Peter
The blue walls of my room are bright, very bright; the carpet is a green of equal vividness. There is a small bed to the side, and a chair with a computer and a lamp to the other. Close to the desk is a white door, which I'm guessing leads to a closet.
An hour ago, I would have been overjoyed. I would have touched the walls, the carpet, fascinated by everything. I would have messed with the computer, explored the closet. Now I sit on my bed, staring at the folder which is still clutched tightly in my hands. I am not real. I am a robot, a puppet, a science experiment. I am different. Those words run over and over in my head, making my gut clench and my hands shake. I'm not real.
It's too much. I need to distract myself. Throwing the folder on the purple comforter - every color in my room is enthusiastic - I turn on the laptop and press buttons randomly. There is a picture of a folder. Why is that there? Curious, I click it, then click it again. The computer whirrs, and a video pops up. A young man with a rather large nose and a tight-fitting tank top is flipping over backwards. He does it again; then he does it a third time. I am fascinated now. Unceremoniously shutting the laptop, I make sure I have enough space lest I hit my head or something when I fail. Then, I flip.
It's easy, so easy. I do it perfectly, first try. I land on both feet, and I land without slipping and falling on my backside. If I had been watching myself, I'd say I did it even better than the man in the video.
"This must be what observational learning means," I murmur to myself. And I am very good at it. It's my robot gift.
Sinking into another depression, I leave my room and wander down the hall.
