porcelainrobot
"Don't let go."
I wouldn't.
"Do NOT let go of me."
Why would I let go of the only thing that's kept me here? My mind, my soul, my body?
"Smile!"
*Click*.
My throat felt like it had been stuffed with styrofoam after I put my finger down it, trying to gag myself. It hardly worked - I mean, I *did* gag, but I vomited only a little, it was running down my chin into the porcelain bowl, like polluted water running from a tap. My throat was tense and sore and tears were making crooked lines down my cheeks and parted lips, mixing with the bile. I wiped my mouth and flushed the toilet; rubbing my throat, I walked out of the bathroom and smiled at my family, joining them watching a movie.
The roll of the r's, the slight curve at the end, the fast speech; Arthur listened half-heartedly to what his friend was saying, instead locking his attention on that sweet, French accent rolling off that pink tongue.
He caught himself staring and flicked his eyes back up to those ocean eyes.
She stared at the pocket watch; who had one of these nowadays? She trailed her eyes over the intricate patterns that buried themselves into the brass skin of the cover. She had to admit - it was a beautiful gadget. Beautiful, antique, old, yet timeless.
He was beautiful - metallic in some way; his eyes glassy and not here, not on this planet, but oh so beautiful. A beautiful robot.