I feel itchy. My skin is crawling and bubbling, bulging with that foreign thing.

I need it.

I hate it.

I need it.

The woman stumbled through the rows of concrete, the polluted air stinging her lungs like thousands of needles as her once silky auburn hair fell to the ground in matted clumps. 

Some time ago, she was a beauty with a cult following, a woman who was known by all and loved by many. Girls envied her, following makeup trends named after her, surgeries modeled after her facial features. A capsule of the moment, said all the articles. Her eyes had a rare ability to captivate the braindead minds of the corporate workers that shilled every extra cent to her. 

Truly, it was a shame to all who tuned into her livestream to see her stagger and cough like a zombie, a secondary heart pulsing behind her own; the skin over her chest tearing and thinning with every doubled beat. Another pair of lungs drew in ragged breaths, breaking her ribcage into splintered daggers. How such a dove had fallen from grace wasn’t a mystery to the viewers, but a fascinating happenstance that so many other beauties had experienced.

What are you doing? Is this another sick joke to mess with me? I told you, I’m going to find a way to stop this.

She did this to herself. 

I can hear you, you know.

You’re speaking to your own creation here, Frankenstein.

I don’t need you. I can stop whenever I want. I will stop. You will stop.

You’re right, of course. It’s the other way around. You created something, and that something is what needs you. If you can stop, why don’t you put down the needle?

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

I will. Why don’t you refer to yourself, freak?

Go on then, put it down.

Answer the damn question.

Simple. There’s no “I” without “you”.

You’re…waiting until I die?

Maybe. Or waiting until birth.

Can they hear us?

They can hear your labored breathing, your double heart, your extra pair of feet slamming the ground as you run from yourself. But they can’t hear your thoughts.

And they can see me?

Oh yes, full view. They can see how you’re injecting yet another dose into yourself, and another. Didn’t you say you could stop?

I can.

Just do it then. What’s the hold up?

I hate you.

Okay.

I really, really hate you.

But you need another shot, don’t you?

…

Well, it seems you did.

Shut up.

It’s only observation.

Could you do it silently?

You know it’s almost time, right?

Are you scared?

Of course I am. Humans are scared of death. You should be too.

But you’re the only one who’s dying. Getting closer and closer, actually. You need company in these last moments, if you’re scared. Humans always liked hearing another voice, feeling someone else. 

Are you even fucking human?

It’s the same cells, same DNA, same genetic makeup. So, yes.

You talk like a fucking… some shitty AI.

Learning.

So you’re…what? A baby with the mind of an adult?

Do you really want to talk about such things when you’re about to die? 

Are you seriously doing another shot?

It feels so much better this way. This stupid, awful, cruel shot.

Hey.

…

Hey.

What?

Take a deep breath.

Are you…really trying to comfort me?

You’re going to need it.

I hate you. I hate it. This burns, it’s tearing me apart.

Yeah.

Wait. Why is your heart racing?! Why are you the one freaking out when I’m the one dying?! Wh-

You took a long time, and wasted all that breath. 

Alright, well, at least you don’t have that big of shoes to fill. But you sure did leave behind one big mess to clean up. All that blood and bits…well.

“Thank you, my friend.”