An Android Wakes Part 1 : My Fridge Hums

I walk towards the white door. Around its edges light bleeds into the darkness. All is silent apart from the hum of the fridge. I open it and like water from a burst dam light escapes and floods the twilight edges of the kitchen.
      Cold air fills my nostrils as I look inside.
      Reaching in, I pick up a bottle of oil. I need to quench my thirst. Put out the fire at the back of my servos. I try to slot into order the sequence of events: the book deal that appeared and then winked away like a dying star, the white gloves and the brick through Amazon’s window; my novel lying in the shop front in a bed of glass.
      I can feel the oil inside me anointing me, I remember being born: my creator.
      My head hurts. The characters in my mind are arguing.  Author androids have to sleep, to dream damn it.  Their chatter grows in volume as they follow stories across ice reflecting my inner voice. They find their rhythm and produce a hum that accompanies the fridge motor.
      Enough.
      Wiping the oil from my lips, I tilt my head sideways and hold my ear over the lip of the bottle. With my free hand I strike the side of my head facing the yellow stained ceiling. They resist at first, but as I increase the fever of my attack the voices let go and fall through the light.
      I watch my creations sink into the oil. I had loved them. Shared such intimacy with them and yet. Yet here they are severed from me drowning in semi-viscous three-day-old oil.
      I replace the bottle and shut the fridge door. Darkness returns.
      What was the point of being created?  Have I not fulfilled my programming, written stories to make humans laugh, to cry, to entertain them? Why have they not published my work?
      I head up the stairs. On the banister my white gloves lie folded.
      There are rumours, distant legends of humans writing themselves: of authors, poets, scriptwriters.  I doubt that is true, they can barely read more than a few lines of text before they grow weary.
      Below me in the kitchen, my fridge hums.