God knows I suffered a lot of abuse for raising Rosie.

It’s unnatural.

It’s disgusting.

It’s immoral.

Given the nature of her existence, it is hard to argue these points. But yet, I felt I owed her a chance at life, however brief and pointless it may seem. You can call it a bond. A deeper connection. Something beyond the mere physical aspect of our perceived reality.

All I know is, the moment our eyes met, I couldn’t just leave her behind.

So I brought her home, and raised her like my own daughter. She wasn’t allowed outside of my property of course – I’m not an idiot – but I still feel I’ve given her a modicum of normality. We celebrated birthdays, Christmases, hosted barbecues and parties, and I even hired actors to play friends and family so she’d feel wanted and loved.

And when the questions came, I always had an answer.

“Mommy, why can’t I go outside?”

“They kill your kind out there, sweetie.”

Not entirely true, not entirely false. A half-truth. A white lie. Enough information to keep her under control, but not enough for her to question her own existence.

She grew up happy, and that’s all that matters. She had a life. She had meaning. And, however short lived it was, she was here.

I’m an old woman now, and Rosie is nearing her 18th birthday. It’s a good age for the process – the brain is more or less fully developed, and the body is nearing its prime. Statistics show that people generally prefer it to happen between the ages of 18-25. No real surprises there.

They’ll strap my Rosie down, connect all the wires and tubes and electrodes, and I’ll be there too – to assure her that it’s gonna be okay, and of course I’m needed for the procedure itself as well.

I’m the guest of honor, so to speak.

I’ve done it five times now, but this is the first conscious version of myself I’ve had my mind transferred to. I wonder what will happen to her, my other self. Will her consciousness just cease to exist? Or will it wander the endless nothing, searching for a home?

Don’t rightly know why it was different this time. Why I felt the need to raise Rosie – to raise myself.

All I know is that I’ll keep doing it. Twenty years from now, thirty at a stretch. When my body starts showing signs of age, and I can’t stand looking at myself in the mirror anymore, I’ll go to the Vats. And I’ll ask them to grow another Rosie. Grow another me.

And I’ll raise myself all over again.