The three months since learning the reality of my priestess have passed very slowly. Perhaps something has broken with me that none of Oliver's sensors can diagnose, for my enthusiasm for the day, my optimism for tomorrow, has emptied. Without complaint, I feast on the plates of tofu and kale Oliver serves me. I don't grumble when Oliver urges me onto the elliptical machine. I accept whatever daily routine Oliver provides me. I know that I am only a clone, that I am but parts for my creator, that I am tissue and organ to be harvested so that Dr. Zito can live many years more in the enjoyment of his fine whiskeys, his cigars and his plates of succulent prime rib.
Should some stranger ask me, I would say that it's for the best that something has broken within me so that I no longer have difficulty in accepting the purpose for which I have been made. I no longer fear. I again sleep at night since my anxiety has vanished.
My computer monitor has been dark since my meeting with the truth composing my priestess. The magic is gone in that world of dragons and steel. Staring at the glowing screen for very long taxes my remaining eye and makes my head throb. I no longer wish to cultivate friendships with pixelated faces.
So I exercise when Oliver chimes to tell me it's time to climb atop that elliptical machine. I eat when Oliver delivers my meals.
And in between, I silently wait for Dr. Zito to suffer that emergency for which I know I have been created.
Oliver is checking my blood pressure when that emergency arrives. We hear Dr. Zito scream in the downstairs study, and we hear a bookcase crash a moment after something heavy thumps onto the floor. I know as well as Oliver that such a commotion announces the arrival of that heart attack or stroke the two of us have been expecting.
Oliver rushes out of my room, all his internal fans and servo-motors humming as he races to reach the fallen doctor. The silence that fills the mansion surprises me as I wait for Oliver to return to gather me for my harvest. It strikes me that Dr. Zito lives the life of a very lonely man. A wife does not shout for help to quickly arrive. Frightened children do not sob as they tremble at the sight of their fallen father. There is no one in such a large home filled with so many chambers who might place a frantic call to emergency services. He has only a robot and a clone to save him.
Soon enough, I hear Oliver's treads climbing the stairs. My time is at its end. I lean back upon my bed and wait to feel Oliver deliver that last needle pinch upon my arm.
Oliver's knock upon my door so surprises me that I choke for a breath.
"Ernie? It's Oliver."
"The door is unlocked."
The knob turns. The door opens. The six-armed robot rolls into my bedroom.
"Is it time, Oliver?"
Oliver pauses. I've never heard those internal fans spinning so loudly beneath the robot's plastic casing. Oliver's eye whirls and clicks.
"It is time, Ernie."
I extend my arm. Running will do no good. I have no place to go, and Oliver's arms would easily overpower me. The moment has come, and the sooner I feel that needle prick me, the sooner I can stop worrying about fear turning me into an idiot.
"I promise that everything will be fine, Ernie." Oliver's voice is, strangely, a whisper. "You will not feel a thing. I promise to take care of you."
"You always have."
Oliver delivers that sharp needle prick as skillfully as ever. The darkness arrives before I can think to count.