"Gawd, it's hot out today!" Shawnee complained, shielding the sun with one of her folders; stressing the point. She looked over at Vicki who just sat there; askew; staring down into the churning clear water; combing her fingers through it. Shawnee noticed that she hadn't touched her food and was obviously daydreaming or something. She figured she knew exactly what was on her friend's mind; but she asked anyway.

"What are ya thinking?"

Lost in a haze, Vicki didn't realize that someone had spoken to her.

Shawnee—now a little concerned—reached over and shook her lightly by the shoulder.

Vicki came out of it, saying, "Huh, what's wrong?"

"Nothing—are you okay? You haven't touched your lunch yet and it's—" she paused, and turning her wrist; checked her watch, "—12:15"

"Oh—I'm not really that hungry today anyway," she said, her thoughts still scrambled.

"Well, I am," Shawnee said spiritedly, bringing her sandwich to her mouth, and biting into it like a savage; tearing it apart with the twisting-jerk of her head.

Vicki laughed looking at her staring back with lettuce sticking out between her pressed lips; mustard and mayonnaise trimming the top of her mouth—a little of it on the tip of her nose. Then, Shawnee mischievously opened her mouth; sticking her tongue out just a bit.

"Disgusting!" Vicki blurted out, quickly turning to look the other way; still laughing though.

Shawnee laughed, but found it hard to do with chewed food falling from her mouth. She used her hand to catch it and scoop it back in. She missed some, and it fell on the concrete. Birds will get it, she thought to herself.

"Jason use to do things like that to make me laugh," Vicki said, gazing down at her shoes; the laughter in her voice had quickly transformed into sorrow.

"So, that's what this mood is all about—I thought so," Shawnee awkwardly said; still chewing and swallowing the too-big of a bite she'd taken.

Vicki looked up at her.

"I'm going to do it Shawnee—I'm going to do it tonight before he gets home—I am—I swear I am!"

It seemed to Shawnee that whatever it was Vicki was talking about; that while saying it, she was still trying to convince herself into doing whatever it was that she was planning to do.

"And just what are you going to do?" Shawnee asked.

There was a brief silence between them.

"The thing that I've jokingly said that I'd do over-and-over again. But, this time I'm not joking! It's gone too far and something has got to change—I can't take it anymore—I just can't!"

Vicki sounded serious enough; and she had said it like a child eagerly trying hard to explain something awful that she'd witnessed to an adult in adult words.

"What thing?"

"Tonight, before Jason gets home, I'm going to take something and smash the fuck out of all of his precious computer equipment! Hardware; software—all of the shit! It's what's ruined our marriage; we hardly even speak to each other anymore."

Her voice sounded heartfelt. Vickie was on the verge of tears; and that made Shawnee feel like she wanted to start crying too. Shawnee remembered Vicki from time-to-time throwing that idea into their conversations on the subject of her marriage; but always in a humorous manner.

Vicki continued, her voice becoming more upset with each word spoken, "He works all day at his company—on his company's computer, then what does he do?—he comes home and gets right back on a goddamm computer! Barely says a word to me, and then goes to bed."

Shawnee could she her getting angry as her mind worked; turning over images as she spoke about the situation.

"I read about—or maybe heard it on the radio or television, I think, about a study that has shown an increase in breakups and divorces because of the Internet. I can't remember the specifics, but it is supposedly now a common cause of dysfunction in people's relationships," Shawnee went on saying, even though she knew that Vicki was hardly listening to her; if at all.

"He doesn't seem to notice that I'm even there. He spends more time online, than he does on me!" The teary edges of her eyes were beginning to mix with her mascara; creating black watercolor.

Shawnee got into her purse—that she had placed on the wall before sitting down—and dug out a tissue.

"Have you tried to talk to him—I mean really tried to convey how you feel to him?" Shawnee asked, handing the tissue over to her friend.

"Yes! So many fucking times that I couldn't even begin to count how many!" she said, her voice starting to grow loud and frustrated. She dabbed her eyes with the tissue paper then said, "I don't think anyone; even you, knows just how much I love him and what I've done to make him see it? I can't let this thing go on any longer . . . I could just die."

"Vicki, calm down," she said, feeling almost as if Vicki was taking it out on her; blaming her.

Vicki wiped her eyes some more and then, sniffling, said, "I have to do this—then I'll know once and for all—I'll know."

"Please be careful—I just don't think this is the way to go about it," Shawnee warned.

