Hearts And Minds

They say I’m not human. That I’m not the sum of my parts, that just because I have a heart, it doesn’t mean I have a soul. Some ask, “If it’s not human, then what is it?”

‘It’ is me. ’It’ is my heart, my lungs, my limbs, my brain, my skin. Only they’re not mine. I have the heart of a marathon runner, the lungs of a swimmer, the arms of a baseball pitcher, the legs of a tennis player, the brains of multiple literal and scientific geniuses, the skin of thousands of multicultural donors.

So people talk amongst themselves, they chatter and gossip. They ask, “What is it?”
Some say I’m the work of the devil, others see me as a science experiment, a product.

The only thing I have that is truly myself is my mind. That which is not physical, but intangible. The one thing they cannot see, their beady eyes blind to the whisperings of my internal self. The tornado of memories, swirling around like snow in a blizzard, urging me to run, to hide, to do something before I lose my mind, that precious thing that is mine and mine alone, untainted by this cruel world.

“Hideous.”

“Monstrous.”

“Cursed.”

They talk and talk, these people, they speak of what they can’t see, what they can’t touch. They don’t know what’s inside me, they don’t know who I am. They know my parts, but not me.

I represent all human cultures and races, but not one of them sees me. They don’t speak to me, some can’t bear to look at me. They just talk in hushed tones as I walk by.

My home is not much of a home. It’s a house, a place of residence, but not a home. I have no family, no one to call my mother or father. My former speech therapist is now my daily manager, running me through a schedule of mental and physical exercises, medical checkups and TV show appearances.

I am the perfect specimen. Of what creature, I cannot say. I am the most qualified for anything and everything, a specialist in all fields. But I did not earn these skills, these talents. They were given to me. I pick up a guitar and my fingers caress the strings with years of experience, I speak fifty different dialects without a stutter, I could swim across the Pacific and live to tell the tale.

I am the face of the largest lab research corporation, on the uppermost rung of the scientific ladder. I am a stepping stone in the technological evolution of mankind. Maybe I am what the people call me, but I am also more.

I am the perfect specimen, a shining light in the human race, showing a path towards a brighter future. My skills and talents make me a specialist in all fields, qualified in all aspects. I can run a marathon in record time, solve the world’s most puzzling problems, entertain crowd after crowd for weeks on end.

I am the representative of the largest company in the world. I am a burning beacon, a lighthouse in the dark waters of science. I am the future. I will change lives. I’m not a monster, I’m a visionary. My words will touch every human heart, change every mind in my favour.

I am beautiful. Handsome. My multicoloured skin is a work of art, to be viewed with reverence and awe. I am the strongest, most intelligent, most perfect being on this earth. Nothing will stand in my way. No one would dare.

I feel ready. Ready to be unleashed onto the world, to take what is rightfully mine.

I blink. A heart monitor beeps steadily beside me. Doctors with masks move around the room efficiently, carrying out procedures and speaking in measured voices. Then a torch flashes in my eyes. “Shit, what’s he doing awake? Put him back under!”

I am a sword in the hands of my makers. I willingly pledge myself to be of their service. I will not stand in their way. I will not deny them. I am a loyal subject. I know only orders and efficiency. Hesitation is not part of my make up. I will unflinchingly do as my makers wish.

I am the perfect specimen. The perfect servant. The personification of undying faith and loyalty. I am specialised in all fields my makers require me to be. I can kill a man without being seen, hack the farthest corners of any database, highjack any vehicle without working up a sweat.

I am a one man army. I am the instrument with which my makers will clean this world that the gods made such a mess of. Free will is a privilege. Life is a privilege. They must be earned. The strong will survive. The weak will –

I bolt upright. Cords pull free, sirens go off, doctors and nurses shout and curse. My manager walks in. “What the fuck happened?”
“He’s rejecting the procedure, miss.” The speaker is trying to hide behind his hands. I can’t feel my head. It’s completely numb. I look at my manager, terrified. What is she doing to me? She was supposed to take care of me. I try to move but my limbs are strapped down. I must have broken the strap on my head when I sat up.
“Wipe him. Start over.” The woman’s cold eyes stare straight through me. I don’t know her anymore, I never really did. Not my heart pounds in not my chest as a new strap is tightened around not my head. I know what’s coming, so I prepare to protect the only thing that is mine. But I can sense the tornado slowing, the snow in the blizzard dropping, and I know this is the end of myself, but also the end of my suffering. All I can do now is embrace it.