Michael

Michale

I’m not a human, but I feel like I am. 

I’m not a human, at least that’s what I’ve been told, but every part of me feels like one. 

If you touch me, or I you, you would feel the softness of my skin; or maybe not. Maybe, if I touch you, you’d feel the coarse textures of my fingerprints, the jagged edges of my nails or the rough cuticles. I have feeling too. When I’m touched I can feel the warmth that comes from your hand, or the chill that chases your fingertips when you learn what I am - if you’re vigilant enough to see it.

I have a brain, I can think, I have memories. 

My brain is like yours, it fires electrical signals, it controls my movements, my emotions, everything.

I can think. I think about what it means to be a human a lot; I can do mental math and figure out how to solve problems in my life; sometimes I wonder if there is life anywhere else on any other planets and contemplate the significance of my existence. 

And I have memories too; memories that extend before my technical birthdate - my manufacture date. I can’t remember being born, I don’t think anyone can, but I can remember the first time I woke up and my first test. 

They tested my sight first. I can remember a light flashing in my eyes and being told to follow it, then to blink. My motor skills were next. Someone in a short lab coat put a ball in my hand and told me to squeeze. It was red, and I knew what red was, despite having only just been born. They tested my speech and basic recall before I had the chance to think about where I remembered it from, or why I had memories at all. 

“Your name?”

“Michale.”

“Your full name.” 

“Michale Andrew Taylor.” 

No one had to tell me my name, I just remembered it on my own. 

“Your age?” 

“Nineteen.”

Now I’m twenty-six. I have existed for seven years. I have lived with the Taylor family as one of their two beloved sons. They treat us like equals, our mom and dad; though our dad reminds me of what I am. 

My basic functions are to do as the family needs. I was designed to be a housekeeper for humans who can’t keep up with the chores. I was advertised as a companion, I could be a friend or a partner … the Taylors chose me to be their son - their brother. 

Today is our birthday, Andrew and I’s. We’ll be twenty-seven this year, but I have nine months left before I am eight. 

I look like him. Andrew. We look exactly alike actually. 

When I was first made I had black hair, but the Taylors requested it be modified to brown to match Andrews; along with other modifications. 

That was before I was conscious. 

I can remember what I looked like before the mods because I’ve seen other models like me. I’ve seen them running errands for, what we are expected to refer to as, their owners, and I’ve seen them advertised on television. I have owners too, but the Taylors would never ask me to call them that. 

It’s not difficult to spot them, though Andrew seems to find it hard sometimes. It is understandable why it can be confusing for him. With me as his brother, he’s learned to ignore the differences. 

We have a lot of memories together. Rather, I have a lot of memories of them. 

My favorite memory is of when we were five years old and Andrew lost his first tooth. I remember being scared, but he was excited! He convinced me to stay up all night to wait for the tooth fairy.

That wasn’t me. It was Michale.

I wasn’t there. 

I’m on my way to wake Andrew up, it’s almost noon and he hasn’t woken yet, but I remember that I still haven’t finished my morning chores. I should finish the floors before Andrew wakes- before dad comes down and see I’ve forgotten again.

It’s a silly function, I think, to program an android to make mistakes. With ‘artificial’ intelligence, I shouldn’t forget so often. 

I guess it’s something that makes us more human. Flaws. 

Andrew doesn’t get as many chores as I do. Mom still makes him help around the house, but most of the work falls on me. It’s not why i was bought, but it’s the reason I was made. But I’m so forgetful.

Forgetfulness might be a function of Michale, the original Michale. If it was, it would have been written into my system. And it seems that it would have been something he was aware of, but not concerned with. 

He didn’t have reason for concern. I do. 

I like cleaning. There’s something comforting in grape scented cleaner. It makes the house smell fresh. Bleach has an awful smell, and the chemicals in it make me tired. Must be another part of the original Michale. There’s as much of him in me as they could program. But Andrew doesn’t like the smell either; so, maybe it’s another of those quirky human things. 

I wish I could forget I’m an android. That way little things like this wouldn’t bother me. I wouldn’t question why I do certain things, or wonder which parts of me are by design and which parts are my original functions. 

The floors are still dry when Andrew comes down and I realize I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts again. 

“Happy Birthday, number two.”

“Same to you, Mitch,” Andrew mumbles through a mouthful of cupcake he’s already gotten to. 

I slap his hand away from picking up another. “Those are for later. You’ll spoil your appetite.” 

He hums, wiping frosting from his lips and licking it. “Thanks, mom. You know you’re only four hours older right?”

