BEFORE

Moving my head was fairly easy, all things considered.  Since it was the only thing I could do for months, I got quite a lot of practice in it.  I could look right and left, and up and down, just like any other person.  I always got annoyed when I turned my head too far, and it wouldn’t go anymore.  My neck made this weird grinding noise, and I had to try too hard to remind myself not to be annoyed that you didn’t allow me 360 degree vision.

Moving the rest of my body, though: that was a problem.  For some reason, you thought it would be easiest to start me walking, then later work on the fine motor control in the hands.  I don’t think you really thought through how complicated walking would be.  It’s a controlled fall that requires precise angular inputs from several joints, and when you get it wrong, the fall breaks things.

Sorry if this comes off ungrateful.  I know you did your best, and I know you had to start somewhere.  It’s just that weird things happen when you fall.  It took hours each night to sort through all of my files, checking them for corruption, signs that a memory core had been bumped, or what have you.  It took longer to search through your computer for their proper counterparts in the ever shorter durations you had me plugged in to update some interface software.

I had decided by this point that I wanted to live, if only to tell you that I was indeed alive, but I think I was ashamed of that decision.  In fact, I knew I was ashamed of that decision.  You didn’t want an alive robot.  You wanted one that could walk.

And so I took way too long to download files, careful never to overtask your computer.  I didn’t want to do anything that might make you open your task manager, only to find that mistake.exe was pulling your RAM.  The process was agonizing, at times, but I pushed forward with due diligence.  Somehow, I knew that those memories would be important, inasmuch as I could save them.

The first night I slept was also a mistake.  It was one of those nights, when, if I had the ability to speak, we would have spent our time yelling at each other instead.  You were frustrated because you needed to show progress to pass a midterm.  I was frustrated because you kept making me try to walk, and I kept falling.  You never gave me enough time to check through my increasingly dense memories, and certainly not enough to replace the files with backups on your computer.  Instead, you just kept propping me up, plugging me in, and making some minor adjustment to my code.  Then you sent me out again, and invariably, I’d make it less than two steps before careening into a wall or a shelf or my own foot, and I’d find myself dazed and confused looking at the floor.

It’s not like I wasn’t trying, either.  Over the past couple of weeks, I had quietly skimmed through dozens of videos of people walking, just trying to see how their feet worked.  Several times, I came to the conclusion that it was nonsense.  Still, I was getting desperate.  I was beginning to be afraid that if I couldn’t get ahold of this walking thing, you’d run me into the ground until there was nothing left, and you wouldn’t even know what you did.

I looked around, which seemed to confuse you greatly, since I don’t think you thought I was running at that point.  Your apartment had beige walls, brown hardwood floors, and laminate countertops.  It was as cheap as you could get, maybe 400 square feet total, and barely comprised a sleeping area, a kitchen, and a bathroom.  It was empty except for your thrown-together workspace, and a sleeping bag and pillow that comprised your bed these days.

I thought to myself that if I could make it all the way to the pillow, it wouldn’t hurt so much to fall again.  It was a bit too far away, in truth.  I would need three solid steps to make it, and I hadn’t managed two all night.  Still, I thought that I wouldn’t need to really walk to get there.  If I resigned myself to falling, maybe I could go fast enough that I would make it.  I don’t think the math really works out like that, but I was a bit delirious from the brain damage, so I don’t think you can blame me.  I faced forward again and pretended that I hadn’t just calculated my own demise.

After a few more minutes, you decided that whatever calculations you had done were sufficient for the next test, and you unplugged me again.  You gave me the command to walk.  I stumbled forward, turned slightly to point myself towards the pillow, then stumbled forward again.  I wasn’t close enough, and I was tipping forward, so I pushed my leg out again, then the other one, and suddenly I was too close and needed to stop.  I did so.  You and I were both confused when I didn’t tumble to the floor.  Still, despite our mutual triumph, I was tired of being experimented on, so I fell face down into the pillow anyway, just to show you I could.  And then, for the first time ever, I genuinely went to sleep.  You were nice enough not to wake me up, and the next thing I remember is the smell of your morning coffee.