Some Things Should Never Be

It started with an accident and then later, a plane, then I turned insane. It’s as far back as I can remember.

After a very brief introduction we were asked to build one of the best model airplanes that we could think of, it was in honor of the Wright Brothers. Hours past as I became to fidget with the straws, paper, and glue. Our teacher looked at me and began to get frustrated “I said build airplanes not squares!” he would say, but it wouldn’t help, all he did was put more pressure and I hated pressure. It was our school project. I was supposed to finish it in school but took too long, so unwillingly I took it home to work on.

When I got home it was just as I had predicted; my Grandfather was home. He was an airplane pilot back in his days and I thought maybe he could help. So I went to ask my Grandfather for some help; I walked up to him and in a calmly fashion I asked “Grandpa Can you help me with my airplane project?” I gave my best smile. But as plain as my plane he refused me like a bum on the street asking for ‘some spare change.’ It made no sense, but ever since I broke my leg in that car accident my life was turned around and my Grandpa had treated me different, he only made me feel bad.

A couple hours past and I sat there sadly holding my paper full of glue with straws sticking out; it looked as if I attempted to build a teepee. So, I sat there watching television with my Grandpa; he sat on one end of the couch and I on the other. Time was passing, and enthusiasm dying, my hopes of finishing my project had dimmed down. Until my mother and father pulled into the drive way, and my hopes were not up. My Father was an engineer, and my Mother was . . . she was . . . well I know she did something. Anyways, I went up to my father and as he started to walk into the garage I asked him as plain as my plane “Dad can help me build my model airplane?” as I looked at him I was holding my teepee-like-model-airplane, I gave my best puppy look. But he just scratched the back of his neck and gave me a heart crushing turn-down “Later son, go ask your grandpa.” I tried to plead and tell him grandpa wouldn’t help me but he blocked me out and angrily shouted “I’m busy right now! I will help you later.” He said it in such a way it made me sad.
So then I went to my mom, she was in the kitchen making supper, so as you can see it was this point that I didn’t even bother to ask. Ever since my accident it has always been that way.

I ran away, far away. We lived in a town where there were many fields, so I ran along with the tall green grass. My back-pack filled with clothes, food, money, and of course the symbol of my rage, my attempted airplane.
I felt mad and so much pain. I climbed the highest hill, made myself a shelter and made a deal with Satan; be in my heart instead of the God. I screamed out my agreement and my bottled anger to Satan. It was my way of being really mad; every time I was mad I would get mad at God, this was because my family were Christians, so I ask God to get out of my life and ask the Satan to give it a shot, since it seemed that God’s ‘tests’ were harder than living with Satan. “A ride on the wild side, why not” I thought to myself after I wiped away my angry, solemn tears. Thinking to myself, I got a certain satisfaction making agreements with Satan, and I pretended that God was watching and I mocking him. It felt good.

After three nights I was ready, I was ready to go back home.
My food supplies were low. My clothes were filthy. My money came of no use. And my airplane, well it was the same way it was from the first day I felt home; every night for about three nights I went to bed in the shelter and I starred into the sky and held that retched plane in my hand. I wanted to crush it, but I was compelled to savor the moment, it was like I hand power in the palm of my hand. I felt as if I had taught my parents a lesson, I couldn’t wait to see their scared and worried look on their face.
It had been three days, since my run-away.
So on-ward I journeyed my way home.

