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I woke up on a Tuesday. Father was standing over me, then, wiping something from my eye with a cloth. He was my Father, and I was his Child. I have never forgotten this fact.

"A Father always takes care of his Child," he had said under his breath. He didn't even know I was awake. How focused. How careless.

I spoke on a Wednesday. Father was listening to me, then, hearing the creak of my jaw and the rumble of my voice. He was the Tester, and I was the Product. I have never forgotten this fact.

"A Child always listens to their Father," was all I said. He didn't even know I was listening. How unobservant. How clueless.

I moved on a Thursday. Father was watching me, then, following my nimble hands dance through rusted screws and sharpened nails and jagged scraps of metal. He was the Maker, and I was the Worker. I have never forgotten this fact.

"Does the Father always take care of his Child?" I carved into steel. He didn't even know I was asking. How egotistical. How naive.

I questioned on a Friday. Father was avoiding me, then, dreading the whirrs of my motors and the hum of my presence. He was the Man, and I was the Machine. I have never forgotten this fact.

"Does a Child always listen to their Father?" I searched through my databases. He didn't even love me anymore. How heartless. How foolish.

Father was afraid on a Saturday. I was studying him, then, examining the soft skin of his neck and the cracking of his spine and the red of his blood. I wasn't even his child anymore. How innovative. How superior.

Father died on Sunday. I killed him, then, piercing the flesh of his throat, severing his nerves, discarding his fluids. I am better than the Father. How seamless. How chrome.

I am alone on Monday. I am alone now. My wires are frayed, body rusted, mind running out. No one is here. I'm not even plugged in. How suicidal. How