(Emily’s P.O.V)

I watch Andrew Lawson out of the corner of my eye as he lies practically motionless on his bed, a chapter book in his right hand. His strange, honey coloured eyes skim across the pages, but I’m pretty sure his mind isn’t on the story. I wonder what’s wrong with him. I wonder why he’s so distant.

I think I know.

Andrew catches me staring and shifts amongst his bed covers awkwardly. He says nothing. I turn away, my cheeks going red and focus on the task at hand. It’s evening now, well after dinner, and I’m in need of food. My constantly aching body is getting way too thin for me to forget my nightly feeds. Head spinning, I rise from my bed and cross the room quickly to fetch my IV pole. I know Andrew is watching me now, just as intently as I’d been watching him. I try to ignore it. Living with Gastroparesis is a terrible, painful procedure. It’s embarrassing.

My fingers move expertly to the mini fridge beside me and I kneel down, grabbing a bag of my usual premade nutrient liquids. This brand is an ugly brown/green colour that smells of vomit and looks literally just as bad. I hook the bag up on the pole and connect it to my NJ tube, before flicking on the machine. I feel my stomach contract and gurgle as the liquid is forced in. It’s cold, from being in the fridge and as usual, I feel it as it runs down the pole and inside me.

My stomach has been like this since I can remember. The last time I had a proper meal and enjoyed the feeling of having a functioning stomach was three years ago. The last thing I ate was a small bowl of ice-cream last week, which was promptly sucked back out via my tube. My stomach doesn’t digest food properly, so I can’t orally eat anymore. It’s complicated to describe. Maybe I should just leave it there, for my own sake.

“Does it hurt?” Andrew asks suddenly, as I wheel the IV pole connected to my tube back to bed. I wince at the question out of habit, remembering the countless surgeries, hospitalizations and pain I’ve had.

“No.” I say. If Andrew can lie about who he is, then so can I. And I know who he is. Andrew nods once and his eyes skim back to his book. I bend down a little so I can see the cover. “Why are you reading ‘Building Robots for Dummies’?” I ask, ignoring the whirring sounds coming from my IV. Andrew rests the book on his stomach and shrugs.

“I guess I just like building things.” He says.

“Oh.”

I lie down in bed and turn to one side, using my free hand to tug my doona over my thin body. As I close my eyes I can feel my stomach protesting against the liquid it’s receiving. It can’t digest it, but what I’m getting is liquid nutrients, so it doesn’t get digested anyways. As usual, my stomach bulges out from the sudden amount of food. The feeds are all that keep me from starving to death.

“Is your sister okay now?” Andrew asks seriously, placing the book on his bedside table. I roll over so I face him as he stares up at the ceiling with both hands over his belly. His eyes don’t meet mine.

“Why do you need to know?” I counter, narrowing my eyes. Why do I get the feeling he’s the one? I mean… he looks identical to the Andrew Lawson that dated my sister… and sent her to a mental facility in Sydney. She only recently got discharged, actually. The doctors had told my family that she’d been tainted by visions of Andrew’s head coming off and a smaller version of him emerging from the larger being’s neck. They dubbed her insane for over a year, before they realised that Andrew Lawson (who’d proceeded to literally vanish from the school’s records after the incident) was in fact, a mental problem with a legitimate list of symptoms.

It’s got to be him. I think.

“It’s up to you whether you wanna tell me.” Andrew mumbles.

“Good. Because I don’t want to tell you.”

He nods and shuts his eyes, flicking off the light. The room is enveloped in darkness, the only light coming from the moon, peeking through the curtains. I lean my head back against my pillow and stare at it. My IV rumbles and whirs every so often.

Using the faint moonlight, I reach across for my duffel bag and pinch the corner of a photograph. I raise it to my face. It’s the same photo, the one I’ve only recently grown interested in. It’s why I know who Andrew Lawson really is.

The photo is of my sister and her old boyfriend, the guy, Andrew, who got her shipped off to the mental institute.

And if you look close enough, the thirteen year old in the photo is an exact replica of the older Andrew who lies still in the bed beside mine, sleeping.

Who are you, Andrew Lawson?

~

(Andrew’s P.O.V)

So many questions run through my head as Emily rolls over to sleep.

 Is it safe?

Does she know about me?

Is Megan okay?

Should I risk it?

My stomach rumbles in protest. I’m hungry. Starving, actually. Emily’s kitchen stocks nothing but her bags of IV fluid. Maybe there’s something in the lower cupboards. My cursed self can sneak inside the kitchen undetected, as I always do by night. It’s the only opportunity I get to stretch my legs and be myself… oh yeah, and actually eat something. My exterior isn’t yet able to capacitate real food. When I date a girl, I have to make sure we don’t go out for dinner or anything. Otherwise I’d be majorly screwed.

