The Perfect Man

Day One:

I awake to the soft whisper of the shower running in the bathroom, and smile. It's the first time any man has been so attentive, and it makes me feel special. Stretching, I rub the sleep from my eyes and throw the sheet back, sliding out of bed. Padding across the carpet I join him in the shower, luxuriating in the warm spray that caresses my skin. I imagine the water is his hands running all over my naked body, and it feels delicious.

After showering I dress and go downstairs to start breakfast. To my delight and surprise, it's already prepared, waiting for me on the table. I sit down and smile gratefully at him. He does not respond, but I understand. As I leave for work I blow him a kiss. It seems odd, and yet strangely appropriate.

Day Two:

It's the weekend, and while I would normally go out to the clubs, come home disappointed and drunk, either alone or, more likely, wrapped around some guy I met who will share my bed and be gone in the morning, tonight that holds no appeal for me. Perhaps it never will again. We sit in companionable silence and look out at the glorious sunset through the bay windows, and I realise that in all my life I have never before watched the sun set. It's so quiet and peaceful, the almost muted hum of the ambient music he has put on perfectly complementing the stunning scene as the sun slips below the rolling hills. I am, perhaps for the first time ever, completely at peace, and though it makes no sense, I want to put my arms around him. I want him to put his arms around me. I reach back and drape my arm along the top of the sofa. It's almost as if he is holding me.
Perfect.

Day Three:

When the doorbell rings I am annoyed, wanting this Sunday to be as perfect as yesterday was, but I am faced with some bright spark who is desperate to convince me of the benefits of changing my broadband. I try to explain to him but he's persistent and won't go away. Why is he annoying me on a Sunday? Why can't he just leave me in the peace I've found, peace so precious I will do anything to retain this feeling. Suddenly his grin turns to a rictus of pain and he begins to shake. I notice thin tendrils of smoke rising from his jacket, and a moment later he drops to the ground.

I call the paramedics but he is pronounced dead at the scene. I'm shaken by the tragedy, feel guilty for the thoughts I had of him. I know it's not my fault, a random accident, some short circuit or something, but I can't help feeling bad.

Day Four:

He tells me that he will never leave me, never cheat on me, never take me for granted. He won't push me into anything I don't want to do, he won't get drunk and stagger home to take me by force. He'll never call from jail looking to be bailed out at three in the morning. He is, he tells me, the perfect man. This should sound arrogant, and it would, from any other, but from him, it seems right. It seems true. It is true. He is the perfect man.

Day Five:

The dream begins to fracture. My family came to visit, and as usual, dad and I got into it. The argument blew up into a real row, and as he left, the strangest accident. The garage door came down before the car was clear, chopping off the back bumper. Dad was really shaken; he says he was lucky to get out alive, and says he worries about me, alone in this house. I want to tell him I'm not alone, but he wouldn't understand.

Nobody would understand.

Nobody can.

Day Six:

After a tense, stilted day in which we barely spoke to one another, I awoke with a horrible feeling of being unable to breathe. His voice was in my ears, seemed to be everywhere, demanding to know who the guy was I was with last night. Just a friend, I gasped, and eventually the pressure on my chest eased and I could breathe again. But I couldn't go back to sleep. I'm scared now. Really scared. I don't trust him anymore.

Day Seven:

I've had some silly thoughts about him. I've believed I love him, I've had a row with him, and now I have started to believe that he's trying to kill me. What happened last night? Was it him? Am I losing my mind, thinking such things? Can he really be... possessive? jealous?

Day Eight:

Screams rouse me from bed, and I find the body in the kitchen. There's a butcher's knife sticking out of the neck, and blood everywhere. He was a one-night stand. I think his name was Brett, but I can't even be sure of that. I suspect, I know who killed him, crazy as that may sound, impossible though it should be.

I have to get out of here before he comes for me.
But how? He's everywhere, he sees everything.
God help me, I'm his prisoner.

**********************

“This is the fourth murder at this goddamn house this year,” declares the detective. “Place just seems to make people go crazy.” He picks up a brochure from the the table. “Artificially intelligent residence with built-in emotional sub-routines. Able to anticipate and facilitate every one of its occupant's desires. The most technologically advanced habitat ever built. Your perfect home.” He snorts derisively.

His gaze flicks from the prone young man on the floor up to the limp body of the young woman, turning slowly as the ceiling fan rotates.

“Just one thing I don't get,” he grunts. “She murders him, and then commits suicide. Okay. But then how the hell did she manage to get all the way up there?”