from the sun,” the old man said.
    Robert was often confused by what people said and why they said it, but he was sure that was a particularly perplexing comment to make. Robert said, “I suppose you're right.” And he turned to leave.
    “Come with us now,” the old man said.
    Without really knowing why, he did.
    
Robert awoke in a dark room. His skin was taut from the cold, his mouth dry. As he breathed in the moist air, Robert was struck by the musty smell of rotting wood. A drip of water on the far side of the room echoed all around him.
    He opened his eyes, which did nothing to further illuminate the room, and lifted his head. The effort required to do so was noticeable. Instinctively he tried to move his arms and legs. Metal groaned, and bonds scratched against his wrists and ankles. He quickly surmised that he was sitting on a metal chair that was bolted to the ground, and he was tied to it with rope.  The chair felt cool against his buttocks, and the faint breeze in the room tickled against the flesh all over his body. He was completely naked.
    “He's waking up,” a woman's voice in the darkness said.
    “Right on schedule,” a low voice said.
    Robert snapped his head from side to side, trying to pinpoint the origin of each utterance, but failing to penetrate the all encompassing void surrounding him.     
    “Who's there?” Robert said, his voice cracking.
    “Was that panic?”
    “He's just cold.”
    “We're not here to speculate!”
    Once again Robert tested his bonds with as much strength as he could muster.
    A shape, a broad outline of a person in the darkness, approached him. It said softly, “How do you feel, Robert?”
    He recognised the voice. It was the same as the man's outside the town hall. The one who had something to say about canopies. Robert only had very vague memories, like little snippets of a music video being played at double speed, of what had happened after that. Walking across the road. Stepping up in to a white van. Straps going round his wrists. A syringe. The needle of the syringe penetrating his skin.
    “Who are you?” Robert asked again.
    “He is afraid,” a voice from the darkness said. “Listen to him.”
    “You're projecting,” another voice said, “it's a logical question.”
    “Does logic negate fear?” said a different voice.
    Again Robert threw his head this way and that trying to follow each voice.
    “Be quiet, all of you,” the shape in front of Robert snapped. The thick strips of red lines below the triangle of his nose became blurry as he spoke. When the grumbling had died down he continued. “Now Robert, there's a reason that you don't really feel like you fit in with everyone else. That so much of what people say and do is such a mystery to you. There's a reason that you don't feel quite human. Do you know what I'm talking about, Robert?”
    It felt like a surge of electricity ebbed through his body. “Who are you?” Robert said.
    “I... we are your creators, Robert. We made you.”

It was as if the life force had been sucked out of the room, leaving nothing but meaningless sounds and smells and colours. The silence became as deep and as impenetrable as the darkness. Robert couldn't say how long it lasted for before he heard someone say, “He feels nothing.”
    “He's just shut down.”
    “There is nothing there.”
    “It's a failure.”
    “Be quiet,” the shape said. “It's time for some light.”
    There was a click about ten feet to the right of Robert.
    He instinctively closed his eyes to the blinding white light that suddenly burst in to his eyeballs.
    “Open your eyes, Robert,” the man in front of him said.
    Robert saw colours through his eyelids. He could feel the feint heat from a bulb swinging two feet above his head, and even with his eyes closed he knew that it was only creating a small puddle of light around him.
    “Open them!” the man demanded.
    Robert opened his eyes.
    The old man stood on a dirty concrete floor, dark outlines of figures behind him, the edge of the room still undefined. Robert's eyes focused on a metal circle that hovered mere centimetres from the middle of his brow. The circle was connected to a shaft, and beyond that a small hammer above a handle being gripped by a hand. Robert looked down the arm from the hand and up to the leader's steely, smirking face before snapping his focus back to the tiny metal circle of the protruding tip of the pistol.
    “How do you feel, Robert?” the old man asked, pointing the gun at Robert's forehead.