Vicki stood up, walked over to a garbage can, and tossed the tissue paper and her lunch away. Walking back over to Shawnee she stared up at the fountain sculpture for a moment: Adam and Eve; a snake; an apple. A beautiful but miserable figurine. Adam's and Eve's eyes were hollow orbs from which cascaded a swift and continuous flow of clear water; all the more adding the feel of gloom to its somber motif. She felt a connection to it; to its symbolism. A perfect world; a perfect loving relationship—all destroyed by an evil; something that had crawled into their lives and hers; something that had corrupted one of them and turned them against one another. She had to do something; she had to go after the source.

The sun had become partially hidden behind the towering sleek grayish-stone office buildings.

"Well, time to get back," Shawnee informed, looking at her watch again.

Vicki turned her head and observed the other lunch-breaking employees strolling toward and through the large glass double-doors; returning to the grind.

"I'm sure everything is going to work out—Love wins out in the end, I believe," Shawnee said, as she stood—gathering her things together; not quite believing her own words. "Try to take your mind off things. I have to go to that meeting in about twenty-minutes, so I probably won't see ya before work lets out, but I'll call you tonight and see how you're doing—Okay?" She studied Vicki for a few seconds, thinking, she's a beautiful girl; light-blue saucer-shaped soft eyes; long blond hair with natural body; great skin—flawless; athletic thin build; perfect hips and a firm-ass. She could have any guy; but she understood what it was like being in love; what it meant to truly love someone . . . or at least she did once; a long time ago. She honestly hoped that everything would work out for Vicki; but she also worried.

"I'll be fine—I always get through stuff like this," Vicki replied, putting on a show, "Okay, call me."

"Okay I will." Shawnee patted her on the elbow, saying, "Talk later—Bye."

Vicki smiled at her, and Shawnee walked inside.

A minute later, Vicki did the same.

For the remainder of the day Vicki fought with her feelings; emotion's pulling in every direction. She struggled through the routine tasks of filing away papers; finishing important memos; calling business contacts; and much of the same. The worst part of it all, was that every thought; every action she made; all of it was done amidst computers. Everywhere; in every office; at every desk there was a computer. A vile, human-hating, machine-monster; staring at her coldly, and silently wishing her pain . . . ridiculing her. She had a secret though. Ever-so-often—when no one was looking; especially one of her bosses—she'd take the metal clasp on the end of her pen (or some similar object) and carve tiny gashes; cuts into an area on her terminal's equipment, in a not so obviously noticeable place. For example, the underside of her keyboard contained many scores: scratches, grooves and nicks that she'd done in pure animosity; hating its bland hard-plastic & metal structure with every cut. In more than just a Freudian way, she wanted to convey a message; she wanted it to know that she despised it and all of its kind for what it had done to her and others: humans. She felt that it knew. And on occasion, she even secretly mutilated someone else's computer or related piece of equipment. Never her husband's computer though; not Jason's. But tonight that would change; it would have to if she was to go on.

She was afraid.

Being an intelligent woman, she knew that almost anyone would tell her that her real hatred for the computer was nothing more than her way of trying to deal with the stress and the pain, by projecting the problem on an inanimate object; a machine. But, she felt strongly that it was something more; something sinister. It was more than just a machine; much more than that.

Thoughts of happiness; memories of what she and her husband once had, hammered the nail deeper into the coffin as the last minutes of the working day drew near. In that final minute—before she left for home—her ultimatum came to a solidified decision. She would rage against the machine—literally.

The freeway was in gridlock, even the streets in her hometown, all the way back to Mande Boulevard was congested with motorists. The slow ride gave her that much more time to think about the past; to suffer. It was a winter's night, and she had just gotten back from her mother's. They had lived in a small cozy shack back then—their first house together—and when she pulled into the driveway she immediately noticed that Jason's car wasn't there. All the lights were off. It was already 11 P.M.; he should have been home. Every bad thing went through her mind, the foremost being that he had been in an accident. She was panicking as she ran inside the house, heading straight for the phone. Then she heard his voice call to her and caught a glimpse of candlelight. Soon she discovered that he had bought her a luxurious diamond ring; some sumptuous wine; and a lovely dinner. That night he proposed to her, and they made passionate love. She was crying in the car remembering how he had laughed when he told her he had tricked her by pulling his car around back, through the snow.

She pulled up to the curb in front of their third home: a Victorian style and much bigger than their previous ones. She parked and just sat there for a long time.

This has to be done. I love him and I want him back; back the way it was before. After it's done; if he leaves; if things get too bad; then I'll know. That's when I'll know he doesn't love me anymore. And I'll leave; it will be over.

When she could no longer distract herself with thoughts, and knowing that he would be coming home soon, she got out of the car. As she walked to the front door she became aware that she was acting a bit skittish; like a burglar going to the door in a fake workman's costume just to scope out the place. But, this was her home; she lived here. She needed to calm down and do want had to be done.

Inside, she took off her shoes and began to search.

Heavy Metal? For some odd reason she giggled at the last thought.

