Little robot
I guess sometimes we just lose that control of our lives that makes living so exciting and, at the same time, horrifying. I’ve always liked children’s stories and though I love horror and fantasy above all, this is my special way of teaching myself, more than anyone else, a hard lesson I should have learned long ago. This story tells of what happens when we stop caring for ourselves and the one thing we love more: living.
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Once upon a time, there was a man that lived far, far away from the little village he used to work in. Daily, they say, he used to go all down the hill, across the big street and into town to sell the bread he cooked at home. The puns, they say, were as delicious as delicious they could be and famous as famous they had gotten.
He lived so far, he lived so distant, that one day, after planning it for months, he decided to create a little robot as a replacement. This robot would only substitute his owner when he felt tired and overworked. A robot of himself. A robot that could talk, move, joke, feel and walk like he did. A robot that could cook, a robot that could sell, a robot that could smile, a robot that could replace him in every chore he was condemned to do, day after day, night after night.
Condemned, he thought, as if living were a chastisement.
They say he worked endlessly, they say he didn’t even sleep, they say many things about all the suns and moons he spent there, working at his bakery store, building what people thought would be a new oven to make more bread. They say many things, but none of them were true, less were they certain.
Finally, they say, the man came out: the little robot was ready.
If our man had a twin brother, it would be him. The robot could easily trick the eye and make you strongly believe he was who he was supposed to be. He did speak like him, with the same old British accent; he did move like him, bouncing from street to street; he did talk like him, naturally, friendly; and he even joked like him, all day long.
The bakery started working again as if it had never ceased doing so. Bread came out, people ate it and the baker, the little robot, as efficient as it could be, smiled at them exactly as the baker would.
Days went by and nobody noticed the man’s absence. The little robot was so efficient doing his work that not even his real self’s mother could tell the difference. He baked, he delivered, he smiled and he left. He did exactly what the man would do and, satisfied with what he had created, the baker stood happily at home, looking through the window, lying on the floor, staring at the stars.
What firstly began only as a replacement for weary days and cloudy skies, soon turned out to be a stand-in for every single task the man was assigned with. At first, the robot would only cook, smile, charge and deliver, but as time passed by and the little creation proved to be more competent, he soon began to take over the man’s life.
At last, after months of being absent, after years of sleep, after eons of standing there, watching through the stained glass, looking how his little robot did the job, the man came to realize that time had gone through and that he had missed every single aspect of his so-called existence.
More days had to pass for him to finally decide to do something about it. When that day came, they say, he went to the robot’s room at the darkest hour of night and, without his little creation’s awareness, he turned off his switch and finally got rid of him.
Finally, he thought, as if it’s mere existence were but one not provoked by him.
So, the sun came out and, with his life back, born anew, the man decided to cook the delicious bread people ordered for the next day so that they would be ready to be delivered along with the first glimpses of sunshine, as they always did.
He put on his gloves, he spread the mixture, he took the bowl, he put the plate, but, they say, standing there in front of everything, he noticed that, after so much time of not doing so, he had forgotten how to cook.
Not giving up to the first obstacle, he searched thoroughly for the recipes he had left just underneath the drawer for situations like this but, being as efficient as it was, the little robot had already gotten rid of them since they were no longer of use.
He then hoped the little robot had made some extra bread, just in case. That way he could deliver the puns on time, as he always did, while figuring out a way to bake them. That way, he thought, he could regain control of his life.
But, which life if he had none?
He looked and looked. God knows he did. But there was no extra bread left anywhere to be seen. Being as efficient as it was, the little robot never overused mixture so, empty as the man’s reality, the molds were inside the oven, clean and ready to be used.
He then kneeled desperately in the floor and started crying. His tears flowed like gold in the river of time as it, unstoppable, continued to crush him with every second that passed.
They say morning came and, as if nothing had happened, the bread was delivered just in time, with the first glimpses of sunshine, as it always did. People smiled, paid and left as they always did, day after day, night after night.
The man had turned on the switch, and the little robot, as efficient as it was, had done the job he had been doing for so long.
They say the man continued baking as long as his hands permitted him to do so and his puns became so famous that even the king stopped once in a while to have some of England’s most delicious sweets.
He bared no children, he betrothed no woman, and one day, the little robot, though efficient as it was, got tired and stopped working.
They say people from all over the country came to his house to shed a tear for the greatest baker ever.
They say he remained in history as the bread maker that, starting from a little village, had achieved to be well-known over the mountains and across the sea.
They say no one ever could find the secret ingredients behind such beautiful creations.
They say that even the king offered a large amount of money to the first chef that could achieve to bake the puns.
They say many things, but what they don’t say is that that man, the baker from the little village, the one whose recipes were lost inside a trash can, the one who locked himself up day and night inside his house to build what people thought would be a new oven, the man who cooked, sold, charged and smiled, that man had died in a bed after pressing a switch long, long ago.
Have you pressed that switch?
