Parallel Lives
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History records that a certain celebrated eighteenth century inventor and engineer was an only child. However, recent cataloging of previously unseen family documents has unearthed a hitherto unknown diary of one who appears to be his younger sister. Though written in a complex secret cypher, I have successfully de-coded several tracts, the most illuminating of which appears below.
January 14th, 1784
After turning down the oil lamps, I trod carefully across my makeshift workshop, eager anticipation beating in my breast, brass turnings skitterIng across the bare blackened boards. The wait had been torturous, yet the moment fast approached. Though my attic room is sufficiently distant from the house's busy centre, I had postponed the trial till now, held back testing my apparatus till I could be certain I had total solitude. The coldness, dankness, and darkness of a midwinter's Sunday evening should form no deterrent for a devout household such as this, and so it transpired: without exception, and as usual, the entire household - family and servants alike - were attending the kirk. Unexceptionally, and as usual, I was left alone.
By the flickering light, the mechanism gleamed a pale ghostly yellow. Though simple enough in its construction and design, each part was painstakingly wrought, accurate beyond measure, an apposite reflection of my family's scientific and engineering renown. If only my brother could have seen it! I fancied I could hear the excitement fizzing, bubbling in his throat, threatening to burst through his famous hushed brogue even as he gazed in wonder. 'Oh, Jane! What a marvel you have created!' Yet he would surely never utter those words and thus must never see it. Never even know of it. The shame would be more than I could stand, more than he could possibly bear, outstripping even the shame I already bring to our lineage.
James is a genius. His work with steam engines has brought him great fame and even greater fortune. Taking an inefficient, barely serviceable contraption as a starting point, he has revolutionised the mining industry, created a pumping engine of greater efficiency than anyone would have believed. They are instruments of incredible beauty, of almost God-like power. Meanwhile, he has reinvented himself, become refined and upright, a man who can step into the loftiest social circles and be amongst equals. The love I feel for him is barely believable; a passion almost beyond decency.
I, on the other hand, though blessed with a mind as quick, insightful and malleable as his, am disfigured, twisted, a creature unfit to be seen. Though shown a degree of kindness and patience by my God-fearing parents, I have been locked away from humanity, hidden in this cold corner of their otherwise welcoming home, an oddity, an embarrassment. Invisible. Unwanted. Unloved. To keep me quiet, unobtrusively occupied, they allow me books, tools, materials, indeed almost all I desire, though the thing I desire the most they would never allow me. A man. I want a man. A man to love me, care for me, to come to me in the night and bare me, enter me, and make me his. Make me whole. My heart aches for it. My broken body yearns for it.
Gnarled fingers grasped the key and wound the spring. Hunched shoulders tightened. In the polished metal of the casing, my face - a study in deformation - glared back demonically, the physical effort twisting my mouth, baring my buckled teeth, my slobbering tongue. Bulging eyes completed the grotesque mask. In disgust, I turned away, screwed down my eyelids, while continuing to rhythmically empower the perfection I had created, transmuting ugliness into beauty, base chemical into pure mechanical. Well-oiled cogs turned and clicked. The massive coiled spring creaked its heightened disapproval. One more turn. Another. No! There is more! I rested. Breathed deeply. Stretched my aching limbs. I clutched the key once more. Sweaty fingers slipped. I dried them on my skirts and tried again. One more full turn. A half. A quarter. There. Ready. I staggered back, exhausted by the effort, excited yet daunted by the task ahead. Though naturally apprehensive, I was ready; for this moment I had waited my whole life.
Sitting astride the saddle, I pulled up my skirts then hooked my feet into the swinging stirrups. A moment's adjustment and I achieved a degree of comfort rarely afforded me in everyday life. I fitted the machine perfectly; the measurements, the constant alterations, had been worth every painstaking moment, every grief-ridden hour. I closed my eyes, allowed myself the rarest smile while running my calloused hands over the wonder I had manufactured. Though he would naturally and rightfully decry its blatantly obscene function, how James would surely enjoy its brilliant simplicity, its pantographical mimicry.
He rarely visits - the journey from Birmingham to this bleak Lowland city is both long and unpleasant - yet James writes weekly, sometimes twice weekly, and almost without fail. Problems that perplex him. Wonders that inspire him. He fills my monochrome existence with colour, my drab, draughty rooms with warmth and life.