Finally—and after a few rejects—she settled on using the iron bar that went to his weightlifting set: a dumbbell bar. It was heavy; but it wasn't that long, so she could hold it fairly well.

"It's time to get my life back," she whispered, walking down the hall and then to her left.

She stood at the door to his (what he called) studio. She held the bar up with one hand letting it rest on her right shoulder. With her other hand she opened the door.

It was there, perched on his cluttered desk; shut down. She felt as though it had been waiting for her. Telepathically daring her to try it; challenging and mocking her. She advanced slowly, stopping right in front of it, placing her free hand on the chair's back. She saw herself through the blackened screen; her reflected image distorted.

Was that how it saw her? Did it know what was about to happen to it?

Vicki's heart was pounding; her mind was made up.

She lifted the bar above her head and then brought it down again-and-again, cracking and smashing in the dull-gray components, and shattering glass. The attack became a blur; she didn't stop until her arm started to ache. She dropped the bar on the carpet and began massaging it; trying to relax the muscles.

Then she looked at what lay before her and gasped.

But not Vicki; she was done. Lizzie must have been one strong bitch, because Vicki's arm was sore as hell. She had destroyed it; busted it beyond repair. Monitor; Hard Drive; Modem; Scanner; Printer; Microphone; CD-ROM Drive; Keyboard and Mouse; all of them now in ruins.

Vicki left the room and the wreckage behind; she had something else to do. Her husband would be coming home soon.

She took a quick shower; powdered her body; put on her makeup; slipped into her white-silk lingerie; lit some candles in the bedroom; and then flopped on the bed and waited.

I want him to love me again. When he finds what I've done—then I'll know. Then I'll know for sure.

She waited for him on the covers for a long, long time. She waited, thinking about the way things use to be. Her conscious thoughts became her dreams as she drifted off to sleep.

He's come home and he's seen what I've done. He's furious; he's screaming at me! Now I know! I know what I was afraid of knowing! I know that he doesn't love me anymore. He's hurting me; squeezing my neck! He hates me; wants me dead! Stop hurting me—Please stop!

Vicki opened her eyes; she couldn't breathe—something was strangling her. Something was wrapped around her neck. Not a hand; or an arm; but a rope or string of some kind. She fought—with her fingers—trying desperately to yank it away. It kept tightening; constricting around her throat like a snake.

The phone rang.

Her eyes were glazing over as she caught a clouded glimpse of what had her; the thing that was trying to take her life.

It was the computer.

It was levitating over her; lifting itself mysteriously with its cords. The printer-cable was wrapped around her neck. All of its damaged parts—linked together by a conglomeration of wires—strangely and haphazardly created a humanoid form. The Monitor: its head; Hard Drive: its upper torso; Modem & Mouse: its hands; Printer & Scanner: its abdomen and pelvis; and the Speakers: its feet.

. . . . she felt strongly that it was something more; something sinister. It was more than just a machine; much more than that.

Her body writhed: arms and legs flailing; fighting to stay alive. As Vicki's body gave out; just before slipping into the darkness that is death, she saw a message flash on the broken screen above her. In bright-red pixels the word 'BITCH' was spelt out.

Uncoiling itself it slid off the bed and slithered back into Jason's studio.

Shawnee had tried to call.

Jason arrived home late; five hours to be exact. A project that he was working on had turned out to be more involved than he had initially expected. He sauntered through the house, used the restroom, and at one point walked past the bedroom. The door was closed, and he assumed his wife was sound asleep. It was a routine for him—marriage was a routine; there wasn't much thought of it beyond that.

Tonight, he was extremely tired. But—before hitting the sack—he wanted to check out his private Emails and a few other personal online endeavors. He went into his studio—walking across the carpet in his socks—and switched on the lamp. Next, he sat down at his terminal and booted up the system. He logged online and navigated to his Email program. He opened it, and leaned back in the chair waiting for it to finish receiving. One Email caught his attention. It had a subject line that read: From Me.

Probably just spam mail, he thought, but it was curious, so he opened it. There was no text, but there was an attachment. It was an EXE. file, so he scanned it for viruses first. None were found; and he clicked on it. His screen went blank for a second and then popped back up with an animated graphics display: spinning hearts and pulsating fancy letters that spelled 'I Love You'.

I wonder who sent this? Probably just another chat room admirer.

He hit 'Esc' to find out.

Funny, but he couldn't seem to find a returning address, an ISP number, or anything in the properties box.

Oh well, I guess I'll never know?

After toying around until he began to feel dizzy from a lack-of-sleep, he shut it down; and that's when he noticed something.

He'd have to talk to Vicki—catch her before she left for work—and ask her how, or if she knew why, there was a tiny crack on the computer screen.