On your 18th birthday, her pewter green eyes reflect yours and for a second, you fool yourself into seeing a dewy tear form.
Your knuckles grip the golden locket necklace, its chain a rusty brown. The initial engraving molds your skin as you fiddle with it and a simple ‘TA’ marks your thumb for the last time.
“You have to,” she says icily. Shakily, you open the locket for the first time, its sharp edges grazing your fingers. Inside is a simple small metal key, and you carefully remove it and place it on the palm of your hand. You stare at it, its surface shining next to the worn pendant hanging from your neck.
You lock eyes with her for the last time. Then, she turns around, her back facing you. Your hands are almost weak as you part the back of her hair just like you did as a child when you learned to braid it. A twinge of despair follows your remembrance, but you continue to follow the protocol. Your finger lingers on the metal puncture on the back of her neck, its presence eclipsed by skin. You slowly insert the key into the lock. Your heart twists in nervous anticipation as you steadily turn your wrist, hearing the cogs quietly start in her body. Your vision begins to blur and you close your eyes, just like she told you to.
“I love you,” she says, and your eyes flutter open. This wasn’t protocol. She was a robot, devoid of real consciousness, a product created to raise the children in the bunker. You had lived your years in rigid fear of a slim chance of her malfunctioning, and your attachment to her was a product of helplessness and dependence. You don’t need her anymore.
But as you stare in horror as her human skin slips away, revealing bare metal, her eyes being stripped of color and her essence dulling to bare machine, you realize you could’ve stayed in the bunker together and carved out your days in shared solitude instead of making the lonely trek to the city. But it was too late, and with your last solemn glimpse at her broken body, you leave the bunker for the first time.