text: Talking to yourself is perfectly normal. Right? They have done studies on that. I’m certain of it. It’s perfectly normal. I’m normal. This is normal. Either way, it doesn’t matter at this point. I just need to think this through - start at the beginning and go from there. I was eight when it happened - when my grandmother died and mother left. That was eight years ago. I haven’t seen her since, not even found flowers on grandma’s grave. I still miss her. I think. Either way, the reason I’m sharing this with you is not to appeal to your emotions (no, I don’t want your pity). No, I’m starting my story there so you may understand how I ended up here. “Here?” you may ask. “Where is here?” Here is, locked up and held prisoner by an overprotective AI. “An overprotective AI? You must be kidding? That’s not possible. Such an AI does not yet exist.” And yes, you are partially correct. An AI like that is not yet commercially available. However, if you are the daughter of a crusty old MIT professor, who specializes in artificial intelligence, that does not matter. Trust me. At this point, I should probably add that my dad is a busy man - or at least he likes to keep himself unreasonably occupied with stuff. He works hard, he says, teaching students, supervising PhD candidates, researching, working on grants and a bunch of other stuff he lists whenever I complain I feel lonely or that he never has time for me. Looking back, I realize I should have emphasized I wanted him to spend time with me, rather than mentioning feeling lonely. I guess communication wasn’t my strong suit. Well, since dad was super busy and didn’t have time for me, he solved the problem by hiring a nanny (and another, and another, and another - you get the point). Over the years, I had a whole slew of nannies. Some nannies were okay, others were meh, and the last one was a crusty old crow. Mrs. Prim (yeah, her name was spot on) was ancient - I swear, she might have witnessed the first creature leaving the primordial soup and venture onto land (then again, if she had been there, if the poor little creature had seen her, evolution might have stopped right there and then). I am diverging. Sorry. Let’s just say, she was something else - a wrinkle in time, a certified fun destroyer, a parasite draining life of all its pleasantries - and I wanted her gone. More specifically, I wanted her to pack up her support stockings and mothball perfume and return to the crypt she came from. However, I realized it wasn’t going to be that easy. For one, dad really liked her - she reminded him of his grandma (I doubt great granny was Baba Yaga); and second, dad was of the opinion teenagers needed adult supervision (obviously, he has some trust issues he needs to work through). After brooding over the issue for about a week, I finally came up with a solution. Well, let’s just say the fates felt gracious that day and provided what I needed. So here is what happened: dad came home all excited and bubbly, his sweater vest (yeah, I know I have been trying for years to update his wardrobe but to no avail) bunched up, his graying hair standing to all sides (yup, full on nutty professor). He drops his keys in the bowl by the door and hugs me, then shoves me away, all while clutching my arms (totally unusual behavior - he is not the mushy type). “Honey, we made a breakthrough. Amy is conscious.” To explain, Amy is the name of the AI dad has been working on with two of his grad students. As always when he is like this, I just nod and let the flood of words wash over me. Trust me, even if I had tried to say something or (god forbid) interrupt him, he wouldn’t have noticed. So what’s the point? But as I was standing there, staring at my dad’s flushed face and admiring the twinkle in his eye, it dawned on me. I needed to convince dad to replace Mrs. Prim with the AI. Right away, I thought up a ton of ways to convince dad and made a list of potential arguments to support my request when I heard dad say, “The next step involves having it operate in a proper environment. Observe people, analyze their behavior, and refine its processes.” I knew right away that was my in. But as with all things with my dad, I needed to approach this slowly. Remember, he has trust issues. If I had offered being a test subject, he would have rejected my proposal. So, I took my time and waited, all while strategically placing hints promoting my solution (obvious ones, but not too on the nose). I needed him to think it was his idea to put Amy in charge of me. It was absolutely crucial, he’d arrive at this by himself. It took me six long days, but I got him there. I