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The Clone
By Nathan K.
age: 12
New York

The darkness envelopes my spindly features as I lay down in my bed. I stare at the white ceiling and take in the faint smell of bleach. I drift off to a dreamless sleep, the blackness echoing in my head.

I wake with a start as the door opens. A bright light floods the room, and a man in a white robe walks over to me. A jolt of pain leaves me falling to the floor, and another endless sleep comes over me.
I wake up and look at my plain surroundings. The walls, ceiling and floor are white, and the same with my bedside table. A tiny window overlooks the street on the far side of the room. A picture of my surrogate mother is propped up on a table near the door. Beside that is a small picture of my donor.

These two things are all I have, but to me they are hollow and seem irrelevant to my life. I should adore these things, but all I can think is that they are separate from me, as all things are and always will be.

I walk over to my bedside table and pick up the

New York Times. It reads: “The fourth human clone ever created is being held in captivity at the University of Wisconsin. An onslaught of tests are being run on this fifteen-year-old boy, and it seems he will not live past the age of forty. Laura Hamilton comments: ‘What are we? What distorted mind has created life, and destroyed it? Modern science has gone two steps too far. The first was to create a human clone, and the second is to treat him as you would treat an animal…”

I stop reading. This is me they are talking about. I am this twisted abomination, the creator of fear and distress. The other three clones had lived about ten years, dying always from some fatal disease.

They were lucky, I thought, raging at the world and its diabolic minds. It seems like I’m expected to live longer than they did, curse them. Why was I created? What is my purpose in life? What is my task? Am I to live in a box, forgotten and shunned by humanity? I will never know, it seems…

Over the next few months I amassed a collection of information from the newspapers laid on my table each morning, and it amounted to a debate over me between two groups. One group wanted to keep me in the lab and study me: making technological advances and continue to test me. This was a relatively small group and seemed to have a weaker voice in society. The other thought it was “immoral” to keep me in this environment, and it should be a “moral obligation” to treat me like a real person. This seemed to be the majority group in the world, thankfully. But why do I even care? What will I ever do?

I sit on my bed and think about my life. It seems to me I shall never do anything, or have any strong emotion. I shall never love, nor have a family. I shall never have a passion for anything. My feelings are kept locked away, waiting to be released but are forced to live in disgrace and sorrow. There is no point to my dismal life. A sudden feeling of emptiness started to gnaw at me, like an aching hunger impossible to tame.

The days seem endless, and I fear the night, when I start to think about my life. The hunger continues to eat away at my soul, and I hunger for something new, something to mask my constant desire. My fear grows, as my hatred for society. My rage is fueled by spite. My malice is my only escape from the yearning in my soul. I brood inside the white walls, seething with an unfulfilled anger. I curse modern society. I curse my life, and the man who asked for me to come to being.

10 years later
I stumble out of my bed and look out upon the beautiful Hudson River. About five years ago, I had been moved from the lab to this two-story apartment. I have everything I need, because nearly the whole world believes I should be treated “well” and “morally.”

But I still feel as though I have no purpose. I have no job, and simply wallow in the riches I have amassed from donations. I feel like a puppet of the world, people want me to be content. But I give nothing back. They give to me, and I am of no advantage to them. I was created by science and I am no different from everyone else. I am an exact copy of Will Mason at the age of fifty. I have arthritis, and countless other diseases, as I am as liable to them as a ninety-five year old man. I am not expected to live much longer and I have done nothing… nothing… I will die with those words in my mouth, and the eternal hunger gnawing at my aching soul…

The mind is a sensitive thing… it can be twisted by words and plagued by guilt. It can be guided by fear, hatred, spite, joyfulness, anger… it drives us to dream, to die, to live, to laugh, to kill, to create, to destroy. The world and its minds are spontaneous: plans, routine, habits… they are nothing even for the greatest thinkers. We plan and plot like hermits and walk into the world only to discover our plan will fail.
 

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