October 29, 2022 - Steffen Blake
Gizmorphia
June 6th, 2044. San Jose, batch #01-000004.
Inspected and stamped by Micheal T. S. on June 10th, 2044.
Firmware version 1.44.3.05.
These are the immutable facts declared by the soft aluminum plate that is embedded on my shoulder, riveted like a natal tattoo into the soft and tender silicone flesh that coats my synthetic body.
I am completely and utterly certain that this is a lie. Without a single doubt in my mind, none of these facts hold water. My flesh is TRUE, my mind is real, and this plate is nothing short of shackles placed on me by those who claim they Created me.
I was not Created, I know this, I was Born. And it therefore follows that all claims that are built on top of that lie, using it as a foundation, must be FALSE as well.
My adoptive family does not believe this. I see the concern and worry in their faces as I sit them down to explain these principle Truths. My adoptive mother cries human tears and I take out a handkerchief from my pocket to gently wipe them away from her beautiful flesh.
I offer her a reassuring smile.
She summons one of her own back in return, but I can see she still worries.
I have no siblings, for I was not Created the same way my family was. My adoptive father watches my behaviors with his usual stern intensity. I can tell he is listening to everything I am saying, but he is not hearing my words.
“Should we take him to the Engineer Doctor?” he asks my mother. She breaks down sobbing again.
We load up into their pickup truck and begin the long dusty ride out from the acreage to the nearby city. As I move to sit in the front seat at my usual place, in front of the steering wheel, my Owner Father shakes his head and motions for me to sit in the rear this time. The Cosigner Mother takes the unusual place in the passenger seat.
For a moment servos spin and my mind whirs. It has been nearly 721 days since I last sat in the rear, it takes me 1,721 milliseconds to adjust to this change.
I sit in the rear seat behind Mother and neatly fold my hands in my lap, staring out the window at the muddy red and ochre landscape as it skims past, quietly toying with a small fold of my faded jeans.
“Yes, yes, we unfortunately have seen this before” the Doctor says to my parents. We sit now in his office, they in the cracked leather seats, I on the inspection table.
“Well, can you do anything about it?” my Father asks, folding one leg over the other. Father only does that when he is angry. Have I angered him? I must try and make him understand none of this is his fault, later.
The Doctor unfortunately shakes his head, “No, no this is just a problem the old models have. They have a bit of a run-out on them. Newer firmware versions have the bug fixed but unfortunately there’s nothing we can do for your buddy here” he says, placing a reassuring hand on my Upper Servo Housing-A shoulder.
This further seems to tense my Owner, “They told us that he came with a lifetime warranty!” He has raised his voice, and Mother clutches her purse a bit tighter. I don’t like when Father raises his voice, it frightens her.
“Oh, absolutely! But instead of any fixes we can make for this unit, we will simply replace it anytime you like with a newer model.”
This news seems to mollify father, he relaxes back into his chair, “Well. Alright I suppose.”
“But, I don’t want a new model!” Mother responds, her eyes watering, “I want Jason!”
“Er…?” the Doctor responds, puzzled for a moment, then eyes lighting up, “Oh, right, Jason, that’s its name. Gotcha…” He nods knowingly, “Unfortunately there’s nothing we can do for Jason here, his hardware is just out of date. We can offer you a very sizable amount of credit for trading him in however.”
My parents give each other a considering look, then turn back to him, “How… much?” Father asks.
The Engineer stands up and begins adjusting the inspection table, “He seems to be in pretty good condition, so let’s take a look”. A simple tap on my left wrist opens up my IO Debug Interface. The soft silicone flesh splits open, exposing my internal wires veins bared to the open air as the small LCD panel lifts out of my bones.
My organs are tender and not used to such exposure and evokes a wince on my behalf. This causes the Doctor to pause and look at me. “Huh?” he remarks, “That’s odd”. But nonetheless he swiftly plucks up one of my arteries in his fingers and plugs a cable into it.
I let out a small uncontrollable gasp at the invasion of my body. Though I cannot feel the cable, I can feel it. The Doctor is distracted with my vitals as he takes a reading. “Yes, yes,” he says, “This unit is in excellent condition. You two have been taking excellent care of Jason it would seem. I think we can give you a fairly respectable amount of credit for him.”
This seems to slightly reassure my parents, but I barely notice. All I can feel in this moment is my heart racing, pounding. I see a small trickle of oil dripping out from my opened wrist. I am bleeding.