Beloved sister
Within your uninterrupted (how I often envy you!) solitude, pray turn your clever mind and your skilled hand to this, my most pressing problem. As you know, the old Newcomen pumps use chains to transfer power via a rocking beam, but my new double-acting engines produce power on both the up and downstrokes, and thus a chain - being flexible on the reverse stroke - will no longer suffice. My conundrum is thus: to design a linkage to transfer power from piston to pump without causing sideways pressure on the piston. I know it can be done, though the solution currently avoids me, appears somewhat hazy and distant. Deadlines approach and potential investors grow apprehensive. As ever, I am in your hands, as you, dear Jane, are ever in my heart.
Love, as always,
James
Twin desires drove me throughout. A desire to please my loving brother, and a deeper, darker, preternatural desire to please myself. Individually, such appetites are incredibly powerful; together they are irresistible. I laboured long, slept little, till at last I surmounted it. And now I had mounted it. A modicum of amusement enhanced my satisfied smile. Poised between my frail legs was the answer to James' recently posed conundrum. Again I smiled, while stroking the taut, unyielding metal beast, its oiled and polished piston poised to pump pleasure into my tight fleshy cylinder. I tied up my dark hair, loosened my bodice, and tested the sweet, sticky fluids that oozed from between my thighs. Though already wet beyond necessity, I slapped on a handful of dripping fat - juice from the Sunday roast I'd found setting in the larder - in case trepidation or a sudden malfunction caused the flow of my own lubrication to cease.
I have not the power of steam at my disposal, have neither the room nor physical capacity to construct such a monster, and so, as always, I circumvented, thought laterally, turned the problem on its head. Rather than a steam-driven piston powering a pump via a rocking beam, my device works the opposite way, the force being applied in the opposite direction: my wound spring, via my newly-devised parallel linkage, operates a perfectly penetrating piston, and via a process I have christened 'parallel motion'. I love the sound of that. Parallel motion. It describes perfectly the contrary progress of the twin parallel shafts - the piston rod and pump rod - while echoing how we contrasting siblings live out our separate lives: he constantly in the light; I, along side him, entirely in shadow.
After the initial design stage, in an arrangement that better suited my particular machine's primary purpose, I then turned the problem on its side, so that rather than pumping perpendicular to the Earth as such machines are wont to do, it pumped parallel to it.
But for a chill wind rattling the eaves, the house was silent. I fancied the scurrying mice, the spinning spiders, the gnawing deathwatch beetles, each held their breath and waited with pregnant wonder before the commencement of my sterile coupling. The adjusting wheel turned smoothly, easily, the piston nudging unerringly forwards. Cold metal kissed my nether lips, nosed between the slippery folds. I gasped, clasped hand to mouth, as the rounded unforgiving plunger inched inside me. Legs shaking, I turned the wheel again, spinning the thread, tightening the screw, my shining icy lover melting into the dark heat of my molten core. The ratchet clicked. Clicked again. At last, he had no more to give me, and I was glad, for he filled me to bursting. He filled me to bursting in every way.
The lever fitted my reaching left palm perfectly. The moment was now. With trepidation, I gently released the brake, thus easing the honed clockwork into action. The balance rocked and whirred. The mainspring, fighting against meticulously machined and graduated gears, slowly began to unfurl. Cogs turned. The pump rod was carried backwards by the horizontal drive wheel, and towards the wall behind me. The beam rocked on its pivot. The piston shaft's movement paralleled, mimicked exactly and oppositely, the drive mechanism's machinations. Deep within my loins, the monster stirred; its withdrawal caused me not a small degree of discomfort, left a void, a gaping slurping void, that threatened to suck out my very womb. As the drive wheel continued its slow rotation, the pump shaft reached its apocheir and began its retrograde motion. Correspondingly, the slick piston again entered me, stretching my virgin flesh to the limits. Frenzied manual penetrations had long ago stymied my hymen, so there was no pain, no blood, just the indescribable satisfaction of my first third-party entry.
I allowed the cycle to be repeated, carefully and precisely, in and out, in and out, till I was certain the operation was flawless, before grasping the regulating lever and gradually increasing the tempo. Despite the cold of my lofty, lonely rooms, sweat was forming on my brow, dripping from my chin, and drizzling between my heaving breasts. Beads formed simultaneously in my hairline, tickling my neck before chilling the bent spine that separates my asymmetrical shoulder blades. At around two cycles per second, I felt my body relax, soften, become one with the rigid metal, and liquid pleasure began to pool within me. Using the name I had lovingly engraved onto him, I entreated him, beseeched him, silently at first, then whispered in urgent hoarse ejaculations.