“Robert, I am going to count down from three. If you cannot tell us how you feel by the time I reach zero then you will be terminated. Do you understand?”
    Robert said nothing.
    “What? We never agreed to-” a voice complained.
    “Three,” the old man said.
    “This is totally unaccept-”
    “Two,” the old man interrupted.
    “Dr. Padre, I must-”
    “One.”
    Dr Padre cocked the gun.
    “No... please.” Robert murmured.
    “How do you feel, Robert?”
    Robert raised his head and looked in to the doctor's eyes. His throat was tight, his heart pumping harder than it ever had before, his forehead squeezing out sweat balls the size of grapes. “Afraid,” Robert said, his voice breaking.
    A gasp from behind him.
    “He's just saying that...”
    “It's not in the programming!”
    “Look at his heart rate!”
    Robert struggled against his bonds.
    Dr Padre stepped forward and held Robert's arm down with his free hand, putting his gun away and bringing out a knife.
    Robert squirmed desperately against him. “What are you- no, please!”
    “Just look,” Dr Padre said, as he slid the sharp edge of the blade down Robert's forearm.
    The pain, worse than anything Robert had felt before, exploded up his arm. He closed his eyes and screamed. And the sound of his screams echoed back to him in a seemingly endless loop, the fear and pain returning anew with each pass.
    “Look,” Dr Padre said. “Look, Robert!”
    Robert envisioned the blood cascading out of the separated flesh of his arm. He dug his nails in to his palms as he made fists with each hand.
    “Open your eyes!” Dr Padre demanded.
    His eyes sprang open as his scream finally faded back in to the darkness.
    Robert couldn't help it, he looked down at his arm. There was the separated flesh but... but there was no blood. It looked like cut meat... like chicken.
    He looked up at Dr Padre, who was smiling. “Look closer,” Dr Padre encouraged him.
    The laceration had penetrated right down to the bone. Except, it wasn't bone. It was shiny, like metal. The tendons were threaded with cut wires. The pain was gone.
    “It's not possible,” Robert murmured.
    “But it is,” Dr Padre said. “You can see for yourself.”
    “Why are you doing this to me?” Robert breathed through clenched teeth, looking up at Dr Padre with furrowed brow.
    Dr Padre grinned, “Such emotion!” The other scientists whispered with excitement.
    Robert struggled against his bonds, “Why did you do this to me?!”
    “We had to run our tests, Robert,” Dr Padre said.
    “But I can't...” Robert said, settling down. “I can't be... can't be completely...”
    “You are completely mechanical,” Dr Padre said.
    Robert's head slumped. And a rush of tingles rose up his spine, as for the first time he knew exactly who he was. Or rather, what he was.
    “How do you feel, Robert?” Dr Padre asked.
    “I can't believe...” Robert said as a droplet of water meandered down his cheek from his eye.
    “Lights!” Dr Padre shouted.
    Robert felt as if he was dissolving in to the sudden explosion of whiteness but enjoyed the distraction of the searing pain in his eyeballs.
    Dr Padre put up his hands and waved down the eruption of applause and yells of celebration from the seven scientists, as he walked behind Robert. He put his hands on Robert's shoulders. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said above the ebbing roar, “we have created the first conscious and feeling machine!”
    Robert stared at the bare brick wall twenty feet in front of him, and wondered when he would be allowed to go to bed and sleep.

Author's Note

Does it hold your attention? Do you care about Robert and what is happening to him? Do the scientists feel believable? And any other comments greatly appreciated, be brutally honest please :)

Reviews

[IceWinifredd]

Very nice story you've got here. i liked the whole concept of the story: him feelings like he just doesn't belong but not knowing why, the crazy scientists that kidnapped him, and him being a robot in the end. However, I felt like there were a lot of things that were wrong with this too. One, the whole structure of the story is ugly. I think you should go back and separate the story into cleaner and more readable format so the reader doesn't end up losing their place so easily. Also, it'll make the whole story look more organized and polished. Secondly, I feel like there are a lot of "loopholes" in the story. In some places, you lack lots of details/descriptions. For example, in the part where Robert wakes up in the darkness. I would've liked to know more of what was going through Robert's head in terms of emotionally and mentally. 'Where am I? How did I get here? How do I get out of here? Why am I tied up like this?' Is he angry? Sad? Scared? Anxious? Surprised? Confused? But I guess, you can ignore the emotional part of my rant if you want because it emphasizes the fact that he's a robot. Overall, I think the story is very interesting. Also, I would've liked you to add in the back story of the scientists. What was the overall purpose of creating Robert? Where have they been this whole time? What kind of information have they compiled from watching Robert? Are they planning to make more? What are they planning to do to Robert now that he knows he's a robot? Great work on this my friend. I enjoyed the read so keep it up. :) -IceWinifredd.

[Chris Paddock]

Thanks very much, good tips... it's given me some ideas of what to do with it next :)

[IceWinifredd]

You're very welcome. I'm glad i could help. :)

[C.R. Fritz]

Yes, it is interesting. I like the premise and ending, but I think you should transition the pistol to the blade with more details. It goes from fear to pain too quickly and one needs time to adjust emotions.

[Derek29]

This is very well done enough. As a submission, it's very passable. At moments the writing is very moving, and clear.
Thank you, for these moments, in our lives.
Well noted.