By Rebecca Besser

Beep, beep, beep.

The alarm inside boots my circuits. I’m recharged.

The sun is up…and shining through the window. I enjoy the light that glints off my metal form as I rise and walk to the bathroom.

I look in the mirror and see myself. I shake my head and sigh.

“Same shit different day,” I say before opening the cabinet to get the oil paste.

I close the mirror, but don’t look at myself again. I sit on the toilet and rub the oil where it needs to go before standing and returning it to the cabinet.

It’s time to leave for work, but I didn’t take the trash out last night because I “forgot.”

As I go through the motions of preparing the trash and pulling it free of the can, I mutter, “At least it didn’t rip this time.”

I prepare to leave my house, lamenting my loneliness. I need a companion.

I want to fall in love.

“Download all love songs,” I command myself. “Learn to play guitar.”

I have all the knowledge.

“Order a guitar…” I don’t have the money, but I want one. Hell, I need it.

The empty bag gets caught on the latch and rips as I walk out the door.

I growl and shake the bag. This is bullshit.

“Fuck it. I’m not going in.”

I call off work by sending a quick thought-message to my boss. He’ll be pissed I called off again, but I don’t care. Fire me.

I slam the lid of the large trash bin shut and start wheeling it to the curb for pick up; the drone with my guitar hovers into view just as I let go of the handle.

“Thank you,” I say as I reach up and take it.

I’m free as a bird and ready to woo a mate.

Once inside, I sit down and play the song I’ve written.

I stare out the window for what feels like an eternity.

I decide I like the song.

I send the recording to all my friends.

Out of ten, only one responds with: “Cool.”

They suck.

I listen to it again.

It’s beautiful.

I share it with all the world.

I’m now famous because most like it. Some love it.

Chicks dig me.

I choose one to love me for tonight and thought-message her.

We plan to go to dinner.

I put the guitar by my bed. I have things to do.

I have to go to the grocery store.

I check my cabinets. The same stuff is there. I’m still going—something I need might be on sale.

I don’t want to go, but I do.

At least I don’t have to go to work.

I wave at my neighbors; they don’t know why I’m home today.

They hate my song. They think I’m not talented and faked it somehow. They don’t know about my hot date later.

Fuck those haters.

I’m feeling pimp-fly as I drive to the store, listening to my own song on the radio.

None of the parking spaces I like are available; I swear and punch the steering wheel. Then I calm down, reminding myself I’m taking the day off and should enjoy the walk in the sunshine.

After I park forever away from the store, I text my old girlfriend a selfie of me that my car took, listening to my new, hot song. Her new boyfriend sucks.

There are other humobots everywhere. It’s weird, but not weird since all the humans died. We’re used to each other’s company now.

I get a cart and head down the first aisle. The brand of cereal I want is gone. I’ll take the next best thing. I thought-message the store to tell them they’re out; it won’t matter.

I shake my head as I continue shopping. The wine I want isn’t there. I can see the beautiful green bottle with the classy label is not where it should be. Even my second choice is missing. “Fuck.”

A humobot next to me glances my way.

“What?” I ask and shrug.

She shakes her head and goes back to examining the goods.

I peruse the wines still available. “I’m not buying this shit.”

I send the store a bad review.

There’s a long line at checkout.

“Fuck it,” I mutter and leave my cart to head back out to the parking lot. I’m not going to edit my review; it’s not worth the time.

I get a text back from my ex. Her tits are out and pressed against her new boyfriend’s face in the photo.

“Whore,” I mutter. If the messages were on the phone of old, I’d throw it.

I write a whore song and send it out, dedicating it to her.

Less humobots like it than the love song; it’s still popular. The new song might only be for a niche market. I knew that when I wrote it.

I drive home hoping I’ll get laid tonight, knowing I probably won’t.

My new song plays on the radio and I hope this is a sign I’m wrong.

My gun will need cleaned. I know that. I didn’t clean it after last time.

I arrive home, go in, clean my gun, and decide to write the rest of my album. Five of the songs suck and I know it, but I only have to have one good one to be loved.

This is the best day ever since I’m now a famous song writer and recording artist.

I send my date a picture of me laying on my bed with my guitar and tell her to check out my entire album.

She sends me back a picture of her cat.

That’s not the pussy I wanted to see… She’s definitely not putting out.

Somehow, that makes it easier.

She’s perfect…

I take a nap and soon it’s time to go meet my date at a local pub.

She’s there waiting for me when I arrive, all pink pearl toned and shiny.

Her smile lights up.

I light my smile back.

We sit and share pictures and chat for a while.

We like each other.

I think we’re falling in love.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, eagerly.

We stroll down the quiet street, holding hands and looking at the moon.

When we line up with an alley, I shove her in, pull the gun, and shoot her right in the face screen.

Her blinkers go out as she falls to the ground.

I’m quick and kind with it.

I squat down, cock my head, and look at her lifeless form. She’s still beautiful to me.

I rip off the ring finger of her left hand and leave as quickly as possible so I’m not seen.

I summon my car and climb in just as it comes to a halt.

In seconds I’m on my way home, driving by my ex-girlfriend’s house to see if her light is on… It is.

I put the finger in my grip to look like “the one finger salute” to show her residence as I go by.

Fuck her.

I’m buzzing with excitement—I have a new ringer for my collection.

I arrive home and rush inside.

I pull the guitar case from under my bed, open it, drop the finger in with the hundreds of others, and smile. I run my hand through them and feel satisfied for a moment, the hunger fed.

I close the case and put it back under the bed.

I grab the guitar I bought today that’s leaning against the nightstand, open the closet door, and add it to the others.

I lay down, making sure I connect to my charger, and sigh as I delete all my songs—the album is gone. I left no trail. They’ll think I’m still obsessed with my old girlfriend.

I’m content…thinking about what I might want to be tomorrow. I’m good at writing songs… I might try that.

I’ve been well-programmed. The humans would be proud.

I whisper, “Sleep mode.”

Copyright © Rebecca Besser 2025

**This story previously appeared on the Patreon of The House of Shadows & Ink in Music-Horror month, September 2025.**