'Love me, Hercules, make me yours. Take me! Do me,' and as my longing sublimated into unparalleled passion, so the pitch, amplitude and impropriety increased, 'Fuck me, Hercules! Shove it up me! Give me your cock, your fucking beautiful cock... Fill me with your love, your life!'
At that precise moment, I reached again for the regulating lever, intending to increase by mere degrees my pelvic pummelling, but my fingers, still greasy from the dripping, slipped and pushed it too far. In desperation, I grabbed again, yet my fingers could not gain sufficient purchase, succeeded instead to push the lever beyond my reach. The machine reacted in the only way it could, in the exact manner of its design. Wheels spun faster, the spring expanded, cogs meshed and almost silently reached the full extent of their potential. The beam bucked back and forth. The piston blurred. Frozen in horror, I looked on in morbid fascination, not daring to move lest I was torn apart by the monster I had created. Oh God! If they found me! Found me like this! Face fixed in a grotesque grin. Belly torn open. Blood-spattered breasts bared. Lifeless body stuffed full of lifeless metal. I clenched my jaw, tensed my muscles, and determined to outlast him, ride the storm till his prodigious ardour had fully unwound.
The monster whined, whirred, reached a crescendo. Floorboards vibrated. Tools juddered, bounced, leapt from their benches and clattered onto the naked boards. Dust fell from the vaulted ceiling. A loose tile slid across its still-clinging brothers. In my mind, I saw it leap the gutter, spin into space and shatter on the glistening cobbles below. Windows rattled. Like a gunshot, a pane broke. In disbelief, I carefully turned my head around in time to witness its sister's similar demise. Despite the chaos that surrounded me, I focussed all my waning energy on keeping myself exactly aligned, precisely positioned, the living part of a heinous mechanical hybrid, a diabolical creature built for a single obscene purpose.
And then it began. Somewhere between where his bulbous head punched my sorry cervix and where my erect clitoris poked rudely from my glistening folds. Pleasure. Pain. Ecstasy. Agony. Wonder. Dread. Perfection. Corruption. Like the ceaselessly shifting parallelogram at the centre of my incredible invention, emotions, sensations, transmuted, cycled, hid and showed themselves; yet, unlike my invention's regulated constancy, they fed back, intensified, expanded, abounded, till my ruined body could barely contain them.
A new sound filled the room. A cry. A wail. It was unearthly. Inhuman. It was unstoppable. Unbearable. Impossible. It was me. The sound was me. Besides the indescribable pleasure and the unimaginable pain, it appeared it was all that was left of me.
By degrees, I became aware once more of the room. The dust. The noise. The sweat. The clammy cold. And still Hercules effortlessly, relentlessly, penetrated my squelching, battered loins till again I drowned in blissful rapture. Over and over, the pleasure grew, blossomed and burst, blossomed and burst, till I was insensible, clinging to sanity, on the very edge of consciousness.
Through the tears that at some point had obscured my eyes, I saw him. Though I could barely make out his face, his posture was unmistakeable. His distraught voice only added to the certainty. His disbelief, his obvious disgust, quickly sobered me, shamed and mortified me. As the spring finally unfurled and the machine breathed it's last, I covered my sorry face.
'James! Don't look! Please! Don't look!'
I expected shouting, screaming, hurtful remonstrations, followed by a slamming door, yet none were forthcoming. Head bowed, he swiftly stepped forwards and snatched me from my lover's embrace, hugged me to his shaking frame and wept uncontrollably into my matted hair.
'Oh, Jane! Jane! I am sorry! So sorry...'
He kissed my forehead, grasped my chin and tried in vain to turn my face towards his. I resisted, though at his continued insistence I relented, yet still could not look him in the eye.
'Brother, brother, what must you think of me? What must you think? Forgive me, I beg of you!'
He stilled my lips with a flat fat finger and whispered so quietly I could barely hear him.
'No, dear sister, it is I who begs forgiveness.' My wide incredulous eyes demanded an explanation. He was immediately forthcoming. 'They lock you in here. Leave you here. Unwanted. Alone. Give you nothing, no more attention but what one would give to a dog, expecting nothing but your obedience... your silent acquiescence...'
More tears fell as I shook my head.
'But not you, James! Not you!'
By way of demonstration, I gazed around the room at his letters, his diagrams, pinned to the wall, the array of instruments, the materials, almost all of which he had provided me. His eyes followed mine till they fell with undeniable distaste upon my recently exhausted machine. My fucking machine, with its new-fangled linkage, the flexible parallelogram that ensured parallel motion to within one part in four thousand. Then his shrewd eyes widened with wonder. And his malleable mind began to whirr.
