I Still Dream. James Smythe
wonder how readable mine is, already.
If my handwriting looks anything like my father’s.
Another email pings in, as I’m getting myself ready. I’m not wearing a skirt, I don’t care if Nadine kicks off. But I’m doing make-up, and I feel clumsy with it, like I’m not as good at this part as I should be, so I stop and wipe it off, thinking I’ll try again when I’ve read the email. But it’s not from Mark Ocean. It’s from Shawn. I can feel the heat from it – angry heat – before I even read the contents. Just a fury of words.
Jesus you stupid bitch, leave me alone. Why can’t you get the message? Stop writing to me, I’ve been trying to let you down easy but you won’t get the hint. It’s been a week since I emailed you, and you didn’t get it, so I am telling you to stop now, okay. I don’t know what’s wrong with you.
A week. But I’ve had emails from him the past few days. I open them, to check they’re real. I look at his email address.
It’s different. It’s just the name. They’re not from him at all.
The words in them. I know where I recognise them from. I wrote them into Organon. They’re the questions, the phrases. Rejigged, maybe, slightly. But they’re Organon’s words. I asked Organon for help with Mr Ryan. I told Organon I wanted Shawn to reply to me. Organon is programmed to do what I tell it to; to try to understand me.
To try to make me feel better.
I can see myself in the glare of the screen as I start Organon; as the off-white room appears, and the text box, inviting me to speak to it.
> Hello Laura. What would you like to talk about? it asks.
I don’t know how to even begin to reply.
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