Music Box | A flash fiction story
49 of 💯
Crash hugged him with all her strength, tears flowing down her cheeks in dark streams. He stood there, unmoving, indifferent to her pain, staring blankly at the wall. The music box was still playing on the floor, her black mascara raining over it.
A couple of years ago, in that same room, she had told him she didn't dance. He insisted she had to — she had to allow herself to be more human. He turned the music on and grabbed her hand, moving around awkwardly in silly jumps and expansive gestures. She laughed, she danced. She felt alive. Human.
The music box played a fairytale version of that song with magical metallic sounds. It was his gift for their anniversary. A little machine, with a single program built into it, but such a perfect execution that it could carry her away from the world where it was just a metal box with unfeeling gears and springs, and into a world where feelings were concrete things that touched her heart with velvet fingers and made her consciousness dance, floating in pure bliss.
She knew it was all a program, designed to satisfy her in every aspect, but what difference did it make? It was real. Their love was real. What did it matter if the love came from gears instead of a beating heart?
He was a lease. She knew that, without payment, they would take him away from her — Atlanta Inc. didn't fuck around. But she thought she could hide him, protect him. She didn't think they could reset him to factory settings.
He walked away and she melted into a pool of dark tears, and the music box plucked the last notes of their song.
