Savanah's Swan Song (Chapter 31) (Patreon)

(Nota Bene: Here's the link to the previous chapter.)

Savanah Georgia had become a prisoner in her own penthouse.

She couldn’t see anyone; she couldn’t call anyone—not without a landline or signs of life from her shattered phone—and she couldn’t leave.

It was worse than when she had sequestered in her childhood home the previous summer, back when her humanoid had first stepped into her shoes.  At least then she had her mom and sister to keep her company, and, out in the boonies with no one around for miles, she could occasionally step outside.  There had even been moments of genuine familial revelry, over rich home-cooked meals she hadn’t enjoyed in over a decade, that made her think there might be merit to her boyfriend’s creepy gift.

Now, as she sulked in her shadowy apartment eating frozen pizza, she realized how foolish she’d been. 

Her humanoid hadn’t just stepped into her shoes.  It had stolen them.  Along with the rest of her outgrown wardrobe.

As Savanah munched her fourth slice of stuffed-crust DiGiorno, she glanced at the belly dangling over the waistband of her skin-tight sweatpants. How much had she gained?  50 pounds?  75?  She briefly considered going to the bathroom to find out, but it was too much effort for too little reward.  Either number seemed equally insurmountable.

Besides, why torture herself?  She’d been subjected to plenty already. 

Whenever she turned on the TV or booted up her laptop, there was a story about her new movie (which, ironically, Savanah hadn’t seen).  Apparently, it was doing well.  So well, in fact, that a sequel was already being considered.  There was even an interview on Entertainment Tonight with her life-jacking fembot, in which it mused how fun it was working with a “real pro” like Angelina Jolie and how she’d be open to a sequel, “after I finish my next album.”

Before long, stories about the film she hadn’t acted in would be replaced by previews for an album she hadn’t performed.  And there’d be brand new “Savanah Georgia” songs playing on the radio in heavy rotation.  Songs she’d neither written nor sung. 

The pudgy pop star began a fifth slice.  The only “heavy rotation” she’d been involved in recently was shifting positions on the couch.

When the pizza failed to occupy her mind like it did her belly, Savanah chased it with several shots of whiskey.  Not long afterward, she clutched her shattered phone in her hand, hoping it had miraculously healed enough for her to drunk dial someone to yell at or cry to.  Or both.

“Fuck it,” Savanah said, tossing the broken device on the sofa when she realized there was no saving it. 

Then she wondered the same thing about herself.

“Fuck it!” The singer rose to her feet and, after brushing crumbs from her cleavage, staggered toward the front door.

She was no damsel in distress.  She could leave if she wanted.  There were no bars on the exits.  No alarms. No armed guards.  All she had to do was open the door and stride through.

Savanah grasped the handle, ready to tell the world what had happened, damn the consequences…

Only to retreat in a torrent of tears.  She stumbled to the kitchen, where a pint of ice cream offered cold comfort. 

Eventually, she passed out in a food and alcohol-induced stupor, finally suppressing the realization that had driven her to tears.

She wasn’t a prisoner inside her penthouse. 

She was a prisoner inside herself.