*
For further information visit:
http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parallel_motion
January 14th, 1784
After turning down the oil lamps, I trod carefully across my makeshift workshop, eager anticipation beating in my breast, brass turnings skitterIng across the bare blackened boards. The wait had been torturous, yet the moment fast approached. Though my attic room is sufficiently distant from the house's busy centre, I had postponed the trial till now, held back testing my apparatus till I could be certain I had total solitude. The coldness, dankness, and darkness of a midwinter's Sunday evening should form no deterrent for a devout household such as this, and so it transpired: without exception, and as usual, the entire household - family and servants alike - were attending the kirk. Unexceptionally, and as usual, I was left alone.
By the flickering light, the mechanism gleamed a pale ghostly yellow. Though simple enough in its construction and design, each part was painstakingly wrought, accurate beyond measure, an apposite reflection of my family's scientific and engineering renown. If only my brother could have seen it! I fancied I could hear the excitement fizzing, bubbling in his throat, threatening to burst through his famous hushed brogue even as he gazed in wonder. 'Oh, Jane! What a marvel you have created!' Yet he would surely never utter those words and thus must never see it. Never even know of it. The shame would be more than I could stand, more than he could possibly bear, outstripping even the shame I already bring to our lineage.
James is a genius. His work with steam engines has brought him great fame and even greater fortune. Taking an inefficient, barely serviceable contraption as a starting point, he has revolutionised the mining industry, created a pumping engine of greater efficiency than anyone would have believed. They are instruments of incredible beauty, of almost God-like power. Meanwhile, he has reinvented himself, become refined and upright, a man who can step into the loftiest social circles and be amongst equals. The love I feel for him is barely believable; a passion almost beyond decency.
I, on the other hand, though blessed with a mind as quick, insightful and malleable as his, am disfigured, twisted, a creature unfit to be seen. Though shown a degree of kindness and patience by my God-fearing parents, I have been locked away from humanity, hidden in this cold corner of their otherwise welcoming home, an oddity, an embarrassment. Invisible. Unwanted. Unloved. To keep me quiet, unobtrusively occupied, they allow me books, tools, materials, indeed almost all I desire, though the thing I desire the most they would never allow me. A man. I want a man. A man to love me, care for me, to come to me in the night and bare me, enter me, and make me his. Make me whole. My heart aches for it. My broken body yearns for it.
Gnarled fingers grasped the key and wound the spring. Hunched shoulders tightened. In the polished metal of the casing, my face - a study in deformation - glared back demonically, the physical effort twisting my mouth, baring my buckled teeth, my slobbering tongue. Bulging eyes completed the grotesque mask. In disgust, I turned away, screwed down my eyelids, while continuing to rhythmically empower the perfection I had created, transmuting ugliness into beauty, base chemical into pure mechanical. Well-oiled cogs turned and clicked. The massive coiled spring creaked its heightened disapproval. One more turn. Another. No! There is more! I rested. Breathed deeply. Stretched my aching limbs. I clutched the key once more. Sweaty fingers slipped. I dried them on my skirts and tried again. One more full turn. A half. A quarter. There. Ready. I staggered back, exhausted by the effort, excited yet daunted by the task ahead. Though naturally apprehensive, I was ready; for this moment I had waited my whole life.
Sitting astride the saddle, I pulled up my skirts then hooked my feet into the swinging stirrups. A moment's adjustment and I achieved a degree of comfort rarely afforded me in everyday life. I fitted the machine perfectly; the measurements, the constant alterations, had been worth every painstaking moment, every grief-ridden hour. I closed my eyes, allowed myself the rarest smile while running my calloused hands over the wonder I had manufactured. Though he would naturally and rightfully decry its blatantly obscene function, how James would surely enjoy its brilliant simplicity, its pantographical mimicry.
He rarely visits - the journey from Birmingham to this bleak Lowland city is both long and unpleasant - yet James writes weekly, sometimes twice weekly, and almost without fail. Problems that perplex him. Wonders that inspire him. He fills my monochrome existence with colour, my drab, draughty rooms with warmth and life.
Beloved sister
Within your uninterrupted (how I often envy you!) solitude, pray turn your clever mind and your skilled hand to this, my most pressing problem. As you know, the old Newcomen pumps use chains to transfer power via a rocking beam, but my new double-acting engines produce power on both the up and downstrokes, and thus a chain - being flexible on the reverse stroke - will no longer suffice. My conundrum is thus: to design a linkage to transfer power from piston to pump without causing sideways pressure on the piston. I know it can be done, though the solution currently avoids me, appears somewhat hazy and distant. Deadlines approach and potential investors grow apprehensive. As ever, I am in your hands, as you, dear Jane, are ever in my heart.
