To the Bone

“You’re a robot,” said Thomas. 

It sounded cold, but in his mind, there was no other way to say it. Cassie was fourteen now, old enough to know the truth. And it wasn’t fair to hide it anymore. The artificial life debate was dominating public consciousness, with each side demanding a voice over the other. She was going to find out sooner or later. And he’d always wanted an open, honest relationship with his family. To not tell her, in a time when she deserved to know… well, it didn’t seem fair.

Her reaction was what he expected. Cassie sat there in her pyjamas, stunned. Long brown hair cut into a fringe, framing wide eyes on a frozen face. She seemed so small in the stuffed armchair, the open fire flickering its orange embers against her freckled complexion. Her hands were still wrapped around her mug of hot chocolate. She was taking it to her room before Thomas called her over and said, as gentle as he could, they needed to talk.

“We couldn’t have children,” said Janine, Thomas’ wife. She put a hand on Cassie’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. She always preferred a softer approach; in her mind, it was more about family. “We tried for years. But when we saw you, we knew you were perfect.”

“And technically, it’s biosynth,” said Thomas. “I know robot isn’t PC these days, but it’s what others are going to call you, so…”

“You’re lying,” said Cassie. She stared at a hand, both sides, as though she was seeing it for the first time. “Why would you say that? I’m not a synth.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” said Janine. “You look like any other person — you eat, sleep, grow, the same as anyone else. But the technology inside you is like a whole new world, and soon you’re going to discover it, and how it will change you. You’ve probably noticed it already.”

“Yeah, it’s called being a teenager.” She searched her mother’s face, a sign for the joke they’d decided to pull, or a reason behind the lie. She found none. “Why are you saying this?”

“You’ve seen the news,” said Thomas. “The riots, the hate campaigns. It’s only getting worse. Fear breeds fear, on both sides. Robots are afraid to come out, and people are afraid of them hiding among us. But we wanted you to know, so you have that choice. Whether you use that information now, or years from now, that’s up to you. We want you to know who you are.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Cassie looked up, her voice small. “So you’re not my parents?”

“Oh sweetie.” Janine wrapped Cassie in her arms, held her tight over the stuffed arm of the chair. “Of course we’re your parents. We’ll always love you.”

“My parents,” said Cassie. She repeated the word, as though it had an uncomfortable fit in her mouth. “Do I even have a real mother and father? Or was I just made in some factory?”

“It doesn’t matter where you came from,” said Janine. “What matters is you’re here with us. You’re our daughter, no matter what.”

“I’m a thing.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Thomas. “You’re fourteen years old—”

“In robot years.”

“In human years.” Thomas sighed. How to explain it? The technology behind the biosynth framework, the stuff that allowed their artificial matter to grow, like any real human… most of it was over his head, but the artificial cells, multiplying, dividing, replacing — those principles were the same as any human. Outside, Cassie was just another face in the crowd. But inside…

“I hate you.”

Janine leaned back, her throat tight. “Sweetie, we know you’re confused. I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

Cassie twisted her body out of Janine’s arms. “No! I hate you!” The cup of hot chocolate dropped from her hands, splashing thick on the rug, and she leapt out of her chair, stomped up the stairs, and all Thomas and Janine heard was a door slamming, loud and cold in the night.

*     *     *

The bathtub was cold under her bare feet. Cassie pulled her knees to her chest, not caring where the tears fell. Her sobs echoed in the empty bathroom, the only room in the house that had a lock on the door, and she’d thrown it shut as she tried to push their words out of her head.

It was a lie. All of it. If not the last few moments, then her whole life. Biosynth. Not their real daughter. None of it was real. 

She looked around the room, as though it could provide answers. Just tiles and pressed towels. On the sink, a cup with three toothbrushes, one for each member of the family. It suddenly struck her as so dumb. A toothbrush — did she even need a toothbrush? Were her teeth even real? What was the point of brushing if they were ceramic, or plastic, or made in a lab somewhere? Next to the toothbrushes, in a second cup on the right, was her father’s razor. One of the cutthroat types. He shaved with it every day. And next to that, her mother’s curling iron, still plugged in.

A sob choked Cassie’s throat. Reminders of her parents… or the two people who said they were her parents. She couldn’t escape them, or their words. She shut her eyes, blocked it out, but the pain in her chest, her head, none of it would stop. The world seemed like a vice, against her, pressing harder. She had to make it stop.

And them. She had to make them sorry.

She didn’t hesitate as she stood from the tub and grabbed the razor from the sink. The blade looked sharp and narrow, and she could smell traces of shaving foam on the handle. Her friend at school, Meagan, was always saying ‘up the road, not across the street’, most likely just for shock-value attention, because she still came to class every day, her arms unmarked. But now, Cassie understood.

Cassie pressed it against the skin in her inner forearm, near the elbow, and held it there for a moment. The metal was cold. A deep breath, and she pushed the blade in, as hard as she could. The pain pinched, the blood flowed free, and she suppressed a yelp as she ran it down towards her wrist, a straight line of liquid red. She brought it back to her elbow, pushed it deeper into the same cut, ran it again. And again. Through blood, through muscle. The pain was blinding. But still she dug the razor in, deeper and deeper with each pass, because it would be over soon.

The blade touched something inside her arm. 

She stopped, moved the razor. She was well through the flesh in her arm, the blade obviously butting against bone. The radius, or the ulna. She forgot which was which, biology class was boring. But the pain had stopped. Why hadn’t she passed out? Why wasn’t she dead? She gave the razor one last pull, then put it aside. Morbid curiosity overtook her as Cassie parted the skin back, her bloodied fingers spreading open the wound, a red and black hole in her arm, and she looked inside. 

She saw grey.

Two grey rods, one thicker than the other, inside her arm. An entire mechanism where bones should be, milled and engraved with machine precision. She turned her hand, curled her fingers, and watched servos and rivets rotate with her movements. Her mind reeled, as though she was outside of her body, watching the bizarre display from some place far away. 

It was not real. None of it was real.

And she started to cry.

*     *     *

Thomas and Janine lay in darkness. They had been in bed for hours, but neither could sleep.

“How long do you think she’s going to be in there?” said Janine.

Thomas turned, restless. “Give her time. She has a lot to process.”

“‘Process.’” Janine wrinkled her nose. “You make her sound like a calculator.”

“Well, she is a robot.”

“Biosynth. And you don’t need to make her feel like one.” She turned over, faced him in the dark. “You could have been a bit more sensitive back there. Calling her that vulgar word in her own house.”

“I just wanted to tell her the truth. There’s no point in lying, Janine. She needs to be prepared for what the world will throw at her. She needs to be strong. We should have told her years ago.”

There was a creak at the door, a familiar sound, and Thomas turned his head, just enough to see the outline of Cassie in the doorway. She just stood there, silent. An uncertain mood filled the air. 

Thomas sat up. “Cassie? Are you okay?” 

He turned on the bedside light and a jolt panged his chest. Cassie’s left forearm was an open wound, gaping and black, with stains of crimson running down the front of her pyjamas. Her hair was draped over her face in ragged tassels, like a bloodied ghoul. She seemed to notice none of it.

Beside him, Janine sat up. And she screamed.

“If I’m still your daughter,” said Cassie. “That must mean you’re robots too.” She approached them, with alarming speed, and held Thomas’ razor up high. “You’ll see. You just need to see.”