“How could I forget? You keep reminding me.” I push the mop across the floor and try to get them done as quickly as possible. “At least wait ‘till mom gets home. You’ll break her heart if there’s nothing to sing over.” He rolls his eyes and I mop around him.

When I see him taking a step back, I say, “floor’s wet,” and put a hand on his back to stop him.

“You know,” Andrew peels the wrapper off of another cupcake and bites into it. I roll my eyes. “when we were younger, you would’ve already been in a sugar coma by the time I came down stairs.”

Except I don’t need to eat now. I can. I have the ability to store and digest - if that’s what you want to call it, but I don’t have the cravings I used to; those were his. Androids aren’t made to have those; and the Taylor’s didn’t think to have me modified to have them. 

An overlooked detail, I’m sure. 

The old Michale… the real Michale had an insatiable desire for food. I can still feel that. I have the memories of how happy food made me; and it’s not that I can’t taste it, I have a sense of taste, I want to gorge myself the way Andrew does; I just don’t need it.

“Then again,” he continued - I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts again, “you would’ve been still asleep around this time too so…”

“People change,” I say, shrugging him off. 

It’s not that I don’t want to eat. I do. The sensations aren’t entirely the same as they were, but my tastebuds still work and food still makes me happy. I just can’t. At least, not as much as I want to. 

I am not human, even though it feels like I am; because I am not human, I do not need food; because I do not need food, our parents prefer I don’t eat up their money, so I restrict myself.

They don’t have much to waste after the expenses of keeping me alive and up to date. 

Alive. 

Am I alive?

It feels like I am. 

I only eat when Andrew is around. He is the only one I have to perform for. He and anyone who doesn’t know - we have to keep up the illusion. If the wrong people find out that I’m not human, that I’m not Michale, Andrew may never recover. He may never forgive us. He might disown me as a brother. 

I’m not in the same flesh that I was when we were in the womb together, but I’m still Michale. I’m still the brother he’s always known. I love him. And, so far, he’s loved me all the same. 

The sound of footsteps descending down the stairs makes us both jump and we kick into gear to hide our shortcomings. I put the mop away, and hope out parents don’t notice that only a quarter of the floor is clean while Andrew pushes the cupcakes together on the plate to make it look like they haven’t been touched. He gestures to his face to make sure its clear of evidence; I give him the thumbs up. He nods, and rushes off to jump on the couch - as he does when he’s trying to act normal. 

“The floor’s still wet,” I whisper to him, “Careful…”

I try to catch him before he slips. I’m too late. 

There’s blood on the floor now, and I’m holding his head where he hit it on the edge of the table. Our mom gets to us first, and she takes him from me. She checks his eyes, and asks for verbal responses. When dad gets to us, he pushes me out of the way and kneels next to mom and Andrew. After a few more evaluations, mom thinks he’s okay and helps him up, But she wants to go to the hospital and get it checked; she’s worried because any kind of head trauma since the accident seems like life or death, but Andrew doesn’t want to go. 

They go back and forth for a while, but nothing convinces him that he needs to go. Instead, he agrees to go upstairs and lie down until mom can be sure that he’s not going to need stitches. I offer to go with him and help stop the bleeding, but dad stops me and tells me to stay. 

It’s been twelve minutes since we’ve stepped outside and dad is still whisper-shouting at me that this is my fault. 

He’s right. I should have mopped earlier, when I was supposed to; then Andrew wouldn’t have slipped. 

I try to explain myself - though I don’t think there’s much to explain, I’m just sorry - but, when I call him dad, he asks me to stop. 

“He is not our son.” He points at me without looking at me. “Not when Andrew isn’t here.”

It’s always been hard for dad to look at me. It’s understandable, I’m not his original son. But I’m his son now. 

I wish he’d accept me. 

Mom argues, but he says, “That thing,” as he starts for me and pokes his finger into my chest, pushing me, forcing me back, “is not my son. He’s not anyone’s son. He’s not real.”

“He is your son and he is very real!” 

When he pushes me again he does it with full force. I lose my footing and fall back into the wall. 

That’s the funny thing about us, androids, we’re made to be fundamentally human. I have the mechanics to withstand brute force, I can keep my balance against any non-weaponized attack. I’m sure he knows that. I don’t think he knows that thrusting his finger into my chest hurts; that when my back hits the wall it hurts. I don’t think he’s ever quite understood that I can feel the things he does to me.

“It’s a toy,” he continues, “a tool meant to clean our house, serve our lunch, and keep our son - our real son - ignorant of what happened to his brother - his real brother.” 