Love, as always,
James
Twin desires drove me throughout. A desire to please my loving brother, and a deeper, darker, preternatural desire to please myself. Individually, such appetites are incredibly powerful; together they are irresistible. I laboured long, slept little, till at last I surmounted it. And now I had mounted it. A modicum of amusement enhanced my satisfied smile. Poised between my frail legs was the answer to James' recently posed conundrum. Again I smiled, while stroking the taut, unyielding metal beast, its oiled and polished piston poised to pump pleasure into my tight fleshy cylinder. I tied up my dark hair, loosened my bodice, and tested the sweet, sticky fluids that oozed from between my thighs. Though already wet beyond necessity, I slapped on a handful of dripping fat - juice from the Sunday roast I'd found setting in the larder - in case trepidation or a sudden malfunction caused the flow of my own lubrication to cease.
I have not the power of steam at my disposal, have neither the room nor physical capacity to construct such a monster, and so, as always, I circumvented, thought laterally, turned the problem on its head. Rather than a steam-driven piston powering a pump via a rocking beam, my device works the opposite way, the force being applied in the opposite direction: my wound spring, via my newly-devised parallel linkage, operates a perfectly penetrating piston, and via a process I have christened 'parallel motion'. I love the sound of that. Parallel motion. It describes perfectly the contrary progress of the twin parallel shafts - the piston rod and pump rod - while echoing how we contrasting siblings live out our separate lives: he constantly in the light; I, along side him, entirely in shadow.
After the initial design stage, in an arrangement that better suited my particular machine's primary purpose, I then turned the problem on its side, so that rather than pumping perpendicular to the Earth as such machines are wont to do, it pumped parallel to it.
But for a chill wind rattling the eaves, the house was silent. I fancied the scurrying mice, the spinning spiders, the gnawing deathwatch beetles, each held their breath and waited with pregnant wonder before the commencement of my sterile coupling. The adjusting wheel turned smoothly, easily, the piston nudging unerringly forwards. Cold metal kissed my nether lips, nosed between the slippery folds. I gasped, clasped hand to mouth, as the rounded unforgiving plunger inched inside me. Legs shaking, I turned the wheel again, spinning the thread, tightening the screw, my shining icy lover melting into the dark heat of my molten core. The ratchet clicked. Clicked again. At last, he had no more to give me, and I was glad, for he filled me to bursting. He filled me to bursting in every way.
The lever fitted my reaching left palm perfectly. The moment was now. With trepidation, I gently released the brake, thus easing the honed clockwork into action. The balance rocked and whirred. The mainspring, fighting against meticulously machined and graduated gears, slowly began to unfurl. Cogs turned. The pump rod was carried backwards by the horizontal drive wheel, and towards the wall behind me. The beam rocked on its pivot. The piston shaft's movement paralleled, mimicked exactly and oppositely, the drive mechanism's machinations. Deep within my loins, the monster stirred; its withdrawal caused me not a small degree of discomfort, left a void, a gaping slurping void, that threatened to suck out my very womb. As the drive wheel continued its slow rotation, the pump shaft reached its apocheir and began its retrograde motion. Correspondingly, the slick piston again entered me, stretching my virgin flesh to the limits. Frenzied manual penetrations had long ago stymied my hymen, so there was no pain, no blood, just the indescribable satisfaction of my first third-party entry.
I allowed the cycle to be repeated, carefully and precisely, in and out, in and out, till I was certain the operation was flawless, before grasping the regulating lever and gradually increasing the tempo. Despite the cold of my lofty, lonely rooms, sweat was forming on my brow, dripping from my chin, and drizzling between my heaving breasts. Beads formed simultaneously in my hairline, tickling my neck before chilling the bent spine that separates my asymmetrical shoulder blades. At around two cycles per second, I felt my body relax, soften, become one with the rigid metal, and liquid pleasure began to pool within me. Using the name I had lovingly engraved onto him, I entreated him, beseeched him, silently at first, then whispered in urgent hoarse ejaculations.
'Love me, Hercules, make me yours. Take me! Do me,' and as my longing sublimated into unparalleled passion, so the pitch, amplitude and impropriety increased, 'Fuck me, Hercules! Shove it up me! Give me your cock, your fucking beautiful cock... Fill me with your love, your life!'
