No Blood, No Meat

We are in the car, driving to work, my husband tells me he doesn’t love me. Just like that. We are newlyweds. God damn it, man.

“How can you say that?” I sound whiny. “What did I do?”

He can’t take his eyes off of the road. “I’ve just lost feelings. There is nothing between us.” His voice is flat. He is talking like a robot. Beep beep boop. My soon-to-be ex-husband is a robot. Haha.

I ask, “What can I do?” Still sounds whiny, desperate.

His eyes, focused on the road. “Literally nothing.” Beep boop boop. Future ex-husband android speaking.

I tell him, “Look at me, at least, when you say this to me.”

He does. He looks at me.

A pickup truck swerves into our lane. It obliterates the front of our car. The driver’s side takes the brunt of the impact.

I see smoke, feel glass in my hair. I touch my legs. Make sure I am still all together. I hear, “Damage. Critical. Damage. Critical. Damage. Critical.”

I look at my husband. His jaw moves up and down, over and over. His legs are torn apart. Absolutely destroyed. There is no blood. There is metal exposed. His chest is wounded.

Still, I hear, “Damage. Critical. Damage. Critical. Damage. Critical.”

I lean over, towards my husband. The monotonous words come from his abdomen. They repeat and repeat and repeat.

His right hand takes hold of my wrist. He has deep cuts on it. All I see is metal in his wounds. No blood, no meat. Metal and some kind of meshing.

He struggles to turn his head. To look at me. His head jostles, only slightly.

“Damage,” he drones, “My damage is critical.”

And from his midsection, “Damage. Critical. Damage. Critical. Damage. Critical.”

The warning stops. His grasp on my wrist loosens. My husband dies. Just like that.

Time moves forward.

Weeks pass, and the cemetery won’t allow me to bury an “artificial human.” Their words.

I want to inter him in his family’s plot.


I have too many questions. Then more questions. Then more. Then.



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