The Human Pet: A Sci-Fi Romance

Part 22

Tarak

My sweet innocent pet is curled up in my bed. I pull the blanket from her. Her hair looks a bit tangled (or maybe it is because she has spent the entire day with her head on a pillow and under blankets.)

Ever since her accident, I have a burning need. This need is worse than any itch I have ever had. I must check and recheck her for injuries. Maybe that's why I give her the pain medication the moment I arrive home.

I wrap her in a blanket and force the pill-laced berry into her mouth. Her eyes flash at me in defiance and she fights to get out of my grip, but I keep hold of her. I clamp her mouth shut and I keep massaging her throat. Her eyes glisten.

I keep hold of her until she swallows and goes limp in my arms. Knowing my pet is asleep in my arms means she won't get hurt, which soothes me.

I take her to the bath and after rinsing her, I start the process by checking and rechecking her. Only after I scrutinize every patch of skin am I satisfied; no new injuries and only then do I take her from the bath and to the bed.

I settle her in the bed, wrapping a sheet around her and holding her to my chest.

My wall unit chimes with a distinctive sound, a whistling noise. I move my arm to receive the message, which is a notification about the delivery of 10 boxes of sutures to a particular room on the Hydra.

Why am I receiving messages about the delivery of medical supplies? This must be another glitch in my wall unit. I hold my hand in the air, ready to close it.

My pet mumbles. Even though the medication should have long subdued my pet, her eyelashes flutter and her eyes focus on the wall.

I move my arm, getting rid of the message, and then I clap, shutting off the wall unit. We're in darkness and ready for sleep.

Except clapping sounds come from my pet and the wall re-illuminates. The annoying message I had closed reappears.

Red words flash on the wall: Warning: Three sutures delivered to room 510. This room does not have any medical or vet practices registered.

What? I shut off the wall unit, but once again my pet undoes my work, and the wall unit reilluminates. Those red words flash at me. This mimicking thing she does is cute, but it's time for sleep.

I grab her wrists so that she can't move them and give a verbal order to my wall unit: shut off.

"Should the program—Monitoring Medical Supplies—continue to run?" asks the wall unit.

What program? Is this another glitch? I don't understand how my wall unit works, so since I don't want to accidentally shut off the alarm in the morning or other vital functions, I tell the wall unit to leave the program alone but turn off the bright screen so we can sleep.

She's still trying to free her hands and play more of that mimicking game.

"No more games, pet," I say, cocooning her in my arms. Pressed against my chest and with my arms holding her tight, she should not be able to get her hands free.

Either the medication starts to work, or she tires because her breathing slows and soon, I feel the tiny huffs of her breath on my chest. My pet is healthy and safe. Finally, I can let myself sleep.