At that precise moment, I reached again for the regulating lever, intending to increase by mere degrees my pelvic pummelling, but my fingers, still greasy from the dripping, slipped and pushed it too far. In desperation, I grabbed again, yet my fingers could not gain sufficient purchase, succeeded instead to push the lever beyond my reach. The machine reacted in the only way it could, in the exact manner of its design. Wheels spun faster, the spring expanded, cogs meshed and almost silently reached the full extent of their potential. The beam bucked back and forth. The piston blurred. Frozen in horror, I looked on in morbid fascination, not daring to move lest I was torn apart by the monster I had created. Oh God! If they found me! Found me like this! Face fixed in a grotesque grin. Belly torn open. Blood-spattered breasts bared. Lifeless body stuffed full of lifeless metal. I clenched my jaw, tensed my muscles, and determined to outlast him, ride the storm till his prodigious ardour had fully unwound.
The monster whined, whirred, reached a crescendo. Floorboards vibrated. Tools juddered, bounced, leapt from their benches and clattered onto the naked boards. Dust fell from the vaulted ceiling. A loose tile slid across its still-clinging brothers. In my mind, I saw it leap the gutter, spin into space and shatter on the glistening cobbles below. Windows rattled. Like a gunshot, a pane broke. In disbelief, I carefully turned my head around in time to witness its sister's similar demise. Despite the chaos that surrounded me, I focussed all my waning energy on keeping myself exactly aligned, precisely positioned, the living part of a heinous mechanical hybrid, a diabolical creature built for a single obscene purpose.
And then it began. Somewhere between where his bulbous head punched my sorry cervix and where my erect clitoris poked rudely from my glistening folds. Pleasure. Pain. Ecstasy. Agony. Wonder. Dread. Perfection. Corruption. Like the ceaselessly shifting parallelogram at the centre of my incredible invention, emotions, sensations, transmuted, cycled, hid and showed themselves; yet, unlike my invention's regulated constancy, they fed back, intensified, expanded, abounded, till my ruined body could barely contain them.
A new sound filled the room. A cry. A wail. It was unearthly. Inhuman. It was unstoppable. Unbearable. Impossible. It was me. The sound was me. Besides the indescribable pleasure and the unimaginable pain, it appeared it was all that was left of me.
By degrees, I became aware once more of the room. The dust. The noise. The sweat. The clammy cold. And still Hercules effortlessly, relentlessly, penetrated my squelching, battered loins till again I drowned in blissful rapture. Over and over, the pleasure grew, blossomed and burst, blossomed and burst, till I was insensible, clinging to sanity, on the very edge of consciousness.
Through the tears that at some point had obscured my eyes, I saw him. Though I could barely make out his face, his posture was unmistakeable. His distraught voice only added to the certainty. His disbelief, his obvious disgust, quickly sobered me, shamed and mortified me. As the spring finally unfurled and the machine breathed it's last, I covered my sorry face.
'James! Don't look! Please! Don't look!'
I expected shouting, screaming, hurtful remonstrations, followed by a slamming door, yet none were forthcoming. Head bowed, he swiftly stepped forwards and snatched me from my lover's embrace, hugged me to his shaking frame and wept uncontrollably into my matted hair.
'Oh, Jane! Jane! I am sorry! So sorry...'
He kissed my forehead, grasped my chin and tried in vain to turn my face towards his. I resisted, though at his continued insistence I relented, yet still could not look him in the eye.
'Brother, brother, what must you think of me? What must you think? Forgive me, I beg of you!'
He stilled my lips with a flat fat finger and whispered so quietly I could barely hear him.
'No, dear sister, it is I who begs forgiveness.' My wide incredulous eyes demanded an explanation. He was immediately forthcoming. 'They lock you in here. Leave you here. Unwanted. Alone. Give you nothing, no more attention but what one would give to a dog, expecting nothing but your obedience... your silent acquiescence...'
More tears fell as I shook my head.
'But not you, James! Not you!'
By way of demonstration, I gazed around the room at his letters, his diagrams, pinned to the wall, the array of instruments, the materials, almost all of which he had provided me. His eyes followed mine till they fell with undeniable distaste upon my recently exhausted machine. My fucking machine, with its new-fangled linkage, the flexible parallelogram that ensured parallel motion to within one part in four thousand. Then his shrewd eyes widened with wonder. And his malleable mind began to whirr.
*
For further information visit:
http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parallel_motion
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