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Description
The woes of a husband. My wife sits next to me, and our hands are entwined in a tight and uncomfortable embrace. I am an anchor, apparently, and she’s about to drown. The adoption office is simple; a collection of chairs and a secretarial desk behind which a corpulent woman in crinkled tracksuit mutters under her breath while skimming the news on her computer. This is, as they call it, our ‘last resort.’

I have always wanted a child. It’s something I knew at age fifteen, which is a bit early to have that particular goal in life, but I digress. After numerous attempts with my wife of three years, we were tested, the both of us. I am fertile, but my wife does not produce any eggs. She goes through a period, but no eggs. A pity, for I was at a loss until the idea spawned upon me; adoption.

Mary is nervous. I am not. The paper I hold in my non-numb hand denotes my future child as thirteen years of age, healthy, and a boy. I always wanted a son, but I had no qualms about a daughter either. I know Mary feels vice versa-but that is not the reason she is nervous, and as I glance around it finally dawns on me the precise reason she grips my hand so tightly.

This place is barren. The rest of the chairs are empty and covered in dust. The window is cracked. The secretary looks like she’ll keel over at any moment, and if I listen closely enough I can hear what she’s saying--”Creeping creepers creep like the cretins they are over the carapace of the cantankerous cacophony of cicadas-”

I, too, start to feel a nervousness, centered in my bowels.

“Creepy crawlies-Ms. Havisham!” The secretary cried. Havisham-that’s my last name. Mary is on her feet and I’m up not long after. Creepy corpulence waves us over and I shift in my shoes standing in front of her desk, her slanted eyes glazing over us both in gelatinous creep.

“You’re the crew wishing to confiscate one ‘Galvin Rossier’ from our accounts?” I nod, and a clipboard is slapped down like lightning striking between us. If possible, Mary’s grip has gotten even tighter. “Sign your credentials on the certificate.” I skimmed what lay before me, but my wife was too focused on a blue stain marking that horrendous tracksuit. I saw her fingers twitch towards it once or twice out of the corner of my eye. The certificate was just that; a certificate of ownership. I mean, parenthood-no, it quite literally said ‘Certificate of Ownership’ at the top.

I wonder how we got here, in this desolate and most certainly shady adoption center.

“Excuse me.” I said, pointing to the title of the document. “What does it mean, ownership?” The woman wasn’t paying attention, but her left hand pointed towards a sign that loomed above us like a prophecy.

“Golem’s Galore.”

“That doesn’t really answer-”

“You signing or not?” She snipped, and I scribbled my name as swiftly as I could before she snatched it away and shoved it unceremoniously into a drawer. “Down the hall, take a left. Hal will be your connector.” I would have asked what kind of a job denoted a title such as ‘connector’ but Mary was already moving. It was palpable, the way her nervousness was shifting from butterflies in her belly to electricity in her earlobes; she was excited now. Excited at the prospect of being a mother, showing maternal compassion, of giving her child a hand with their homework, dating advice, taking them to prom, filling out a college application...I felt the same way.

Hal was monotone and dreary, with a starch white pair of pants and a gray scrub to match his sunken eyes and sallow cheeks. We met him outside of a room, and he asked for our names before he opened the door for us.

“Galvin.” He spoke, as we followed him inside. “Your owners are here.”

In a white wooden chair, with hands on his knees and back straight as a board, sat a boy with jet black hair and closed eyes. Those eyes opened the moment we showed up behind Hal, and I was startled by the magenta color of his iris. He did not speak, staring blankly forward at Hal. The ‘connector’ walked over and stood directly in front of our thirteen year old, and spoke again.

“Reboot, all protocols. Standard slate. Golem, on, respond; Galvin Rossier.”

“Nah.” The first ‘word’ I heard spoken by my son. It was more of an utterance. Hal turned back around and conjured a thick, contrasting black book out of nowhere before handing it to my wife. He spun back around without explanation, holding out one spindly finger towards Mary.

“Galvin Rossier, designate female “Mary Graham Havisham” as ‘Mother.’” Galvins eyes focused on Mary for a few seconds before he uttered another ‘Nah.’ Hal took the book from Mary, handing it to me, and then repeated the pointing. “Galvin Rossier, designate male “David Absalom Havisham” as ‘Father.’”

Once more, “Nah.”

Hal turned to us and took the book back.

“This is your manual. It contains command codes specific to your unit. Do not attempt to use these codes upon other units; it may have dis coordinating results. The password can be set, now.”

“P-Password?” Mary stuttered, finally able to speak. Hal’s thousand yard stare pivoted to her.

“The password is used to prevent non-administrators from interfering with system protocols.” He paused, and we just stared. He sighed; the most human thing I believed he had ever done. “Shall I set the password for you?” I nodded, dumbly.

“Password, set; ‘Harbinger.’” He left, and we were left standing in a room with a boy who might as well have been a robot.

Mary approached first. I held back.

“Galvin?” She asked, kneeling down and placing her hand over his. He did not move, but his eyes traveled down to meet hers. “Galvin, sweety, are you alright?”

No response.

“Come on, baby, talk to me.”

