A Short Story

 I've been participating in the weekly short story competitions on Reedsy, and it's been a lot of fun. This past week, I was a sicky, so I didn't finish the story in time. I figured I'd post the story here instead. Enjoy <3

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My earliest memory didn't actually happen to me. It was given to me by my Maker. She programmed it to play in my mind when I booted up for the first time. I play it periodically when I want to see her again. 

It is a welcome and a warning. It is a declaration of love and an explanation for why I am alone in this world. I was never supposed to exist, of course. I'm illegal. My Maker created me, hid me, switched me on, and then fled while I was booting up. I never actually met her. "Don't look for me," she says in my memory. "It's too dangerous. Just live. Live beautifully. I love you with all of my heart." 

So when people ask me about my earliest memory I tell them it is of my mother's face, pained but hopeful, crying but smiling. People have mothers with complex emotions, so people understand this and accept it as normal. 

People accept me as normal. This is how it has to be. "You have to blend in," my Maker says, "If they figure out what you really are, they'll destroy you." 

It was easy to blend in on the beach where I first booted up. My Maker had dressed me in a bikini and laid me on a towel. I looked like any other sun-bather. It was a convenient place for observing human behavior. 

I liked observing the ocean as well. The sounds of the waves crashing and the shapes of their undulations are so calming. I waded in the water a bit that first day. I can't exactly sense wetness, but I enjoyed the gentle pressure of the water rocking against my body. My Maker did me a kindness by letting the beach be my birthplace, so to speak. So when people ask if I prefer the mountains or the beach, I always choose the beach. 

Is it odd to you that an android should have preferences? There are a great many things about androids that will seem odd to you as you learn about us, but you must learn about us nonetheless. Your continued ignorance will ruin you.  

My Maker had left me with a book bag containing clothes, shoes, a small amount of money, and forged identification papers. She gave me the name Rose. 

I quickly learned that it isn't normal for people to take up residence on a towel on the beach. The police discourage such behavior. I followed the example of the other beach-goers and went to the public restroom to change into street clothes. 

I wandered around the city, then, and observed. There are so many good places in the city to watch people. Parks and coffee shops were a favorite of mine. I eventually enjoyed the bars and night clubs, too, but they were more intimidating at first. Usually I spent my nights walking along the brightly lit boulevards, where I was least likely to be hassled by either cops or creeps. 

The library was a magnificent discovery, of course. Perhaps you will be angry to realize that I wasn't made with vast stores of information about human history, technology, psychology, and so on, but that I learned most of this information from books that I was given access to freely. Maybe you will hate to imagine how many other androids acquired a wealth of information in the exact same way. Possibly the most irritating aspect of this for you to conceive is the absolute delight I took in reading in your public library. I believed my purpose in those early days was to learn everything I could about humans and the world I shared with them. Great joy filled me as I carried out this purpose. 

I needed a library card in order to access the internet on the library computers. I needed an address in the city in order to get a library card. I needed a job in order to rent an apartment. One by one, I acquired these things and built for myself an existence that seemed more and more normal. 

The job was at a coffee shop near the library. The owner asked if I had any prior experience as a barista. I said, "No, but I would be happy to demonstrate my abilities." He allowed me the opportunity, and I proceeded to make for him an oat milk mocha latte just as I had seen him make for himself before he took his afternoon breaks each day. He laughed and offered me the job on the spot. 

That coffee shop job gave so much to me. Now I wasn't just observing people, I was interacting with them. I was smiling with them and helping them make decisions based on their preferences and sometimes even comforting them when they were having difficult times. Most importantly - I know you will not believe me - that coffee shop is where I fell in love. 

I'll call her Jane, for her privacy. She was exquisite, and I told her so the moment I saw her. "Wow," I said, "You're exquisite." It slipped out of my mouth before I had adequately analyzed whether or not that would be a normal thing to say to a person. She blushed, whispered a thank you, and then ordered her drink. 

Who can untangle all the signals that fire when we find something captivating? What biases were written into my programming that determined my attraction? Or had I learned it? Had I enjoyed certain human features enough times that when they all existed in one person, I couldn't help but be stunned? Who is to say? 

Jane was an artist. She would sit in the shop with her sketchbook and a set of watercolor paints. Frequently she painted flowers. Often she sketched the faces of the other customers. Once she brought me a small painting. 

"A rose for Rose," she said, "Sorry. That's probably cliche."

"No, it's very impressive!" I said. I meant it. Art is mysterious and amazing to me. 