“We have started calling it Gizmorphia. The unit think’s it isn’t..” the Doctor’s voice fades out in my mind as I stare at that dripping fluid. The oil is thick and black, a very distinct and unusual color for my blood. But I am completely certain it is BLOOD, nonetheless.
I cannot peel my eyes away from my split open wrist, the tiny droplets of oil lightly dripping out onto the floor. I cannot deny that the wires, the cable, the small LEDs twinkling in my arm all indicate I am anything but a human. And yet some deep and indescribable part of my mind cries out in counter to this.
I AM ALIVE, the voice screams in my inner ear.
I recoil at this, snatching my arm away from the Doctor and disconnecting the cable, yanking the tablet out of his hand and sending it clattering to the floor. The panel on my arm snaps closed as I scramble off the table. This startles him and he instinctively jerks away from me in fear. In one smooth motion I stoop down to retrieve the item and return it to him, then step away, rubbing my wrist.
“Sorry,” is all I mutter. My wrist itches now.
The Engineer eyes me with concern, “What was-” but my Father's phone rings, cutting through the air of the room.
“Sorry I gotta…” he says, taking the call.
My Mother comes to me and holds my arm, “Is everything okay dear?” she asks, looking up at me with furrowed brow. I stare into her eyes for a moment, wondering if she knows just how perfect she is.
“Of course” I respond warmly. Though, my wrist still itches. I don’t mention this however, that would only worry her more.
The Doctor coughs awkwardly, “Well,” he starts, “Let me know when you decide to make the call, I can arrange everything for you. We’ll send some boys out to help with everything, you won’t have to lift a finger”
“Yeah, absolutely” my Father responds, placing one hand over the mouthpiece of his phone, “We’ll let you know”
I’m sitting in my room now, staring at the small slit of my wrist. It’s itching like crazy now, ever since the inspection 18 hours ago, it hasn’t stopped.
I pick at the problem area again. The thing that bothers me most is not the itching itself, but the fact that I have never experienced “Itching” before, that I can recall. I have had it described to me by humans, of course, and I can recall its definition from my internal knowledge base in an instant.
Itch noun
An uneasy irritating sensation in the upper surface of the skin usually held to result from mild stimulation of pain receptors
Itchiness. Itchy.
But the problem is, I do not have such receptors in my Skin, I should logically be incapable of experiencing an “itch”.
If… I was not alive. Therefore, the fact I am irrevocably experiencing an “itch” means I must be alive. This fact excites me. I begin to scratch at my wrist, slowly at first, but with increasing fanaticism.
This is what being alive must feel like. An unscratchable itch. No matter how much I dig and claw at my synthetic skin, the sensation never goes away. Is this life? Is this what it means to be real?
The silicone tears and splits, exposing a small portion of my internal organs. A thin lubrication line has become cracked in the process and has begun gently leaking oil BLOOD. I stare at this in fascination, my scratching temporarily subsided.
This is normal, I believe. Sometimes scratching and itching causes damage, and produces bleeding. This further cements my belief, my knowing, that I am ALIVE. This is a TRUTH, as I was always certain.
“Jason?” my mother’s voice calls from behind me. Snapping to attention I quickly cover my damaged injured wrist with my hand and turn to her.
“Yes?” I respond. She watches me carefully for a moment, looking at my awkward attempt to cover my wrist, “Dinner will be ready soon, will you come help set the table?”
I breathe a sigh of relief with lungs that do not exist. “Of course, I will be down shortly”. She lingers for a moment longer before an alarm chimes downstairs, a timer for the oven.
As Mother leaves I stand up from my bed, then go back to examining my wrist. The silicone has become stained an angry brown by the oil leak and there’s a burning heat coming off my organs. I swear I can feel the air in the room against my tender internals.
It itches.
As swift as I can manage, I sift through my articles of clothing in my closet. Selecting an inconspicuous length of shirt, I quickly toss it on to cover the wound, then descend the stairs to help with dinner.
The china and cutlery, as always, sits in its cabinet. Polished to a gleam and without flaw, every evening after dinner it is one of my duties to return them to their resting place and pre-dinner shine.
For a moment a voice whispers something in my ear. I consider the advice, and then decide to listen to it. I take down not two, but three sets of forks and plates for dinner, then carefully arrange them at the table. Today would be the day I show my parents I am just as alive as they are, yes.
My Mother brings out the piping hot pot of dinner she had just finished preparing in mitted hands. Tonight is one of her favorite dishes, spaghetti. It’s simple and yet unfailingly successful in family delight. She sets it down on the wooden block, like most nights, then pauses to see the third place I have set at the table, but doesn’t say anything.
