It was on our honeymoon that I found out. We were laying in bed, me and the then new Mrs. G. Blachsen, and we were just cuddling and talkikg. After a short while I could tell that there was something on her mind.
"Honey," I began, "is something bothering you?"
She sighed, "Well, kind of."
"What is it?"
"There's just . . . something I've been wanting to tell you since we first met, but I don't know how to say it."
"Try. I mean, we are married now, and we shouldn't keep secrets from each other, right?"
"Okay, you're right. I'll just come right out and say it." She hesitated for a few moments. "I'm a . . . a robot."
"What?" I laughed.
"I'm a robot," she repeated. "From outer space."
I honestly thought she was joking, which would have been odd since she's such a serious person. "Ok, honey. Whatever you say," I said, humoring her.
What happened next is something that I'll never be able to get out of my head. With another sigh, she removed the blanket covering her, reached down to her navel, and started peeling her skin off! Her "skin" was a synthetic, rubber-like material, about one-fourth of an inch thick, and cleany cut into many different slabs, apparently (The actual cuts couldn't be seen to the naked eye until she started messing with the skin, which is why I failed to notice them before). She was removing the piece on her abdomen, showing what lie underneath: circuits, lights, buttons, and more objects that I couldn't then and can't now name or describe in detail (What purpose buttons and lights would have if they're being covered up, I have no clue). In fear, shock, and disbelief I left the hotel room quickly, leaving her alone with computer innards exposed.
"How had I not known this before?" I thought as I drove away from there. I'd spent a large majority of my time in the last six years with this woman--No, this . . . machine, and never once did I suspect that she could be a robot. A robot from outer space, no less!
I spent that night inside my car, I couldn't get this bizarre idea out of my head. Having no clue what to do, I decided only on never seeing her--it--again. I would have to get a new place to live, maybe even in another country. I had no money, though.
And then my mind struck another idea. What if there were other robots, pretending to be human? How would I ever be able to tell if the person I'm speaking to only takes in what I say through a complex series of ones and zeroes? What if . . .
It's been four months since then, and I have been reduced to living in my 1996 Pontiac Bonneville, doing odd jobs for people (or robots) here and there to get a few bucks for food and gad. I've become a sort of insomniacm I sleep only one or two hours a night . . . How could I sleep, with robots lurking the streets? I can't go on this way!
I won't. I can't! There was a bridge, I crossed it on the way into this city (whatever city this is. You tend to lose track of location when you spend your days driving aimlessly). A big bridge, overlooking a ig river. A big bridge with railings of poor quality! A bridge!
I win, you damned robots!