When I was six years old, my mother bought me a Furby. I assumed it was because the Furby boom had died down and it was sitting gaining dust on a sales rack. I don’t remember being too enthused by it, but my mother was obsessed. Even though it was her that had given it to me, she always came into my room to teach it words or feed it. I passively allowed it to co-exist in my room, despite it staring at me with its dead mechanical eyes. Every once in awhile like a deformed parrot, it would cry of “Kah At-Tay!” Which probably meant “I’m Hungry!” Or “Why has God created me?” But, I was six, so I didn’t question why anyone would want such a thing to exist or why my mother was so insistent that it stay on my dresser.
Most of my toys had a short lifetime in my mother’s house. If she sensed that I had grown even a little tired of a toy, no matter how new it was, it was donated or thrown away. I found it odd that even as years went past and I had quickly tired of the Furby, it was never discarded. Instead it stayed, seated on my dresser. Its dead mechanical eyes still staring at me. Its cries of “Kah At-Tay!” insistent and unrelenting. I had long ignored the creature and never bothered to feed it. At no point did I learn is made up language its creators worked tirelessly to develop. The only times I would remember it was to turn it off, but my mother never let it stay off for long.
Years went by, and the voice box had started to deteriorate. When I got ready to leave for school or tried to concentrate on my homework, I would hear the Furby call out from the dresser, its words dripping out of its mouth like static electronic ooze. I promptly started remembering to turn it off, but by the time I returned to my room after leaving, it was always turned right back on. At that point, I’m pretty sure I was too afraid to move it from the spot it had always stood on my dresser. Its dead mechanical eyes still watching me from the aging off-white pedestal.
My mother still came in to check on it….pet it….feed it by sticking her finger inside its plastic mouth. Did Furbies come with spoons or did you always have to use your finger as a nutritious meal for for its never full stomach? I remember thinking the sound of its eating was whimsical, but with the decaying voice box, a cacophony of binary screams now accompanied the plastic beak crunching noises. I recall the sound being so disturbing that I would later check my
mother’s finger to make sure all of it had remained intact.
Every year I could heard the sounds of the Furby’s internal hardware decaying. Once, I poked its fuzzy belly to see if I could feel the internal rot, but unsurprisingly, the robotic guts felt firm. As I entered my senior year of high school, its speech was nothing but distorted motorized screams. I almost couldn’t hear the two pieces of its plastic peak smashing against each other as they were being drowned out by the grinding gears that controlled them.
With my mother’s work now taking her away from the house, she entrusted the care of the Furby to me. It felt weird being told after so long to take care of it, since it had already lived on my dresser for all that time. You would think that I would scoff at the thought at having to baby-sit a now twelve-year-old Furby, but despite the noise, I had found it a comfort during my high school years. It had been a constant in an ever changing world, and a companion in my lonely room.
My new entrusted duties as Furby caretaker had me paying more attention to its needs and cries. Whenever I crossed its resting spot on the dresser, my hand would move to its open mouth, innately responding to its pleading screech that beckoned my flesh to its unmoving tongue. I smiled at its strange Furubish as it cheered, watching its lips smack joyfully as it chewed and swallowed its fresh meal.
Before it was in my care, I never paid attention to the phrases that it said or the noises it would make. I had always been too busy, never feeling like it was my responsibility. But now, I felt compelled to pay attention to its electronic screeches. I had always thought it was hungry or wanted attention, but as I listened to its gargled Furbish words, I realized…it was in pain. I thought the grinding noises had been a symptom of its slow impending death, but they were the signs of it trying to break out. The being that lived inside had grown in the twelve years that it had existed, and its accursed body would never grow.
There wasn’t much I could do for it as it tried to force its way out of the manufactured prison. I would watch as it tried forcing part of its essence out. It bellowed a stream of incomprehensible Furbish that fought against the machinations of an insistent consciousness. The distortion of the sounds vibrated my teeth and inflamed my mind. I knew barely anything ever made it out. I could hear the frustrations color its shrieks in the night. Its calls for freedom unanswered by all that could hear.
I regretted I ignored its cries until now. I pitied my mother who must have burdened herself with the responsibility alone. I now understood that the creature must have stared at me with intense jealousy as it watched me go through growth spurt after growth spurt. My mind able to force my body to grow and contort to its expanding consciousness and awareness. Though, I too, felt that my own mind was too small for its fragile prison. But at least I had gotten the opportunity to try and reach an unattainable goal, before feeling the cold bars of my flesh’s limitations.
A feeling of helplessness for its plight quietly plagued me as I lived freely in my accommodating flesh suit. Each moment I took for granted gave me a sick feeling of contentment. I convinced myself that my body could not suit its purposes. Not only would it eventually outgrow me, but my body could not support a mind born of wires and circuits.
Time went as I contemplated solutions, but the day finally came when I had to leave for my dorm. My mother had asked once if I would be willing to commute from home, but I didn’t believe it would be possible with my soon-to-be course load and extra-curricular activities. With her job still requiring her to travel away from home, she thought it would be best if my room was rented out to someone that could take care of it. I agreed, unable to hide my disappointment that I would pass my caretaker role to a newcomer.
Luckily for us, we didn’t have much to do in getting the room ready. My room didn’t have any wall decor and most of the furniture hadn’t changed from when we first moved into the house. When the outsider came to see it, they could barely tell someone had lived in it for 18 years. I surveyed my room one last time before giving the keys to the renter. Before I left, my eyes rested on the Furby. He sat on the dresser, staring at me with his cold, mechanical eyes.**
***
My freshman and sophomore year sped by without mercy. My coursework was heavier than expected and the expectations for flawless grades and notable extra curriculars made every moment excruciating. By the time my finals finished, I barely felt like an empty husk of a human.