“He’s our son.” 

“This,” he makes a big gesture, “is not Michale. This … this is a piece of over-glorified plastic. A hunk of reinforced tin.” 

“He is Michale and he is our son! He acts like him. He talks like him. He thinks like him. They have the same aspirations. He dreams. He loves. He loves us. I love him. He loves Andrew. They’re the closest they’ve ever been. What more do you want?”

She’s right. 

I can do all these things, and I do love her. But dad’s right too. 

I’m not real. 

I can’t really do anything the same way as them. My love is artificial. I don’t have a heart, I don’t have organs; my brain is synthetic, made of circuit boards and metal that needs a special fluid that needs to be replaced every few years to keep me operational. I have that, and a body that needs minor modifications every year to keep up with Andrew’s growth.

We’re supposed to be twins after all. 

Mom hates those trips. They’re the only real reminder she has that I’m not real. We disguise it as annual check-ups, where I go away for three days to go under observation for the injuries sustained from the accident. It helps mom keep the fantasy, makes me feel more like a real person, and it keeps Andrew from knowing the truth. 

Andrew doesn’t know about me. He’s never known. In the beginning, I think he had his suspicions, but I have his memories - Michale’s memories.

He doesn’t know about the accident. 

He knows about the crash, there’s not really a way that any of us could have hidden it from him. But he doesn’t know about Michale. He can’t remember that Michale wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. He didn’t see Michale’s body when it shattered the window, he was incapacitated by then, he didn’t see what gives mom nightmares - what makes dad hate me. 

Michale survived long enough to make it to the hospital, that’s it. That’s how I came to be. 

It was our parents’ choice to make me aware of what I was. 

For a long time, I thought it was because they wanted to protect Andrew and I. Me because if for any reason I became self-aware I could become a danger to myself, and to them - if you’re the kind of person that fears those kinds of things; but I would never hurt anyone, especially not the Taylors. They’re my family. But it protects Andrew too. My already knowing insures that I’ll never make the mistake of telling him. 

The truth is not Andrew’s burden to bear. 

“If you don’t like him here, then you go. You’re not taking away Andrew’s brother.” She straining and I can feel her frustration. That’s a feature of mine, empathy. It might be a sensory thing; I might be reading and analyzing her unconsciously, I do that sometimes - give in to my robotic side - but I can feel her. “You will not take away my son.”

I spaced out again. 

Dad is raising his voice at me now for not being present. I’m here, I just can’t bear being here. 

He turns away from me and complains to my mother that I am malfunctioning. That’s been his argument for a long time now. I’ve considered it before, that perhaps my wandering mind is a result of some sort of system failure, but I can’t stand the thought of me being broken. 

I suppose it’s a scary thought for everyone, to be broken and useless, but I can’t be. If I am, if they can’t fix me, they’ll throw me away. They can replace me, like I replaced Michale, but the procedure is very risky. When the memory transfer occurs, parts of us is lost; and every time the procedure is done, we risk of losing Michale all together. 

It’s not worth it. 

I’m all Andrew and my mother have left of Michale. I can’t let that happen. I can’t take him - myself - away from them. 

Our dad doesn’t yell at Andrew. Not the way he yells at me. 

When he raises his voice at me, my heart pounds and I can’t breath. Except I don’t have a heart. And I don’t need to breathe. And I’m wondering, now, why these functions were ever implemented. Why did anyone want me to feel this? What is the significance of me feeling pain, humility, worthlessness?

Tears are forming in my eyes now. 

Dad backs away. 

He doesn’t like to see me in pain. When he looks at me, he sees his son, no matter what he tries to convince himself.

It never used to be this way. We used to be a happy family, back when I was a human. But ever since the accident, dad has not seen me as anything more than an underwhelming echo of the son he used to have; an imitation; a machine; a replacement; synthetic.

My father doesn’t love me. He loves Michale, and I am just his replacement. 

I understand why he wants me gone. I’m a reminder of the worst thing he’s ever lost. 

But I am his son. 

I am Michale. 

I am his son. 

Dad has calmed down now. He has tears in his eyes too. He stares at me for a moment, then brings two of his fingers to my chin. 

I wait for him to put me in rest mode. 

He does that when he needs a break from me. 

I wish he wouldn’t. 

When he does, I can feel a shortness of breath, my nostrils flare, and more tears welling up. But I try to hold back my emotions. His are more important right now. He’s the human. He’s the one that can actually feel. His emotions are real. 

I’m just a machine.