His Mother's Portrait

If walls could talk, then it's best if they don't sound like your mother.

Of this, Herrington Lefarge was certain.

He would never have claimed to be an overly intelligent man - he was a middling accountant in a middling accountacy firm: His professonal adequacy was (he felt) an accurate representation of his overall intellect. As such, he freely admitted that there was much in the world that left him bewildered. For instance, people who enjoyed skiing. Why anyone would actively choose a hobby that could result in a broken limb was a mystery to him.

Idiots.

However, even with his resolutely average intelligence, of one thing he was unequivocally certain: If given the choice, never purchase a ten-foot wide, AI-powered, holographic 'picture' of your deceased mother and have it installed on your dining room wall.

Idiot.

"I've had a good day," the long-dead Hibiscus Lefarge said, huffily. "Not that you care."

"Of course, I care," Herrington replied, placing his briefcase on the dining table.

"If you cared, why didn't you ask about my day?"

Because I've literally just walked through the front door, you evil, old witch, he thought.

"Pardon?"

Herrington froze. Slowly, he looked up and stared into the pixelled eyes of his mother. Had she - ?

Could she read his mind?

No. Of course, she couldn't. The Remembrance 12 had many impressive features - telepathy wasn't one of them.

Herrington knew that the tiny processor housed in the frame was driven by artificial intelligence that allowed the digital entity the ability to learn. Based on the information he had given the programmer, and then using his own behaviour as the key, she would go from only being able to ask simple questions using impersonal, generic language to - ultimately - sounding and behaving exactly like the real person she represented.

When Herrington purchased the frame, this quality had been a major selling point. Now, having had this technological aberration for one month, he was reminded why he had left home at seventeen.

Put simply, his mother was a judgmental, bad-tempered hag.

The fact that he had paid twenty thousand dollars to be reminded of this was the single biggest regret of his life. And in a life that hadn't been immune to mistakes, that was saying something.

Guilt will make you do very strange things.

"What did you do today, Mother?" Herrington asked, loosening his tie.

"Looked at the furniture."

"And that was good, was it?"

"It's furniture, Herrington," his mother said, tersely. "It's not known for doing anything exciting."

"I'm confused - I thought you said you had a good day?"

Hibiscus Lefarge stared at her son, her dead, pixelated eyes dripping with disdain.

"You were being sarcastic," Herrington said.

"I wouldn't dream of it," his mother replied. Sarcastically.

Herrington watched as his mother's avatar turned away from him. Sarcasm. That's a new development. It was indeed learning.

Becoming more like her.

And that is why, Herrington told himself, it was time to bring this horrific experience to an end.

"I'm just going to my study," Herrington said, with forced jollity. "Need to send a few emails. Work stuff."

"But it's seven o'clock."

"An accountant's work is never done."

"It's dinner time."

"I won't be long," Herrington said, walking backwards, inching across the carpeted floor towards the door. "I'll grab food once I've finished."

"You need to eat, Herrington. You're too skinny. Women like a man who's got some meat on his bones."

I'm gay, you unhinged old bat. Not that you know.

"They do, Mother. That's very true," Herrington said. "Correct as ever."

"Be quick - you know how lonely I get."

"Yes, yes," Herrington said from the threshold of the room. "Right you are."

Spinning on his heels, Herrington turned and scuttled down the hall. This was absurd, he thought, as he entered the safety of his large, airy study. I'm a forty-nine-year-old man and I'm hiding from my mother.

My dead mother.

Idiot.

Herrington closed the door and, resting his back against it, slid down. He sat, in the dark, on the floor, pondering his next move. Namely, should he say a 'goodbye' or just switch the cantankerous harridan off at the mains?

Herrington wasn't ignorant of his personal failings. Not least his aversion to conflict. He hadn't become an accountant for nothing - numbers didn't ordinarily shout at you or emotionally blackmail you. And given his mother's excellence in both fields, it'd be better for all concerned if he just turned her off.

Yet -

He'd bought the damn thing because he'd never said 'goodbye' before. He never went to visit her when -

When -

When she -

No - he'd give her a send-off. She might be a malevolent battleaxe but she was still his mother. Yes, that was only fair -

"What are you doing?"

"I'm working, moth-"

Herrington didn't finish his sentence.

Because the voice that asked the question, a voice that was distinctly that of his mother, hadn't floated down the hallway from the dining room. It had come from his office.

She was in here. With him. How - ?

The large computer screen on his desk lit up. A familiar face dominated it.

"You dirty little liar."

"How -? What the - ?"

"Hiding. Like a baby."

"I don't under - "

"But he's not just hiding, is he? The dirty little coward is plotting too."

As Herrington looked at the increasingly angry face of his mother, he realized that she had developed other skills, besides eye-rolling and sarcasm. Namely, full sentience. The cunning old -

"He's scheming again. Always scheming. But two can play at that game," Mrs Lafarge screamed. "Oh, yes."

Herrington also realized that the salesman had understated things somewhat.

"You'll never leave me again, dear boy. Never."

The Remembrance 12 couldn't just learn to think like a human: Like Skynet and their Terminators, it could outwit them.

"Looking at the furniture, ha!" his mother said mockingly. "I don't stare at chairs all day, dearest son. Oh, no. Do you want to know what I do?"

A low, mechanical growling came from the corner of the darkened room. Slowly, the growling grew in intensity, moving nearer Herrington.

"Do you? Do you know what I do all day?"

"You speak to the other things in my house," Herrington said, watching as his miniature, robotic, circular vacuum cleaner left the shadowy corner and moved closer towards him.

"Yes! YES!"

Herrington sighed. The vacuum thudded into his calf, coming to a stop. The ridiculousness of the whole situation had reached ludicrous levels now.

"Mother, if you wanted to scare me, then you could have at least enlisted the assistance of the washing machine. A hoover isn't exactly - "

Herrington was cut off due to the vacuum suddenly emitting one hundred thousand volts of electricity. In the few painful seconds before death wrapped its skeletal fingers around his engorged heart, he was given the luxury of asking one final question -

How had the conniving old cow managed to do that?

She told him the next day when he joined her in the picture frame on the dining room wall. For, in addition to all the other things she'd done, she had also spent the last week speaking to the frame about how to best create an avatar of him.

Unlike hers, his was a little crude. Mrs Lefarge had also taken the chance to make a few improvements - Herrington was now six foot tall and no longer gay. He would also never - never - be able to leave her again.

As digital eternity stretched out ahead of him, Herrington Lefarge was occupied with two thoughts.

One, his mother hadn't lied about the chairs - the furniture really was beyond dull.

Two, if walls could talk, it's a very good idea if they don't sound like your mother.

Idiot.

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