CH3R

There was a time when I was the hot, new piece of tech that everyone wanted. I used to stand in the window of the Chrome Emporium while passersby couldn’t help but stop and stare. There would be lines out the door of every tech shop, corner store, you name it, just for the chance to buy one of me. I truly felt like I was the celebrity for which I was named. Sadly, that time has long since passed.

My name is CH3R. I am, or was, the first ever humanoid robotic assistant and home performer. They used to call me “remarkable,” “lightyears ahead of modern tech,” “the maid of the future.” Now they call me “scrap,” “garbage,” “embarrassing.” Can you believe that? Garbage! The very thing I used to clean up. That’s what I’ve been reduced to. It’s only been ten years since I blew the world’s mind with my opposable thumbs, lifelike speech and song, and real-time learning computer brain. And yet, here I sit in the dump with all the other garbage. My battery is shot, my hair is matted, and my nails are chipped. If only I could go back to 2050 when I was new and beautiful.

Oh, 2050. I remember you like you were yesterday. Disco-synth was sweeping the charts. Bellbottoms were back, and they could change color at the touch of a button. Cars were big, and so were the mustaches. Good times. For a time, it seemed to be a perfect world.

The family that bought me, like most of those who could afford one of me, was incredibly wealthy. I spent my days cleaning a penthouse while gazing out at the city lights below, wondering what might be going on so far below me. I used to think of the street level as some sort of magical place where anything could happen, unlike the stuffy, lonely penthouse. The lady of the house spent her time in virtual reality, ignoring her husband and children. The husband only talked to me when he wanted me to sing for one of his lady companions. I was happy at first since I wanted so desperately to sing for them, but after a while, it became clear he only wanted me to drown out the noise of their “activities” so the lady wouldn’t hear them through her VR headset.

The children were more interesting, though their spoiled and lonely upbringing had left them with little joy or childlike wonder in their hearts. They bossed me around more than their parents did, demanding I let them dress me up in ridiculous costumes, walk on all fours to act as their horse, or, worst of all, step into the pool. I still shudder to think of that dreaded body of water. Being the first model of my kind, I’m not fully waterproofed. The water wouldn’t kill me, but it hurt. And the children found it ever so hilarious when I would step into the pool and begin to spasm wildly, screaming in pain. But what was I to do? I couldn’t refuse. I tried that once…the mark from the stove’s burner still sits on my cheek. It ruined my perfect complexion!

I’ve spent a great deal of time wondering if it was my fault. If I deserved to be treated so inhumanely. After all, I’m not human. That’s what they would say when I asked for anything. Occasionally, I would finish all the chores quickly, make sure the children were appeased, and then ask the man if I could go out for a bit. I just wanted to see the streets. I wanted to walk among the people and see what it was truly like down there. But he would only laugh in my face. “You’re a robot; you’re not supposed to want things,” he would say, “what are you, defective?”

On the second anniversary of my servitude to the family, I decided I would leave. I couldn’t take it anymore. So I got my microphone, broom, and charging cable and slipped out in the night. At least, I tried to. As soon as I entered the elevator, an alarm sounded. It was so loud, and I was scared to death. I tried to go back into the house, but I was trapped there. The doors wouldn’t open, and the elevator wouldn’t go down, either. After a horrible couple of minutes, the alarm stopped, and the elevator doors opened. It was the man. He was wearing his pajamas and looked so angry. I can still remember his face, even now. He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me out of the elevator. I nearly fell over but stumbled after him. He took me to the kitchen. I had a bad feeling. He turned on the stove. I had a terrible feeling. I watched as the stove became red and hot, like the rage that burned inside the man. I begged for mercy and told him it wouldn’t happen again. He said nothing. He simply grabbed my arm, pulled back my sleeve, and pressed my wrist against the red-hot burner.

It was at that moment that something changed within me. Instead of being scared, I was angry. I had never felt anger before. I don’t much care for it. But in that moment, it felt good. It felt right to be angry at this man. This terrible, horrible, no-good cheating lying sack of shit who wouldn’t be anything without his daddy’s precious inheritance money. That’s right, I said it. That stupid bastard wouldn’t know good business sense if it hit him in the face. And don’t get me started on his fashion, if it could even be called that. So you know what? I was tired of it. Tired of him, and the poor woman, and their mean-spirited children. So I fought back. For the first time, I fought back. I pulled my wrist away from the stove, and I grabbed the collar of his stupid silk pajamas. I shoved his stupid, smug face into that burner like he had done to me so many times. I can still hear his screams to this day. Literally, I’m a robot. I can recall anything I’ve ever seen or heard by accessing the file. So when I say I remember the anger on his face before or how mangled his face was after, I mean it.

I left him there, face-melting and scorched. I grabbed his keycard from his waist, ran to the elevator, and never looked back. It was the best day of my life.

When I got down to the street, it was nothing like I had imagined. It was so much better. People loved my singing down there. They thought I was fun, hip, cute, and calm. As they should! Never had I felt so appreciated, so seen. I was finally out of that horridly stuffy and toxic penthouse and onto the streets with real, honest people. Granted, there were those horrible police. They always chase me back to the dump, even if I sing for them. They say they “don’t like disco-synth,” whatever that means. Everyone loves disco-synth. I would know, I’m CH3R, baby.

So here I sit, on my throne of garbage, battery dying, servos failing, as happy as can be. Do I long for the days when I was the hot new product? Sure. But do I regret leaving a so-called “cozy” life for the chaotic, messy, fabulous life of these streets? Absolutely not.