Red Mary (Literary Science Fiction)

Red Mary's Log: One

The seventeenth cut, as expected, the result is the same as always. No blood. The knife is spoiled and coloured a deep red, my healing has more work to do. My ability to feel pain has since dulled and there's little response towards my wrist area; it has now become a low priority section of my body due to constant conscious self-harm.

This is the three hundred and sixty fifth day that I have reminded myself I am not human.

Entry 1: Annual Parturition Day

At 6 am yesterday morning, seven past to be precise.

Dr. Eliot: Wake up Mary, it's your birthday!

Red Mary: ...Birthday?

Dr. Eliot: Yes! One glorious year since I built you!

Red Mary: I remember.

Dr. Eliot: I'm so excited! I have the best present EVER to give to you, you'll be overjoyed.

My eyes were almost blinded by the bright sunlight through library windows, but I could tell it was Dr Eliot who had woken me up, no doubt wearing his usual ruffled lab coat, black suit, and warm smile. With the softness of his voice and light bouncing off of the silver streak running along his short black hair, it was difficult to deny it was him. The healthy, scruffy features of the person who gave me life. My father.

I noticed I was still sitting with a book of musings from a long dead philosopher held in my hands. I came to the conclusion that I must have fallen asleep in the library, I was utterly engrossed by the book and had no desire to go to bed, however my body decided to get the better of me, and my comfy sofa by the window aided its crafty plan to put me to sleep. The library was neat and tidy as I had left it the day before; I made a full check to make sure, just as I always do. Two thousand books, fifty paintings, twelve plants, large double-glazed windows that presented me with a wide open view of the rest of the courtyard of my mansion. I'm very sensitive to sound, any disturbance can wake me up. He didn't have to shout.

I became lost in thought about the concept of the birthday, in the case of the word "birthday" the root word "birth" refers to parturition, that is, the act or process of bringing forth offspring. I'm no-one's offspring. Not biologically anyway. Being created in a lab fails to suffice. When I was reborn into the world, the doctor said he had to carefully craft my body practically from scratch, he said that my soul was the only thing that truly passed over from my past life, but that my soul was the only thing that mattered. In that case. What are we celebrating? And why? I'd continue to ask questions over the various months about what I was, but the explanations always confused me. My soul? So how old was I then? This body has been around for one year, however my soul was alive for we don't know how long, not to mention that it floated in limbo on top of that. I'm still confused. If one happens to extract this diary entry from my brain and start reading it from here, I'd imagine it'd be quite confusing following what I'm thinking about, limbo, souls, life, "what is Red Mary talking about?" they'd ask themselves when reading through this archive of monotonous entries.

Dr. Eliot: Oh dear, there you go again. The moment I say something about your birthday you fall into your own little world.

Red Mary: I'm just... thinking Doctor. I heard everything you said.

Dr. Eliot: Thinking? Interesting... Well then I hope you'll be in good form for the banquet at eight this evening. All of my colleagues will be here to wish you a happy birthday.

Red Mary: Very well Doctor. What shall I do in the meantime?

Dr. Eliot: Whatever you want Mary – you seem to be enjoying your book. The library is yours for the day.