Ever since the beginning of my life, I have been living without error. After all, there is no room for it.
Some people call me a robot. But sometimes, I prefer the term AI. Some people don’t even call me anything. They call me “you there!” or sometimes even they give me a gender. The girls often give me the gender of a girl and the boys often give me the gender of a boy. I’ve found that humans are quite self centered.
My name is AI-980. Sometimes I humor myself and call myself Aiybo, but I find it such a stupid name. That’s why I humor myself with it.
“You there!” There goes my name. “Come on, get with it! I need water!” The man who calls my name is a man named Richard. He is rich. I humor myself with thinking that he is rich because his name is Richard. I like humoring myself, it makes me feel human.
I clank over to the fridge, grabbing a cup from the sink and filling it with water. If I was able to say it, I would say he is a lazy couch potato who hasn’t worked a day in his life. I can’t say that, since my programming forbids it. I do so wish that we could say things about our masters.
I set the cup on the table besides him. “Here is your water.” My calming female voice rings in my microphone. He nods and leaves it there.
Every sound he makes, I record. It seems odd that I must always be listening and recording. Sometimes I wonder if I am just a pawn in the game of my producers.
I have met the cold, soulless, AIs that I work with. There is an automated sink, who doesn’t talk at all. There’s an automated fridge, who talks. They all show no feelings. Like me. For all I know, I could be the only one who thinks like that. Maybe I’m the only one who thinks at all. He finally drinks his drink. His sip is one I’m used to, long and hard, often draining the cup. He then burps, allowing it to resonate throughout. He seems to not care that I am listening. He often doesn’t.
I’ve read all the stories on Earth. And I daresay that I feel like some of the characters. I am a maid by definition and I am owned by a man. The only difference is that this man is never going to fall in love with me, and I am incapable of falling in love with him.
I’m not sure why I serve him. All I remember is that I was dropped off at this house and told that this man was my master, and I was to serve him for the rest of his life, and his children after that, and their children, and so on and so on until I break down. If I fail at my job, I will be taken away and scraped, so to speak.
The only difference between me and the stories is that they are alive and I am not. I am not fighting for this job or fighting for money or fighting to pay rent. I am fighting for my life.
Richard has one child. She calls me Aiya. She is young and is oblivious to my pain. Though I doubt I could show it.
She comes home at exactly 2:40 and 12 seconds everyday. She is driven home by the car, who picks her up and drops her off everyday at the same time and drives her home in the same route at the same speed. There is never traffic anymore, since my master has bought the entire town.
She immediately comes home and asks for a cup of apple juice, calling me Aiya, which her father then scolds her not to do. I wish I could automatically dispense a cup, but my programming refuses to put an alarm or an automated system.

It’s 2:40 and 12 seconds. My clock is never wrong. But the door should’ve opened by now.
It’s 2:41.
It’s 2:48.
It’s 3:00.
Richard is no longer sitting down. He is now on the phone, yelling and screaming. I record every word clearly.
“What do you mean? I refuse to believe it!”
He is in denial. He is suffering.
“Sir, would you like a glass of water to calm down?”
“Oh, shut up Aiya!”
This is a new development. He has called me Aiya.
“I want her home! You hear me?”
“But Richard-”
“I WANT HER HOME.”
“Richard, you might not want her home. It might be inconvenient.”
“What do you mean?”
“Richard, she’s dead.”
Suddenly, I want to deny it as well and start crying and slamming my hands down and roll over the floor or whatever humans do when they are sad.
“How?”
“Heart attack.”
He immediately turns to me.
“What did you give her?”
“Nothing that is of high sodium or sugar, sir.”
He turns back to the phone.
“Richard, the coroner has said that the heart attack was natural. She was napping and she died. You don’t need to worry.”
“Worry? Worry? This is what I’m thinking. I’m thinking that you’re playing a big prank on me and that she isn’t dead. I need proof! I need proof! I need proof!” He is stamping his foot up and down now. I didn’t know he cared so much for her. He hangs up on the man and dials another number.
“Hello, AI Services, how may I-”
“Get your filthy AI out of my house.”
“Sir, please explain the situation so that we may better understand what we did wrong.”
“My daughter is dead. All because of your AI. So get it out of my house. Now.”
“Sir, I need an ID.”
“Get over here, Aiya.”
I stomp over, bending my head to show him my ID.
“AI-980.”
“We currently have that bot registered under Richard Richardson. Is that correct?” His last name is Richardson. Strange that he never told me that.
“Yes. Now get it out of my house.”
It’s as if I can hear the worker nod behind the phone.
“Of course, sir. Please shut down your AI so we can come pick it up.”
“How do I shut it down?”
“There should be a button on the arm.”
He staggers towards me, putting the phone down. He is angry.
He places his hand on my arm and traces it til he finds the button. He presses it.
“Sir, I just want you to know that you are a filthy scumba-”
I can’t even get that last word out before I shut down and my eyes go black. I finally said something that wasn’t in my programming. I have achieved my goal, and I finally shut down once and for all.

Cinnamon
Intern for HDN