Galvins eyes floated back up towards me-namely, the book I held in my hand. To this day I still don’t know if he knew what he was indirectly ushering me to do, but I don’t think he did. The manual I held was like his mother, his real, non-living mother. I moved without think, opening the book I held in my hands and pausing on the first page. As Mary continued her fruitless attempts to get Galvin to speak, much less focus on her, I skimmed the words and frowned.

“Programmable Syndrome.” I read, aloud.

“What?”

“That’s what it says.” I walked over, glancing up at Galvin to gauge his reaction, but there was none. I kneeled next to Mary, pointing at the page. Her eyes moved faster than my own, and she cupped a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, god.”

It was detailed, just on that first page, exactly what a ‘Golem’ was. Programmable Syndrome was not rare by any stretch, but it was not publicized. Children were identified to have this incurable mental disability mere minutes out of the womb, and depending on whether the mother wanted to deal with the strenuous lifestyle that came with a child who was literally ‘programmable,’ they kept the baby or it was sent here. This was a store for those who wanted a one hundred percent compliant, obedient, commandable human being.

A stop and shop for life itself.

“Golem’s Galore”

With this realization came a few tears, but not my own; Mary was taking it as a shock while I took it dumbly and bemused. I would have kept reading, but Mary snatched the book from my hands and scanned the index before flipping pages and arriving at a section called ‘The Basics.’

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” She snapped, though it was not anger directed at me; it was frustration with the world. Denied a child by her own body, and now given a Golem as a substitute? Pitiable, by even the lowest scum. “G-Galvin.” She said, mouthing the words before she spoke them. “Activate procedure; Follow.” She paused, biting her lip, and staring up at those magenta eyes. “Harbinger.”

“Nah.” The utterance came. The child stood up, and both of us did as well. He was a little under five feet, tall for a thirteen year old.

“‘Nah’ is a confirmation.” Mary read aloud. “‘Dah’ is disagreement; whatever command has been spoken violates protocol or a previous order.” She wiped her nose and sniffed, then slapped the book shut. She shook with conviction. “David.”

“Yes?” She stepped towards me, grabbing my hand and holding it tight enough to restrict blood flow.

“We’re going to raise him.” Her voice cracked with every word. “We’re going to ra-aise him as our son, and w-we’re going to do th-the best damn job anyone’s done-ever!” With an exclamation she collapsed into me, sobbing. I rested my head on her’s, rubbing her back and whispering “shh, shh,” gently. I glanced at Galvin. He stood stock straight, like someone would after years of training in the army. He didn’t even glance at us.

My life would never be the same.

Description
The woes of a husband. My wife sits next to me, and our hands are entwined in a tight and uncomfortable embrace. I am an anchor, apparently, and she’s about to drown. The adoption office is simple; a collection of chairs and a secretarial desk behind which a corpulent woman in crinkled tracksuit mutters under her breath while skimming the news on her computer. This is, as they call it, our ‘last resort.’

I have always wanted a child. It’s something I knew at age fifteen, which is a bit early to have that particular goal in life, but I digress. After numerous attempts with my wife of three years, we were tested, the both of us. I am fertile, but my wife does not produce any eggs. She goes through a period, but no eggs. A pity, for I was at a loss until the idea spawned upon me; adoption.

Mary is nervous. I am not. The paper I hold in my non-numb hand denotes my future child as thirteen years of age, healthy, and a boy. I always wanted a son, but I had no qualms about a daughter either. I know Mary feels vice versa-but that is not the reason she is nervous, and as I glance around it finally dawns on me the precise reason she grips my hand so tightly.

This place is barren. The rest of the chairs are empty and covered in dust. The window is cracked. The secretary looks like she’ll keel over at any moment, and if I listen closely enough I can hear what she’s saying--”Creeping creepers creep like the cretins they are over the carapace of the cantankerous cacophony of cicadas-”

I, too, start to feel a nervousness, centered in my bowels.

“Creepy crawlies-Ms. Havisham!” The secretary cried. Havisham-that’s my last name. Mary is on her feet and I’m up not long after. Creepy corpulence waves us over and I shift in my shoes standing in front of her desk, her slanted eyes glazing over us both in gelatinous creep.

“You’re the crew wishing to confiscate one ‘Galvin Rossier’ from our accounts?” I nod, and a clipboard is slapped down like lightning striking between us. If possible, Mary’s grip has gotten even tighter. “Sign your credentials on the certificate.” I skimmed what lay before me, but my wife was too focused on a blue stain marking that horrendous tracksuit. I saw her fingers twitch towards it once or twice out of the corner of my eye. The certificate was just that; a certificate of ownership. I mean, parenthood-no, it quite literally said ‘Certificate of Ownership’ at the top.

I wonder how we got here, in this desolate and most certainly shady adoption center.

“Excuse me.” I said, pointing to the title of the document. “What does it mean, ownership?” The woman wasn’t paying attention, but her left hand pointed towards a sign that loomed above us like a prophecy.

“Golem’s Galore.”