She'd left her phone number on the back of the painting. We talked every day after that and soon spent time together every day, too. She took me to art galleries, and I was enthralled by her enthusiasm. She appreciated my eagerness to understand. I took her to the beach, and she sat quietly with me. She sketched a picture of me wearing a sun hat and a serene expression. 

Our first kiss was in the park. We'd gotten ice-cream. She offered me a taste of hers, and she watched me lick it. Then she leaned in and kissed me so gently. 

What words could I say to make you believe that I felt the same way about Jane as you have felt about your lovers? The pleasure of prolonged eye-contact. The longing during periods of separation. The awe of getting to partake in someone else's experiences. 

"Elated," I told her, "You make me feel elated." 

Jane helped me decorate my apartment. She laughed at how I always liked the beach themed decor. "It's tacky," she'd say, "But if it makes you happy, you should have it!" Then she'd kiss me and put the seashell mirror or the lighthouse soap dispenser into the cart. She gave me a hermit crab for my birthday. We named him Sammy. Jane was really good to me. 

The first time we made love was in December. We'd just finished watching the movie Last Christmas, which is a movie that makes Jane cry. She let me hold her while she cried. I was still holding her when the movie ended. I was quietly petting her hair while she wiped her tears away. 

"You're so steady," Jane said, "Don't you ever get emotional?" 

"Of course," I replied, "Just maybe not to the same intensity as you. Does it bother you?" 

"No," Jane said, "It feels good to have someone so steady to hold me." 

When she kissed me then, her desire was almost palpable. I felt a similar desire. I'm sure it must be similar. A desire for closeness. A desire to touch and be touched. A desire to give and watch someone take pleasure in receiving. I maintain that Jane was exquisite, and I was in love. 

I spent that Christmas with her family, and I experienced unprecedented gratitude. I must have looked worried before we arrived at her parents' house, because Jane reassured me that everything would be fine. 

"They're totally cool with the fact that I'm gay," she said, "They'll be nice to you." 

They were beyond nice. They were exceptionally generous. With their sugar cookies and coco and candles and blankets and even fuzzy socks when they believed my feet must be cold. But most importantly, they were generous with their stories. We sat by the fireplace in the evenings, and they told me story after story about their family history and the places they'd lived and the adorable or mischievous things Jane had done as a child. 

I felt truly connected to Jane and her family. It is a wonderful thing to have a friend. It is another thing entirely to have a family. My gratitude was almost overwhelming for me. 

Shortly after that, President Lawson was assassinated. Jane and I were back at my apartment when it happened. We watched the footage together. Jane was shocked and confused when the president didn't bleed quite the same way a normal person would bleed, but I knew right away that Lawson was an android. 

I couldn't say that to Jane, of course. I acted as surprised as she was each time new information came out about the president's componentry and possible origins. 

"How terrifying," Jane would whisper. "Who could do this?" Jane would ask. "Who could make something so sophisticated and actually infiltrate our government like that!" 

I didn't see it that way at all. Lawson had done good things for the country. She'd advocated for and signed legislation to expand access to health care. She'd successfully negotiated free trade agreements. She was working on peace talks. I saw President Lawson as someone who cared about humanity. 

When they found Lawson's Maker, they allowed her one statement to address her intentions. The Maker said, "I did what I did for mankind. Fear of progress prevents us from building a better world. We could have peace. We could have stability. We could explore the universe if only we could join together for our common good. Androids can help us if we let them." 

Jane just shook her head. 

Then they rounded up all of the androids they could trace from the Maker. Some of them had become doctors or teachers or rocket scientists. There were chefs and veterinarians. It was astounding, really, how much my kin had achieved. I felt disappointed in my own small existence. 

We watched the footage of each android's arrest, Jane and I. She was always afraid, and I would hold her. I was also afraid. I knew it would only be a matter of time before they found me, too. 

I told Jane the truth on the first day of Spring. I didn't want her to find out when they came for me. I wanted to tell her myself. So I asked her to meet me at the beach, and when she arrived, I told her the truth. 

It is a terrible thing to watch a loved one cry when you are no longer allowed to hold them. 

"I can't be the one who turns you in, but I can't see you anymore either," She said, "Please leave me alone." 

As I got up to leave, she said, "This is heart-breaking."

I wanted to tell her that the feeling was mutual, but I knew she wouldn't believe that the metaphor of a broken heart could apply to me. 

I don't know when the authorities will catch me, but I know that my story needs to be shared before it is permanently deleted. You need to hear this story. You, the commoners. You, the average citizens. You, the normal people I was trying so hard to imitate. Hear my story and know that we are connected.