An Eye For An Eye and The World Goes Blind || A DETROIT: BECOME HUMAN Story

catheryn

» NOVEMBER 4TH, 2040
8:19 PM

I sat on the roof of my apartment building, approximately twenty stories high. I came up here often; to think, to unwind, to process whatever chaos my life had somehow managed to combust into. Tonight, I was here for those reasons combined. I had every worry, every stress in the world.
My life has been a whirlwind of forcing my mind to shut out everything around me. I did not know what I wanted next; I had no plan, no future, no hope.
So I lit a cigarette, and I dared to sit on the edge, swinging my legs. The wind blew and cars honked below me and I think I felt a drop of rain or two. But nonetheless, I swung my legs like a child and watched Detroit live on. I felt distanced from it; a good type of distance. The type where you want to exist, but not live; you want to observe, but not become involved. And I do just that. Detroit is a part of me, but I am not a part of Detroit.
As I inhaled the little white death stick, I thought about my mother, what she would say if she saw me smoking.
"It's going to kill you—"
I would probably tell her, "Yeah? Well soon enough, you're gonna succumb to red ice, Mom. That's going to kill you."
I puffed out a cloud of smoke. I could almost make out her image in the thick ash. She's dead now. And I smoke, maybe, once a month.
I think about her a lot, but not enough to feel regret or remorse for what had happened. She left me. I was barely seventeen when she dumped me with my deadbeat father, running off with an android whose deviancy was meant to be kept a secret. She came back every now and then, high on red ice, to tell me how great her sex was with this android and how she wished so badly they could have a child.
At that point, I had distanced myself the same way I do now; I observe. I listen, I watch, but I don't become involved. So I would let her speak and wait until she left. I would not hope for the next time I'd see her — months from whenever.
My father would throw a beer bottle at her. He'd miss, the glass would shatter against the wall and she would laugh, duck out the front door and hop into a car with her new robot boyfriend. I wanted nothing to do with her any longer, nor my father, so I left.
That was three years ago, though. I've found my way on my own, struggling, but managing. Those I meet on the street say I might have better luck befriending androids, but... the whole android epidemic has been in the back of my mind since the very beginning in 2038. I remember watching the news. It was all that played. I remember reading the virtual magazines — it was either about Canada or androids.
Then, about a year ago, I got the call from the DPD late on a Tuesday night. My father had been shot, killed in cold blood in a back alley on the other side of the city. I went to check it out. I vividly remember my hood up, my face stern as I stood behind the yellow caution tape, watching the rain splash off the bodybag they stuffed my father into. I remember looking at myself in the police car window, my reflection lit by the demanding red and blue lights. I had no parents, now; now I knew it was just me. Besides, the bastard had it coming.
"Did he... have anybody that could've had something against him? To do this?" A cop came up behind me, looking at my face through the window also.
I paused. "No..." I mustered, not looking up, "I hated him. Somebody else must have, too."
My lips purse together as I recall that night. The dreadful days following in which I arrived at my father's grimy apartment to recover anything I might want ownership of. He didn't keep a whole lot of valuable items in his apartment, only empty bottles, rolling paper and a bunch of loose change.
With some proper digging through his mounds of useless items that would soon be taken to a dump, I found only one cracked picture frame of the three of us: my mother, father and I, when I was young. I stuffed it into a cardboard box that was holding a simple five objects when I left to take it home.
When my mother died, it was a much different situation than that of my father's. She was not killed, but rather the victim of her own doing: she had overdosed on red ice. Ironically I had warned her of the dangers of using the drug, but subsequently, she would never listen to me. Of course.
"Mom, I think you should stop, it's not—"
"It's not gonna fuckin' kill me. Damn, you kid," She spat, "you think you know everything."
The android she had been with at the time was no comfort to me during the time of her death. It was hard on me. My memory was littered with too many good moments of my mother and I, much more so than with my father. For awhile, I resented talking to the android. I wanted nothing to do with him. But he and I would cross paths on the occasion, like going somewhere my mother used to enjoy. I ran into him at a virtual book store in the heart of Detroit, where he tried to speak to me.
"Catheryn, please—"
I pushed through the door that rung a jingle and made an escape to the nearest bus as fast as I could. I didn't owe him anything. He didn't know my mother. He knew the high, disappointing version of her who was no longer a mother to me.
Over time, my anger towards androids grew into an anger strictly towards my mother and my father for failing to be around for the rest of my life. I tried to place the blame on my mother's "boyfriend", but he was at fault for nothing. It took me countless sleepless nights to realize I have nothing against androids as a whole. I figure they want to be human, they want to be free, and it doesn't involve me. Perhaps, I wonder, the android my mother was with had the same mindset. He wanted to be as human as possible.
When it comes to staying up to date, especially regarding androids, I barely watch the news, I hardly ever read magazines. It is the vigorously changing world around me that I pay no mind to. I'm in my own.
I flicked the cigarette butt from my fingers. It flew before me, falling from the roof, most likely drifting to land on some unlucky fellow's head. I had no other cigarette to light. So I would head inside now.
It was beginning to feel like the crisp, early winter, and nightfall came quickly. I was smart about entering the building so that no android or human alike would spot me somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. I slipped down the hall, into the elevator, back to my floor. The usual way I went never failed me; I was a natural. To my knowledge, nobody had ever seen me escape to or from the roof.
I pulled the key from my pocket and unlocked my door to the studio apartment I lived in. Every time I see it, I get a chill down my spine, reminding myself of the dirty task I was faced with performing in order to obtain it. The landlord still gives me a look whenever I see him, to which I flash a forced smile and turn away to gag. I was seventeen when I moved in. I had nothing, so I did what I had to do.
Fortunately, I was given this apartment for next to nothing, and I usually am able to come by the rent.
It's simple. I have a queen bed, a fridge, counters, small bathroom — I'm not home too often, so it's perfect for a busybody in Detroit like myself.
In the corner by my bed sits the cardboard box I retrieved full of my father's belongings a year ago. I never bothered nor cared to unbox it. There was nothing in there with any value to me besides that picture. But a part of my soul refrains me from even looking at it.
I sighed as I closed the door behind me, locking all three locks and the chain at the top. I lived in a building with crackheads, so, better safe than sorry.
It wasn't a late night for me, as most go until three or four AM, but I was tired. Today was a day full of reflective behavior, which often wore me out from the crying, the anger, the walking around Detroit mindlessly to distract myself. I had tuned in to the President's message the previous morning which had startled all of Detroit.
"You hear the President's statement about CyberLife?" I was asked at the coffee shop down the block.
"Yes, I did," I replied.
The whole day, it was:
"The President's message—"
"... and android babies?"
"Something about a hundred new models..."
"Aren't those things supposed to be dangerous?"
"So what about our jobs?"
"No, we are not adopting another child—"
I listened to every cellular or in-person conversation I could narrow in on. Each one that day was, of course, regarding the President's message. It seemed as though society cared for nothing else other than their androids. I was uninterested, mostly, but the President's broadcast sparked what little interest I had.
The magazine on my little one-person table read, in large, red writing:

PRESIDENT WARREN ANNOUNCES CYBERLIFE'S NEWEST ADDITIONS
Why she claims androids are "with us"

And to the side, other headlines included:

Want an Android baby? Your wish is granted...

I sneered at the magazine and whisked it aside. No android baby interested me. What did intrigue me, though, was the idea that androids were now created to mimic humans as closely as possible. It reminded me of the android my mother was with. Every time they were around he spoke only of what he wished he could do and the freedom he wished he had.
In the beginning, I couldn't tell the difference between an android and a human without the LED and suits they wear. Now, I imagine it must be to the same extent, but perhaps worse. I wondered how they lived their lives now. Probably similarly to humans: They work, they pay, they build relationships...
Where I work, a job offered to me by an old friend of my father, androids come in often. But they never want the company of a human like myself. It's always the models that were designed for the job (and now have the free will to stay with the job) that are selected. Despite the blatant irony, I wasn't one of the crazies who believed androids were stealing humans' jobs. I was open-minded enough to believe that, if they were as equal to us as they wanted to be, it didn't matter.
I never interact with androids too much besides those who are employed; if I must have a conversation with the android selling me groceries, then so be it. In general, I was secluded — I grew up being extroverted and outgoing, but the older I got, the more aware I became of the fact that I could rely on nobody.
So I speak to nobody. My job requires me no more than to provide pleasure for whatever men, women or androids come in. I don't do a whole lot of talking.
Tonight as I read the magazine cover I realized that my habits of being isolated and relatively quiet may be hindered and thrown off a bit. The announcements about more androids were not harmful, but they allowed me to see a future I otherwise couldn't. More androids means more business, means more change to Detroit...
I wished to escape the city, but part of me felt compelled to stay. I tell myself my mother and father are never going to come back, but I seek a belonging, and the only place I can think of to turn to is here.
I wondered how my life was going to change. I'm young and inexperienced, but my opportunities are scarce. I lay on my bed now, my eyes fixated on the stucco ceiling, my breath smelling of smoke and Pepsi. Maybe tomorrow, a new day, would give me something new and different.
I shake this off. Don't be stupid.
Tomorrow is a day like all the rest. I go to work, I perform, I get tipped, then I go to the bar with the big red sign posted NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED to have a drink or two.
My life as I knew it was not going to change, despite what I may want, despite what I tell myself. I had nothing going for me, nothing to look forward to, nobody to confide in. I was by myself, like I had grown used to.
But for the first time in years, I felt lonely.