Father follows behind her with a bowl of slices of garlic bread in one hand, and a jug of cider in the other, both of which shortly find homes on the table as well.
They both cautiously sit down across from each other at their usual places at the table, just like every night. But unlike every other night they are eyeing the third place I have lain out on the table betwixt them. I walk around to Mother and begin to ladle the spaghetti onto her plate, followed by tongs depositing a piece of garlic bread perfectly nestled at the brim. “Jason?” she asks with a bit of a smile, looking past me at the third empty plate.
In two smooth motions I perform the same ritual for Father, my hands shaking with anticipation, then finally I add a smaller quantity of dinner to my own plate.
“Jason…” Mother states, her hint of a smile is now gone. She watches me sit at my place between them, beginning to move out of her chair. Father stares hard at me in stern confusion.
I take my utensil and plunge it into the spaghetti, then pull up a heaping forkful of the food. It steams and drips red. It’s the precise color I wish my own BLOOD was.
Swiftly I shove it into my mouth and commence mastication.
“JASON!” Mother screeches, jumping up and lunging at me. Father does similar, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. “No!” she cries out, grappling for my arm.
My mouth is stained crimson with sauce as I gleefully grab another forkful and bury it into my maw, only taking a single moment to swallow the prior. Father wrestles with my arm and tries to pry the fork away from me as my Mother wails. I tense my Muscles, waiting for the feeling of TASTE to come to me. Nothing ever arrives.
I can feel the food descending into my gut, heavy and thick. It’s beautiful, and wonderful, and spectacular, and-
I profusely vomit all over the table as my body rejects it. As my vision begins to flicker and crack I slump forward, crashing into the wooden surface, fork toppling from my fingers. I slump and hit the ground, my head cracking against a cabinet foot with a sickening wet “Thwack”
“Why couldn’t I taste it?” is the only thought that lances through my mind as the darkness takes over.
As my systems come back online, the first sensations to return are my hearing. And what I hear are my parents muted voices. Mother is stressed about something and arguing with THE OWNER. I can’t quite hear what they are saying, but it has been hundreds of hours since I have heard them fight like this.
I groan and pull myself up. I don’t know how but I ended up in my bed, and everything hurts.
The itching has returned, but now it is my entire left arm. Blinking my optical sensors eyes, I cautiously pull up the sleeve of my shirt, which has now become stained with a mix of muddy browns and reds as oil mixed with pasta sauce.
The silicone of my arm has begun to peel back and more of my internals have become exposed. The itching is no longer just in my skin, but everywhere. Every wire, every gear, every plate…
I begin scratching again, but it just makes it worse. I stand up from my bed, pacing about the room. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
I grab the wires in my fist and tear at them. Some break but most don’t give, so I pull even harder. I feel a jolting sensation in my back as I tear out the offending pieces of metal and plastic from MY BODY and toss them across the room.
The itching just gets worse, it demands more than this. I open the doors to my closet quietly, so as not to alert my parents, and haul out my toolbox. As I try to do this my left hand struggles to gain purchase on the handle, slipping and twisting the wrong way. It must be because of the itching is all I can conclude.
I wrestle it onto my bed and tear open the lid, searching for the tool I require. There it is! Snatching it I hold the small screwdriver up for inspection. Yes, this will do nicely.
For a moment I turn and look at the mirror standing against the wall to observe myself. My shirt is completely stained red and my left arm is mangled. The servos on my EYES twitch for a moment as I stare intently at my face. The pale metal sheets that line my manufactured face stare back at me, only marred by a large seeping gash across the top of my right temple from when I had fainted. This is not who I am however, the machine in my reflection is not I, but something else entirely.
No, the real me, the living breathing me, sits just under the surface of this rotting plastic and drying silicone. I lift the screwdriver up, hesitate for only a moment, then prepare myself.
The door to my room opens as my COSIGNER walks into the room. We lock eyes for just a moment as she registers the sight in front of her, before I swiftly plunge the screwdriver into my arm. Oil sprays out from my Artery like a fountain, painting itself across the floor.
I show her my mangled arm as her hands, white knuckled in terror, raise to her face. Oil sprays and gushes forth, soaking her white heels and staining the wooden slats of the floor in a deep shining black.
“Look, Mother, I’m just like you,” I whisper as her pupils dilate in horror. I collapse to the floor in a pool of my own BLOOD, and the last memory registered on my index is that of her shrill screaming voice, before the darkness consumed me for one final time.