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NBP COMPANY RECORDS

Personal Records

Bruno Ziegler, Founder. Personal records repository.
Last accessed: 23-08-2520

Files found: 05.
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Trigger Warnings: pregnancy, miscarriage, stillbirth and related topics.

MISSING SOMETHING

DATE: 09-11-2449

Prototypes for the first model are coming along. Not nicely, admittedly. We try, and try, but something is missing. She stands, then gives out immediately. She reads a poem, then tries to recite it and fails. I don't know what I'm doing wrong. Isolde is devastated.She looks beautiful. Pale, soft skin, black hair, sharp features, and yet it's all an empty vessel. She can't walk, she can't speak, she's a doll and I can't get her to move. I can't. I wind her up and let her dance and she just falls.Maybe this was all a mistake. We dumped so much money into this shit, chasing some idealistic dream. I'm a moron, and I thought I could play god. Who the fuck am I to pretend I could build a sentient being? It took me two tries to pass Ethics Applied to Positronics at uni.I can't bear to look at Isolde. She sits in front of this doll and holds her hand. She whispers things at her, when she thinks I'm not paying attention. I think she believes she can bring her to life, if she's just kind enough.I love her for that. I love her for many things, but the fact that she's willing to knit her love into a machine in hopes that it would work is beautiful.She's why I don't give up. Sure, I'll beat myself over it, but I won't give up. I won't.I'll give you your doll, my love.

ANOTHER MISCARRIAGE

DATE: 21-03-2450

We are bound to suffer, you and I.I try to give you a doll, to bring fortune to us, and I fail. I try to give you a child, to bring life to us, and I fail. Maybe it's stupid for me to consider this my fault. Sexist, in some way. But I can't not do that. I try, and I fail, and now I have to sit and watch you cry silently while you hold the doll's arm like it'll bring you comfort. And she stares blankly, and still refuses to speak.I fucking hate this. I hate your tears, I hate your sleepless nights, I hate how many pregnancy tests pile into the bin every week. I hate how hollow you've become. I cannot bear it. I sit here, pulling at this doll's innards like a mad surgeon, and nothing I do matters. Her brain sits there, whirring idly, unresponsive. I can't even be angry at her. She's clueless. She's swimming in a sea of black I can't pull her out from.I've asked friends, colleagues, experts. Maybe it's me, maybe I'm the issue. Maybe my hands are cursed, maybe God has placed death upon my fingers. Every time I think I've made progress, this doll shudders and dies once again.I'm tired. I'm tired of being a failure. I'm tired of Isolde's tears. I'm tired, and I'm scared.I'm scared of the thoughts that run through my mind when I watch her cocoon herself in her misery. Violent, horrible thoughts. I could program the doll to strangle us, to kill us and end this agony. I could open the airlock, I could shut off the oxygen. But those aren't the thoughts that frighten me most.I've been reading. The type of research that university libraries refuse to stock. I hope it won't come to this.

STILLBORN

Date: 12-01-2451

It breathed, in Isolde's arms, just once. And something broke in her expression. Something deep within her snapped.She is no longer the woman I knew. She stares at the wall of her room. She barely eats, barely sleeps. She cries, day and night, in a nigh-vegetative state.I can't help but feel like I've broken her, in one way or another. I can't help but feel this is my fault. I kept encouraging her, promising her we could do this together. I kept trying, and trying, and supporting her. And maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe I should've hurt her only once, told her this is impossible.I'm on the brink of madness. I look at our daughter, so horrendously still. Lifeless. Pale.Like a doll.

I AM A MONSTER

Date: 13-01-2451

God, forgive me.

MY DAUGHTER

Date: 20-01-2451

She lives.My daughter lives. Our daughter. Isolde has healed, like a miracle has been granted to us. She is tall, graceful, speaks with elegance, dances with my Isolde to Schubert's Serenade. And my Isolde smiles, laughs. These sounds fill my heart with joy. Despite the eyebags, the stained cheeks, the weakness in her knees, she hops with excitement and reads to the doll like she truly is her daughter.She can never know.She will never know.Of the sins I have cast upon myself. Of the blood that will never wash from my hands. I have sealed the doll's carapace so she may never find out. I will carry this burden until I die, or the guilt eats me alive. She works, and the second prototype based off her positronic works exactly the same. And the third, and the fourth. They waltz together, so elegant, but just seeing them makes my stomach churn.I am sorry, Isolde. I am a father, and I am a monster, and I have defied all that is holy. If you ever find out, please, don't blame yourself. Blame me. Blame me and how deeply I loved you. How much I loved you - to the point of eternal sin.