Why Robert Jones took his mother out to the shed and torched her up, only I know. As a neighbour you pick on certain things. It’s probably because you see them everyday, that you pick up their schedule. Robert Jones lived in the next to me in a two story, turn of the century that matched mine. Our houses were the only ones on the street that hadn’t had any work done. We boasted that we were just a fan of original features, but the truth was that neither of us had the money or inclination to update it.
Robert Jones would always take the bins out on Friday evening, where we usually exchanged a smile, but something was different this day. His smile was faded, his eyes sunken in. His grey visage forced me to ask after his wellbeing and he confided in me that it was his Mother. Or rather, his Moth3r model. He told me that he had meant to take her in for an upgrade but hadn’t gotten around to it. Now it was out of warranty. He laughed when he said this, though I found it hard to believe him. At thirty, he had over twenty years to upgrade. I could only believe he never intended to upgrade, that was the problem.
She was now stuck on set phrases that she would repeat in an offbeat mechanical manner. Her voice fading in and out.
I experienced it myself a week later when I stopped by for lunch.
“Don’t for-forget to brush-ush your teeth.”
Smiling, I replied that I already had. She mirrored my response, her gums opening and flashing her pearly whites. She exited the room and turned the lights off. The teeth, doubling as a night light, illuminated and Robert sighed. Resigned, he got up and switched the lights back on. The dim lemon light slowly bloomed brighter, causing Moth3r to float back into the kitchen.
“It’s past your bedtime, a long deep sleep means good sweet dreams,” she giggled, at least I believe that was her intent, as it sounded more like a screw grinding in a mixer.
He sighed once more and got up. He gently led her out of the room, looking at her with genuine affection and exhaustion. I didn’t see what happened after, where he put her, but he wasn’t gone long. He looked relieved when he came back, if half asleep as he didn’t recognise me at first. He shook his head and apologised.
“I’m sorry about that, her mind takes her places where it’s hard to get back.”
I didn’t feel right to push the issue and so we didn’t speak on it further. I’ll admit that I wanted to pry and ask why he didn’t upgrade, at least to the housework model, but I knew then that I’d never be able to understand. Instead we spoke about superficial matters; the weather, the apples in Fran’s orchard and the pesky fox that has taken to howling in my garden searching for a mate. It was on one such incident that the incident occurred.
The vixen had once again kept me awake, perhaps I was jealous of her amorous intentions. I looked at my empty bed, disgruntled, before turning my attention to the window. In hopes to catch a glimpse at the female who was clearly having a better time than me. That’s when I saw it.
My attention was drawn to the side when the motion light for Robert Jones’ garden snapped on. Robert and his Moth3r were walking outside. Just like lunch, he was leading her gently by the arm. This time I saw that the destination was the shed, it must have been far enough away that he couldn’t hear her.
Curiosity overcame me. I tided my towel dressing gown around me, slipped on my worn and pale pink slippers and creept outside.
It took a while before I could get a glimpse of the two of them, before I could catch a glimpse, I could hear.
“…I know mum,” he replied, though to what I will never know.
“The temperature is 2 degrees. It is therefore cold. Would you like a scarf?” she asked, opening the metal flap and reaching into the trunk in her abdomen. It was empty, but it didn’t stop her thinking that she had pulled one out.
“No mum, I’ve brought my own,” he lies, dressed only in his thin, check pyjamas.
By now they were at the shed. As earlier he disappeared with her and reappeared without her. He breathed a sigh of relief, the white puff evaporating in the night sky. He turned his head up, surveying the brilliant but distant stars. The chill got to him, I saw him shiver and he began to walk into the house.
I distinctly remember smelling a woodfire, which I immediately recognised as unusual. No-one had a permit. Now that I think about it, I can’t help but wonder why it had that smell. It should have smelt of melting plastic, of a factory.
The shed was alight. I saw with abject horror a metal figure stumble through the amber flames.
“Robert…” it whirred. He turned. The colour in his cheeks bestowed from the cool night drained from his face. The friendly but silicon made face was burned off, now stood a metal skeleton, an old stranger. “Remember to brush your teeth-teeth-teeth” It buzzed, the last flickering off life causing it to twitch. One crack and the bones snapped, spreading over the grass.
I was the one who called the fire brigade, he remained motionless staring at the body of his mother. They put out the fire quickly once they arrived and tutted as they told him to be safer with his possessions. The incident was written up as keeping a machine with a lithium battery in a flammable container. I saw the hurt in his face when they called her an object, the sting. She was his mother. I wondered what he must have said to himself, all I know is that he blamed himself. I could see in his eyes that he was broken.
I’d like to say that he matured, that he grew passed needing a Moth3r at all. That he settled down with a lovely woman, had children and relived the cycle with their Moth3rs, but I haven’t lied to you yet and there is no point starting now.
The truth is I never saw him again. One day he was next door and the next the house was empty, the door left open, the white curtains blowing in the wind.
Seasons change. People come and go. But I’ll never forget why Robert Jones locked his mother in the shed and torched her up.