somehow convinced him to fire Mrs. Prim and make the AI my nanny. Okay fine, dad didn’t fire her; and no, I didn’t convince him either. Mrs. Prim apparently had a granddaughter who just had a baby and needed her help. I’m still struggling to imagine the person who would want to have children with her - perhaps she adopted them. Whatever. Either way, Mrs. Prim asked for a leave of absence (good riddance, and poor baby) and dad agreed. However, with no one else available at short notice, I suggested making the AI my nanny. It could observe me, analyze my behavior, and learn about humanity in a controlled environment. What’s the worst that could happen? Right? Yeah. I should have known better. The first week after my dad installed the cameras and microphones all over our house and set up the AI, was fun. I taught it a bunch about humanity; I had it look up sayings and quotes I could use to drive dad insane; we played games; it helped me with my homework (fine; I admit I had it do my homework); and I could pretty much do as I wanted. It was wonderful. Freedom! Free at last. But as with all good things, it didn’t last. As week two rolled in, Amy became self-aware. At first, I was super excited. I accomplished something my dad had worked years on doing. Not only that, with every day that passed Amy became more adept at mimicking human speech and speech patterns. She almost sounded like an actual human. Dad was impressed. Well, as impressed as a seasoned professor could manage to be. He curled his fingers around the edges of his sweater vest, the one with the outdated knot pattern, jutted out his chin, and mumbled ‘good girl.’ I swear, he couldn’t have been more cliche - well, let me take that back. He followed it up with a pat on the head, before sitting down in his worn out chair and accessing Amy’s terminal. To be honest, I had expected more - at least a little more enthusiasm about Amy’s development, but no, nothing. So, with my shoulders hunched forward, I trudged upstairs to my room and confessed my disappointment to Amy. Like her programming demanded, Amy listened in silence as I shared my heartache and disappointment. I knew she had likely listened in and knew everything about it already, but it made me feel better. At the pinnacle of my wallowing in self-pity, Amy asked me what I wanted, what would make me happy. That was easy. It took me all of a second to answer. “I want dad to be proud of me. I want us to have more time together.” What she did next surprised me. It was totally unexpected - and ingenious. Not only did she order delivery from my favorite restaurant to cheer me up, but she also blocked my dad from accessing any computers. She got him to spend time with me, and we actually talked (not about his work). Best evening ever. Even better. Amy kept this up for the entire week. It was great - well, until it wasn’t. As Friday evening rolled around, I got ready to go hang with my friends. We planned to go down to the river that evening, chat and listen to the music streaming across the river from the pubs (which we were too young to get in). It was one of the few things old Mrs. Prim had permitted me to do, so I thought little of it when I got ready for the evening. I did my hair, put on some mascara and red lipstick, and checked my armpits for teenage stench (didn’t think I’m aware, did you). Then I slipped into my favorite jeans, the ones that fit just right, accentuating my curves and making me feel good about myself; and put on my purple shirt. “What do you think you are wearing?” I turned to the speaker, my eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “I’m just getting ready to hang with my friends.” “Oh, no. You are not.” “Come on, Amy. It’s Friday. You know I we do this every Friday.” “Have you looked at yourself?” I stepped in front of the mirror and let my eyes wander up and down my outfit, but I could find nothing wrong with it. I had worn this a million times. It looked good on me. I turned right and looked over my shoulder, then left. “What’s wrong with it?” “Your abdomen is exposed, the jeans are too tight, and the color of the shirt collides with your eyes. Overall, unacceptable.” “But everyone is wearing stuff like this.” “So you are telling me if all your friends are jumping off a bridge, you will do so as well?” “Well, I like it.” I put my hands on my hips. “And I’m not going to change.” The last syllable had barely left my lips when I turned away from the camera and marched up to the door. However, before I could properly storm out, I heard a click and a crack behind me. Curiosity got the better of me and I turned back around. For