when I was a kid my mother wanted a robot child
Literally. No metaphors or anything I'm telling you out loud she wanted a child made of metal and code
When she said it like that I wanted a metal sibling too, someone who would join in with my mischief without fear of breaking. A little brother, for me to be better than. Both older and younger than me at the same time, better than me at math but able to hide my own social lack with his lack of humanity. I built a perfect world where I had a robot brother who I knew best of all, the way that children do. I think somewhere in there was the fantasy of being listened to, of being allowed time with my siblings that wasn't protective. The dream of being encouraged.
My mother bought me a robot cat once. And a robot fish. We weren't allowed live pets in the rented houses I grew up in. Eventually the cat lost its spark, the pre-programmed movements became rote. We found the water sensor on the fish, learned how to make it flop and 'swim' through a drop of spit. The magic of robot life shattered by the realty of toy limitations.
We took apart the cat. And my robot baby doll. Tore off their skin like taxidermy, knew them more intimately through their insides. I was taught to look at how things worked, to break the illusion of life. No real tail wagging, just a string laced through plastic joints ; no real eyes blinking, just magnetic eyelids operating on a loop. One of my other dolls just had a hollow where her brain should be - you could take off her wig and see it whenever you wanted.
Would she have taken me apart too, if she could?