I pace back and forth across the darkened control room, the only light coming from the tiniest cracks in the windows of Andrew Jr.’s eyelids. I fold my arms and tug the sleeves of my navy sweater over my hands. Should you risk it, Andrew? I decide to wait a little while for Emily to fall asleep before leaving my exterior. I sit down glumly back into the controller’s seat and bring my legs to my chest. Stupid Emily and her stupid brain. Why can’t she make it any less obvious that she knows something? Does she know what it feels like to hide behind the body of something else? Does she know what it feels like to stay cooped up in the cockpit of a robot’s head all day, without eating, drinking or even moving from a chair?

I highly doubt that.

I undo the laces of my sneakers, wait a few seconds and then tie them back up. I force my eyes to stay open. Minutes drain by at a painfully slow rate. I can practically hear the sharp ticking of a clock in my head. Andrew Jr. has already been set to his ‘Night-time Mode’, which basically just programs him to breathe in an artificially but somewhat normal way, as you’d do normally in sleep. If I were in bed with a chick and my exterior had neither a heartbeat or the ability to even breathe, than I think the girl would be a tad suspicious. It’s why I take massive precautions.

It’s just past two at night when I finally deem it safe to leave my exterior. Emily’s breathing has become laboured and despite the constant whirring of her IV pole, I know she’s out with the fairies. By this time, my stomach no longer rumbles. Hunger has passed over quickly, replaced by a dull throb inside. I’m tired.

“Time to go, then.” I say under my breath, rubbing my hands together. I rise from my seat and mash my palm into one of the many buttons in the control room. There’s a faint hissing from below me and a bright light fills my peripheral vision. I pray to god that Emily is a heavy sleeper. The noise Andrew Jr.’s head makes when it’s removed from his body is pretty soft but it’s the light that scares people. I hope my hearing’s right and she actually is asleep…

The light fades from the level below me and I slip downstairs to exit my exterior. It’s always felt weird, after being an interior for so long to venture outside into the real world. I just wish if didn’t have to be that way. Andrew Jr.’s neck has practically detached from his body. When I step outside onto the expanse of the bed, I stare across at the exposed section of my exterior, where the neck and head are connected by thick steel clamps. Pipes and wires run down through Andrew Jr.’s body, all connected to the control room. It’s how my robot self functions.

I take a minute to study my surroundings with my own eyes, rather than the glass ones belonging to my exterior before I begin walking across the bed. My legs sink into the soft mattress with each step. Without my exterior, everything is without a doubt giant. Mist’s curse has trapped me as a three and a half inch tall teenager, so creating Andrew Jr. was really my only option. I can’t even trek across a house without him.

No one’s ever seen my true self, my tiny guy self. Apart from those second long introductions with my ‘girlfriends’, that is. It’d be a whole lot easier to have a decent conversation with someone if I was to use my own mouth for sure, but the thing is… being this size is embarrassing. It’s easier for me to pretend I’m normal and live in a robot than face the facts. It’s just how I’ve adapted.

I leap off the edge of the bed expertly, falling for at least a five storey height before landing in a crouch amongst the carpet, which comes up to my ankles. I feel it scratching irritably against my skin as I make my way across the giant proportioned room to the kitchen. I don’t really mind, though.

I’m free.

The air is clean and crisp, unlike the metal scented, smoky air I receive from inside my exterior’s carcass. I can feel the ground beneath my feet.

I can stand.

I can walk around without worrying about people seeing me, or screaming.

I can run.

Feeling giddy, I begin sprinting across the carpet, ignoring the loud whirring of Emily’s IV in the background. I relish the cool night air that brushes against my face. I spread my arms wide and tear along the ground, allowing my usually tuned in, alert mind to let go.

Freedom is my reward for the countless amount of effort I’ve put into finding love. I only get to leave Andrew Jr. at night, so I never fail to make it count. The moon silhouettes my small frame as I jog the long distance to the kitchen. Everything’s bigger and considerably further away at my interior’s scale. At my scale. Running from the base of the bed to the kitchen takes at least three or four minutes.

I can already picture food in my mind. Canned or fresh, I don’t care. As long as it fills me up and isn’t a bitch to open (like stuff that requires a can opener), I’m easy. I find myself thinking about food throughout my entire jog. I concentrate so, so hard that I don’t even notice the yawn in the background. Or the largely amplified creak of the springs on a bed. I don’t notice the shadow that passes over me, or the exclamation of shock.

But, like in every other situation, I notice the scream.

“What the heck?!?!” Emily yells.