Beauty is only skin deep. That is a proverb, something from the ever-lingering past of paradigm. I stare into the luminous surface of the piano, met with my own haunted eyes. I am supposed to be beautiful, supposed to be perfect, but perfection comes at a price. Every time you get closer to being flawless, you lose a little more of yourself. I have nothing to lose; I was created perfect, except for one thing. I have one flaw, like a china vase with a fault line. I remember the day I realized it.

It was raining, a gray morning, Roger had slept in again. I put down the feather duster and sat, back straight again at the piano. My fingers began to fly over the keys, letting the notes drop like glass beads from the keys. It was a heavy song, a deep melody with a reluctant bass, a song suitable to annoy Roger to no end.

It took him only two minutes to fling the door open. I chose not to face him, but continued to effortlessly slide my fingers over the piano. He stalked towards me, but caught his ankle against the leg of a table. I chose to ignore his curses, but looked to see what part of him was injured.

On his ankle, on every human's ankle, there is a small bone jutting outward, like the shelf of a cliff. Sometimes veins trace over them, or they are red from rubbing against their shoes. After Roger departed, choosing to dress before breakfast, I stopped my playing long enough to steal a glance at my own ankle, visible over the straps of my black shoes.

I don't mind the black walls, because at night it is pitch black. When it is dark, I don't have to see myself. I can be anyone in the dark. In the dark everyone is the same, everyone is a shadow.

     But back to that day, looking at the pure snowy complexion of my skin. It took my a few seconds to realize, I don't have one. I don't have that little bone. My leg just tapers to the ankle, fanning slightly out again at the feet. It was a cruel thing, not having that tiny cliff. I wonder if it was purposely done, as a reminder to me that I could never truly be human.

I was in despair that day, I cried. I cried because my program allowed me to, gave me the small freedom to express myself. I already knew that I could cry. Once, I had to accompany my father to a funeral. It was for one of his friends, someone he knew from business. My programming was simple in it's explanation, it told me that this was a suitable place to cry, and that my tears would show respect for that person, and sadness at their passing. So I cried, cold tears, worthless tears. Father looked approving, so I continued to cry until it was done, and the body was in the gaping hole.

Norman is calling, I put away the vacuum. It is time for supper, this is one of the few times a week Roger will join us. When he is out fighting, I refuse to eat in the dining room. Something about being with people makes me feel like I belong, especially with Norman. He treats me like a normal girl, a normal person.

My shoes make soft patterns in the black carpeting of the dining room. Roger is eating; his fork makes small clinking noises against the plate. Norman is standing off to the side, absentmindedly scratching behind his ear. There is no food in front of me: I only drink tea. Something in my programming told me that Dorothy liked tea, so therefore I should enjoy it. It was the same with Perot, Dorothy liked cats. I wonder, did Dorothy have a bone in her ankle? "Roger?"

The words are out before I realize I have spoken. He stares at me waiting for me to continue speaking. When I don't he says, "Yes?"

There is a question in his reply, so I continue with my half formed thoughts. "Did you ever hear the ending of the story of the nightingale?"

I wonder why I am speaking so irrationally, why I do not think before I speak. He shakes his head, and puts his fork down. So I continue on, words tumbling from my mouth, "The emperor loved the song of a mechanical bird, a perfect bird made out of gold and precious stones. But one day, two fishermen brought the emperor a real nightingale, in a cage made of reeds. The emperor loved the song of the real nightingale, because it sang at it's own whim."

Roger stares at me, Norman is also listening, his hands still folded behind his back. The words continue to rush out. I do not know how I know this story, but it falls from my mouth, I have no control over it at all. "The mechanical bird was left alone, to gather dust and tarnish, forgotten by the people of the court, who were enchanted by the real bird. But the golden one did not care, because it did not know. One day, the emperor, who was old, took sick. He stayed in his bed, slowly wasting away listening to the nightingale's song. So too was the nightingale dying, languishing in it's cage. The emperor died begging the nightingale for one more song, and the bird was set free."

They continued to stare, puzzled by my tale. The words come of their own accord. "After the emperor was buried, and his son had taken the throne, they took the golden bird out again, and listened to its song. There was never another live nightingale in the court of the king, but the golden one continued to sing, because it did not know the difference."

My tale came to an end, and took a sip of tea. Roger spoke, "So?"

I calmly replied, "So which bird am I?"

He furrowed his eyebrows, confused. An older voice answers, "To your father or to us?"

I did not know that Norman had spoken until he repeated it. I dismissed the inquiry with a wave of my hand. "It doesn't matter, it's the same both ways."

Roger gulps soundlessly, but finally manages to say, "The golden one."

I am not hurt, only amused. I begin to smile. My smile is my own, nothing my programming told me. It has something a little sad, and something a little wry. I have never smiled in front of them before. My smile quickly turns into a laugh, a mindless giggle. My laugh is also mine and only mine, Dorothy had a tinkling, high laugh. My laugh is silent, like a breeze or a whisper.

Once I begin to laugh, I cannot not stop. I am laughing soundlessly, eyes closed. When I open them, Roger and Norman are staring at me as if I am mad. Am I? Possibly. As my laughter ebbs, I can only give one explanation. "You're wrong."

Roger and Norman look puzzled, both have their attention on me. So I offer more. "You see, the golden bird did not know when one man died and another took its place. I know. Death is simple, a gate opens, you walk through it, and suddenly you are in another place. But nothing, not an animal, human or plant, wants to die. Death is painful and no one likes to feel pain."

Roger speaks, "But you are perfect, you can't be the real one."

I feel another surge of insane laughter approaching, so I reply quickly. "Roger, I am not perfect. I have a flaw." He looks skeptical. "I do not have the turn in my ankle, the little bone, the one you knocked on the table that day."

He uses a last resort. "But you are the mechanical replica of Dorothy Waynewright."

Another giggle, and I answer. "Roger, Dorothy couldn't sing. Father always wanted her to, but she didn't like it. I am not a replica, only his fantasy."

He has a spark in his eye, and Norman has a small smile on his face. It is a strange mood in the dining room as Roger goes back to eating, though his food is now cold. Norman resumes his respective stance, and I put down my tea. I don't think I will have any tea tomorrow.

Beauty is growing from the inside.

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Well, how was it? I kind of wanted just an introspective piece on Dorothy's thoughts. She may be OOC, but I still like this piece. Please Review