“That doesn’t really answer-”

“You signing or not?” She snipped, and I scribbled my name as swiftly as I could before she snatched it away and shoved it unceremoniously into a drawer. “Down the hall, take a left. Hal will be your connector.” I would have asked what kind of a job denoted a title such as ‘connector’ but Mary was already moving. It was palpable, the way her nervousness was shifting from butterflies in her belly to electricity in her earlobes; she was excited now. Excited at the prospect of being a mother, showing maternal compassion, of giving her child a hand with their homework, dating advice, taking them to prom, filling out a college application...I felt the same way.

Hal was monotone and dreary, with a starch white pair of pants and a gray scrub to match his sunken eyes and sallow cheeks. We met him outside of a room, and he asked for our names before he opened the door for us.

“Galvin.” He spoke, as we followed him inside. “Your owners are here.”

In a white wooden chair, with hands on his knees and back straight as a board, sat a boy with jet black hair and closed eyes. Those eyes opened the moment we showed up behind Hal, and I was startled by the magenta color of his iris. He did not speak, staring blankly forward at Hal. The ‘connector’ walked over and stood directly in front of our thirteen year old, and spoke again.

“Reboot, all protocols. Standard slate. Golem, on, respond; Galvin Rossier.”

“Nah.” The first ‘word’ I heard spoken by my son. It was more of an utterance. Hal turned back around and conjured a thick, contrasting black book out of nowhere before handing it to my wife. He spun back around without explanation, holding out one spindly finger towards Mary.

“Galvin Rossier, designate female “Mary Graham Havisham” as ‘Mother.’” Galvins eyes focused on Mary for a few seconds before he uttered another ‘Nah.’ Hal took the book from Mary, handing it to me, and then repeated the pointing. “Galvin Rossier, designate male “David Absalom Havisham” as ‘Father.’”

Once more, “Nah.”

Hal turned to us and took the book back.

“This is your manual. It contains command codes specific to your unit. Do not attempt to use these codes upon other units; it may have dis coordinating results. The password can be set, now.”

“P-Password?” Mary stuttered, finally able to speak. Hal’s thousand yard stare pivoted to her.

“The password is used to prevent non-administrators from interfering with system protocols.” He paused, and we just stared. He sighed; the most human thing I believed he had ever done. “Shall I set the password for you?” I nodded, dumbly.

“Password, set; ‘Harbinger.’” He left, and we were left standing in a room with a boy who might as well have been a robot.

Mary approached first. I held back.

“Galvin?” She asked, kneeling down and placing her hand over his. He did not move, but his eyes traveled down to meet hers. “Galvin, sweety, are you alright?”

No response.

“Come on, baby, talk to me.”

Galvins eyes floated back up towards me-namely, the book I held in my hand. To this day I still don’t know if he knew what he was indirectly ushering me to do, but I don’t think he did. The manual I held was like his mother, his real, non-living mother. I moved without think, opening the book I held in my hands and pausing on the first page. As Mary continued her fruitless attempts to get Galvin to speak, much less focus on her, I skimmed the words and frowned.

“Programmable Syndrome.” I read, aloud.

“What?”

“That’s what it says.” I walked over, glancing up at Galvin to gauge his reaction, but there was none. I kneeled next to Mary, pointing at the page. Her eyes moved faster than my own, and she cupped a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, god.”

It was detailed, just on that first page, exactly what a ‘Golem’ was. Programmable Syndrome was not rare by any stretch, but it was not publicized. Children were identified to have this incurable mental disability mere minutes out of the womb, and depending on whether the mother wanted to deal with the strenuous lifestyle that came with a child who was literally ‘programmable,’ they kept the baby or it was sent here. This was a store for those who wanted a one hundred percent compliant, obedient, commandable human being.

A stop and shop for life itself.

“Golem’s Galore”

With this realization came a few tears, but not my own; Mary was taking it as a shock while I took it dumbly and bemused. I would have kept reading, but Mary snatched the book from my hands and scanned the index before flipping pages and arriving at a section called ‘The Basics.’

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” She snapped, though it was not anger directed at me; it was frustration with the world. Denied a child by her own body, and now given a Golem as a substitute? Pitiable, by even the lowest scum. “G-Galvin.” She said, mouthing the words before she spoke them. “Activate procedure; Follow.” She paused, biting her lip, and staring up at those magenta eyes. “Harbinger.”

“Nah.” The utterance came. The child stood up, and both of us did as well. He was a little under five feet, tall for a thirteen year old.

“‘Nah’ is a confirmation.” Mary read aloud. “‘Dah’ is disagreement; whatever command has been spoken violates protocol or a previous order.” She wiped her nose and sniffed, then slapped the book shut. She shook with conviction. “David.”

“Yes?” She stepped towards me, grabbing my hand and holding it tight enough to restrict blood flow.

“We’re going to raise him.” Her voice cracked with every word. “We’re going to ra-aise him as our son, and w-we’re going to do th-the best damn job anyone’s done-ever!” With an exclamation she collapsed into me, sobbing. I rested my head on her’s, rubbing her back and whispering “shh, shh,” gently. I glanced at Galvin. He stood stock straight, like someone would after years of training in the army. He didn’t even glance at us.

My life would never be the same.