My parents have always resented me – or they have since I hit 5113 days. They always repeat it,
“We were going to go for the cute blonde in the corner but we got stuck with you instead!”

They chose me, though, because I was the most realistic there. The blonde was too cybernetic, her eyes dull and lifeless despite the complex brain functions going on behind them. I was the closest to a real child in the whole of the three-storey shop. I can still remember being there.

I suppose, being so realistic, I grew up real. Grew up wrong. Turned into a normal teenager, just without a pulse. Once I tugged my hair so hard as I scraped it into a ponytail that I ripped some of my lining and we had to pay to get it sewn up – extra, as I was constantly told, because I was Out of Date.

My parents don’t want me anymore so I’m on this bus. The others are older makes than I, sparking and babbling, filling the coach with noise. I must be the only sane one. I savour the moment. I won’t be me for much longer.