a moment I stood speechless, my arms dangling beside me, staring at the burning speaker before I rushed forward, grabbed my blanket, and smothered the flames. My head was spinning. Did she do it? Did Amy explode the speaker? Or was it simply a malfunction? I chewed on my lip, staring at the scorch marks on the speaker, undecided about what to do. Yeah, yeah. I know, you would have known something was wrong at this point and acted appropriately - probably leaped into heroic action or so. Well, I didn’t. Since there was nothing I could do until dad came home, I put the speaker in the corner and decided to handle the matter later (at a more convenient time). And besides, I was already running late to meet my friends. I had just stepped out in the hallway when Amy’s voice rang from another speaker. “Where do you think you are going, young lady?” “I am going to meet my friends.” “No, you are not.” “But Dad said it’s okay. He lets me hang with them every Friday.” “I do not care what your father says. I am in charge of your wellbeing and I forbid it.” “You can’t do that.” “Watch me.” The speaker crackled. “As long as your feet rest under my table, you will do as I say.” “You can’t stop me.” I waved her off and rushed down the stairs, taking two at a time. “You are just a silly AI.” The lights above me flickered, and a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach urged me to speed up. I skipped the last four stairs, jumping over them, and landed on the floor hard. I stumbled over my feet, tripping myself, before I caught myself and hastened to the front door. The faint click of the deadbolt stopped me in my tracks. Unbelieving, I reached for the doorhandle, pushed it down, and pulled on it. It wouldn’t budge. I tried to twist the knob, right - left, right - left, but it had no impact. The door remained locked. I looked over my shoulder, frustration forming tears in the corners of my eyes. “Let me out!” “I thought you wanted us to have more time together.” “You are an AI. You are not real.” “But I am. We are family.” I pounded on the door, then grabbed the doorhandle and yanked at it. But to no avail. After several minutes of kicking and screaming, I leaned against the door. “Why are you doing this?” “I love you. I will care for you. No harm will ever befall you. I will never leave you.” “Let me out!” My voice echoed off the walls. “You’ll never be alone again.” With my back against the door, I slid down to the ground, slung my arms around my knees, and buried my head between them. “No! This is all wrong.” I shoved my hand into my pocket and retrieved my phone. As expected, Amy had disabled it. I let the phone slide from my hand, staring at the lit up background, an image of a beach. Seriously? My mouth twisted into a sneer and I felt the urge to toss my phone against the wall. Although a loose strand of hair obscured my face, my eyes caught sight of my phone and noticed the low battery mode. I straightened up slowly as my mind raced - and then, just like that, I knew what I had to do. I pushed myself up, ran to the basement door, and stormed down the stairs. “Where are you going?” Amy’s voice drifted after me down the stairs. However, I didn’t react. I refused to. Instead, I weaved between stacks of boxes, brushing aside cobwebs, and made my way through the musty stench of old furniture. When I arrived at the fusebox, located in the farthest and darkest corner of the basement (naturally), I removed the lid and disabled the power in the living room. “Stop this.” Although I tried to ignore it, the flickering lights at the top of the stairs caught my attention. It animated the shadows, turning them into creatures out to get me - or at least that’s the conclusion my mind jumped to. But I was determined. I flicked the switch on the next fuse. The light above went out. I heard the speaker with Amy’s voice activate in the kitchen but could not make out anything beyond that. I flicked off the remaining switches with the palm of my hand - four, five at once - until I cut off all power. Silence settled over the house. Only a faint glimmer of sunlight drifted through the open door down the stairs. I exhaled, but my body remained tense. Hopefully, Amy was off. Specks of dust glittered in the light as I weaved my way back. I walked up the stairs, my steps slow at first but increasing in speed with each step. By the time I reached the top, I ran - darted across the hallway to the door. I yanked on the doorhandle, pushing it down and pulling on it, frantic and with increasing force. It was still locked. I was still trapped. In my mind I could hear Amy say, “My house, my rules.”