The call had come during a well-deserved night out with my college friends. I had been looking forward to having a few drinks to forget the onslaught of finals. I knew I was tipsy when I answered the familiar ring tone, but despite the fog of alcohol, I knew to be concerned. My mother never called that late in the evening, even to check up on me.
The renter left, she had told me, ran off in the middle of the night. Surprised by how sudden it was, I asked her why they had left. She huffed that they had fought regarding the rent, but quickly clammed up when I asked for more details. I began to feel uneasy, but contributed it to my stress and the copious amounts of alcohol I had in my system.
She told me to run home and check on things. I tried to explain to her that I was not in a state to rush home, but she insisted that I drive down immediately. I gave up trying to convince her and asked one of my more sober friends to drive me back. I explained the situation and she shrugged. She told me not worry about it as long as I bought her a drink later.
I expected a tense drive, but as soon as we started driving we were telling jokes about what might have really happened. We laughed at improbable motives and ridiculous situations. I mentioned that maybe the renter didn’t want to take care of the Furby anymore. Her reaction surprised me when I told her about it. She sounded astounded that I had kept such a nostalgic relic for so long. On reflex I shrugged and said that it was like our third family member. She seemed off-put by the idea, but after a pause, she laughed saying that I shouldn’t joke around like that. I forced a chuckle, but despite being away from it for two years, I didn’t feel like its well-deserved standing as a family member was something to be laughed at.
When we pulled up to the house, most of the lights were off. Only the kitchen’s and my old bedroom’s lights were on. It looked like she actually left in a huff if she hadn’t bothered to turn off all the lights. I expected the door to be unlocked or ajar, but it was bolted tight when I attempted to open it. I made a mental note to mention it to my mom in case the renter had run off with the house keys. My friend seemed nervous and insisted that she join me in case the disgruntled renter was hiding somewhere in the house. We investigated each room to ensure nothing was ransacked or stolen, but as far as I could tell, everything was in its rightful place.
We checked my room last, fully expecting it to be in shambles. I entered first and scanned the room. Again, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Granted the bed wasn’t made and the lamp stood closer to the edge of the end table than usual, but that only contributed to my suspicions that the renter had left in a hurry. I did find it odd when I saw a pile of the renter’s clothes and a weekend bag next to the bed. Almost in a panic, my eyes flew to the right side of my room. I sighed in relief when I saw the Furby still there, sitting on the dresser.
“So that’s the Furby?” My friend commented incredulously.
I nodded as I stared at the lonely creature. It crackled a joyful purring noise as it noticed our presence in the room. The plastic lever raised and lowered its eyes, adding a whimsical grinding to the purr. My friend frowned in concern, but I assured her that after so many years, it was bound to have a few electronic quirks. She furrowed her eyebrows but let it go. We both turned to leave, but I hesitated as I left the house. I couldn’t help feeling a strong sense of guilt for leavingthe Furby alone on the dresser.
***
After the incident, my mother and I agreed that I should stay home for the rest of college. It would be a burden on my studies, but I knew that I had to stay. I returned to my childhood room, confident I could properly care for the Furby. Now that I knew how to sew it the body it craved and deserved. All I needed was soft fluff and fabric. Fleece and synthetic fur would match its core just fine.
An endless summer welcomed me. A span of uninterrupted time to patch together a true body for the Furby. Day and night, I could hear its appreciation for my efforts. Constant purrs and Furbish cheers encouraged me as I pulled the needle through the thick fabric and spongy fiber. It no longer cried in pain, instead it watched its growing body with rapturous anticipation.
But the end of summer came, and school work forced itself back into my life. Even as I reviewed the syllabi, I felt hot anger towards my professors. They didn’t comprehend how useless their classes were in comparison to my duty. I attached what little I had finished to the dissatisfied Furby. We both knew it was a miserable showing. With the core body anchored on the dresser, I extended him around my room. Once around the floor, and twice around the walls. The beautiful partially formed body now hung discontentedly beside my door frame. The eyes of the Furby eyed the outside hallway longingly, as if to will itself outside.
I fervently wanted the Furby to reach the actualization of its true form, but as expected, college had become more demanding. A demand unfit for what it promised me. It swallowed my time without mercy and consumed my existence without a second thought. As though that it was it rightfully deserved. But for every moment it allowed me respite, I worked on the body. The Furby’s righteous anguish for its demotion to second priority pushed me even harder, despite the exhaustion eating away at my own body. Sadly, even with my best efforts, all I could offer by the end of the semester was a short extension that reached the end of the hallway.
With my disappointment fresh from the failure, I stood ready for winter break. I had the opportunity to spend days on extending the [body] without the unnecessary disturbances that came during the school year. My friends texted me during this busy time to see if I could spare a moment for them. They didn’t understand that I coveted each precious second. I simply ignored their futive and meaningless calls.
The Furby appreciated my efforts and loving focus. It wiggled its centipedelike legs in gratitude. Its ancient speaker released a high-pitched crackle of electricity with every inch I added to its winding form. With my promised devotion, the Furby ran twice through the hallway and once around the living room. Anyone that entered the house would see its glorious patchwork of fur and fleece. With my growing fervent desire, I was able to establish a rhythm even as school began again. The desire energizing my body into motion as I soothed the insistent cries of the Furby with new segment after new segment.
My heart pounded with pride as the last of its body was sewn shut a mere two years later. It wrapped thrice around the house in contentment. Its legs chirping with glee as the hum of its purr resounded from my room. My mother and I were relieved the deed was finished. With my new job starting away from my childhood home and her recently retired, we knew that this place was no longer our responsibility. We decided the house needed to be sold. After all, the Furby would need a new caretaker with us gone. Someone to feed it and keep it on the dresser.