Freak - A Dark Medical Romance

“Wow,” Electra breathes. “They’re really spending some cash to fuck with my head, aren’t they?”

“This is to help you.”

“Sure it is,” she snorts. “Nobody gives a fuck about helping me.”

“I do.”

She looks at me. “Yeah, but you’re a freak.”

Good to know.

“So… we’re playing house?” She shakes her head. “I’d prefer a cell, I think.”

“Why’s that?”

“A cell would at least be familiar. This is just weird. I was born in a lab. I was raised by researchers. I wasn’t made for places like this. They just look strange to me. Why is there so much space?”

“Well, it’s for living in.”

“What do you mean… living in?”

“Well, the bedrooms are where we sleep, and then the kitchen is for cooking, and this area is called the living room or dining room or lounge, depending on furnishings.”

She scowls at me, and I know I’ve said something to offend her. “You don’t have to talk to me like I’m stupid. I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not stupid, but this is new to you, so it’s going to take some explaining.”

“I’m not interested. I don’t care how people live. I’m not people.”

“I’m pretty sure you are.”

I hate that the priority was to make a machine of war rather than let a girl live her life. I need another interview with the Head. I need to know exactly where Electra came from, and what was done to her. It’s not going to be easy to fix what has been broken, but it will be impossible to do it without knowing exactly what happened to her.

I wish I could say it was hard to believe that her life has been so strange, but I’ve seen enough to know that there’s no real limit to human depravity when it comes to matters of war. The weapons we make to unleash on one another are the most advanced things in our societies. Why should the soldiers we use to wield them be any different.

Electra is more than a broken soldier. She’s a woman. A human. And she’s had enough human interaction to be able to relate to me. That’s a good start. Not perfect, but we will get there.

We are going to have to start with basics. Manners. She doesn’t really have those. Every second word is a curse, and I’m not surprised. All she’s had to model after are soldiers and military scientists. Hardly good role models.

She opens the fridge. “A cold box for food,” she observes. “My food always came on metal or plastic trays. I never knew it came from cold boxes.”

“It’s called a fridge. Or refrigerator. It keeps food cold.”

“I just told you I’m not fucking stupid,” she snaps suddenly. “You don’t have to explain shit to me, I got it the first time from context. I said it was a cold food box, didn’t I?”

“Good,” I say calmly. “I don’t need the attitude though.”

“Well you’re gonna get it.”

“If I do, my hand is going to be meeting your bottom again.”

She rolls her eyes at me, pure rebellion sparking across her face. “I let you do that once because I was curious, but don’t mistake me, Doc, I decide when things happen to me.”

I bet she wishes that were true. She’s never been able to decide when anything happened to her.

I watch as she walks over to the oven, twists a knob and tries to put her hand on the element.

Electra

“No!”

His big hand closes around my wrist, yanks my hand away.

“What the fuck?”

“That gets really hot,” he says, pointing to the element which is starting to glow. “You could burn yourself.”

“So there’s a cold box and a fire box.”

“Oven,” he says.

I feel my face flush with heat. I really fucking hate that he’s explaining these things to me like I’m an idiot. I might not know what these things are, but so fucking what? I know other things, like twenty ways to kill a man with a toothpick.

I yank my hand out of his grip and shrug. “Yeah, whatever.”

“I thought I told you to cut that attitude out,” he reminds me, his voice getting deeper and sterner.

“I thought I told you to fuck off,” I snap back. It’s a reflex to be rude. I don’t even think about it, but the doctor doesn’t let it slide. He grabs my wrist, whips me around and his palm meets the tender seat of my ass hard. It doesn’t hurt. I mean, not compared to being thrown against a wall as punishment, but it’s enough of a bolt of pain to catch my attention.

“No cursing,” he says. “And moderate your tone. There’s no need to speak to me that way.”

I feel more heat rising in me. I don’t understand it. Why am I embarrassed? The confusion is enough to make me fall silent. I don’t want to explore this place anymore. I want to go back to what I know.