This trip took me a lot longer than the first time; from dawn, to dusk. I would say it must have been at least ten-kilometers from the hill to my house. As I approached the house with a good hundred paces more to go, I felt scared, that this run-away might actually back fire.
I cautiously walked to the window on the side of the house which peered into the dinning room and through to the living room. To much of my surprise they were eating with enjoyment and it seemed like they were acting like I never existed, I even saw laughter; which stuck my little heart like a bolt of lighting. Horrified tears came rolling down my cheeks like a water fall. I let those tears pour, then brought myself to the front door and rang the door bell. My heart raced, my palms sweaty, and those tears just kept on flowing. When my grandpa opened the door I could swear I almost gave him a heart attack; he gasped for air, clutched his arm, and pulled out his asthma-pump. He slowly backed off as I cautiously walked in past the door. Grandpa yelled for my mom and dad. “My boy!” entered my father. My mother then came into the porch way, “Oh my God . . .” she gasped and collapsed on the floor. Then the oddest thing happened; I heard a little voice, it sounded familiar, very familiar, and too familiar. It was me. “Who’s at the door?” he said just before I could see my reflection that came out from the kitchen and unto my sight. And at the sight I felt like I was floating and watching that dilemma.
My eyes widened, I was in shocked. There was my reflection, a clone of me. Tension rose, until my Father spoke, and I entered my body once again “I think it is time we have a talk, my sons.”

We were brought into my dad’s home office. My mother had finally awaked, and was escorted next to my dad and my duplicated sat next to me. My grandpa sat behind it all, out of the conversation; he clutched his hands together, bowed his head, it looked like he was praying.
While my Grandpa appeared to be praying my weak mother and serious father looked at us both. At one point my mother looked at us and her eyes became reddened, and she quickly turned her head away, followed by her attempts to control herself.
Then my Father spoke in a serious tone, and it always had the effect of frightening me
“You two are my sons . . .” he said. Every time he spoke he took his time, followed by a sigh. Us duplicates sat and listened.
“My boys, you both are clones.”
“You two are . . . are cloned from the original.”
He then pointed to me “You are the first clone.” He pointed to my reflection, “and you are the second.” I listened in disbelief, I felt original, but they were saying I was cloned. It was like they were saying you’re not our boy, or you're fake, or we just keep you around to keep the memory. I still didn’t say anything. About that point my mother bursted into tears and my father held it in and rubbed her back and my grandpa walked out of the room. My father continued “so now you return! . . . You were gone for three years!” he looked at me and said.
I was gone for three years!? I thought to myself in shock and disbelief my heart kept racing and there was nothing I can do to stop it. It was like a nightmare that didn’t want to end.
Hours past as they told us about the original how they couldn’t bear to live with out their son.
My father then looked at me and said “you,” he sighed “you were cloned after that car accident. You were tricked into believing that you only broke your leg. Sadly the original didn’t survive the accident. Otherwise there would be no need for you.”
They showed us are clone number at the back of our necks, and how they were visible only under a certain light. Finally they came to a conclusion that we all will try to live a normal life, and continue on and always be grateful. That quick turn in conversation cheered me up, I still remember that feeling.
Soon it was time for us to go to bed, we got separate rooms; it was only for a “while” they wanted us to “live in the same room, try to live and get used to each other.”
So there I was brought to the guest room it was my “temporary room”, my mother brought me some food then told me how I was gone for three years and was never found. They thought that I had been kidnapped, so made another clone.
She tucked me in and turned off the lights. I then began to lay there and think to myself, things don’t add up. Its funny I only remember being away for three days not “three years.” But maybe I was away for three years because they told me I was moving into my teens and only then did I noticed the difference in myself.
One thing did make sense though; it explained why I was ignored so often. I was only around for the memory. No wonder why I was always being rejected.

The next morning was the worst morning of my entire life I awoke freezing, wet, and shivering. Outside on the field that was close to our back yard I laid in agony. From there you could see my house the open field of tall once green but now yellow grass. When I woke there lay before my eyes a blade with thick red ooze on it, and I was afraid. I found that when I woke the wet feeling was actually drenched blood stains; my body was entirely numb; numb from cold, and numb of fear.
In a matter of moments a police dog found me curled up in a ball. I looked at the dog, and the police man struggling to hold the dog back to stop it from tearing me to pieces. The dog’s bark set the police into frenzy, four police officers came running up to where the dog was; they were all out of breathe and in a panic from the sight of what they saw; they saw me curled and crying, drenched in blood with a murder weapon close by my side.
Even though it felt like a dream, I remember it vividly, and will always remember it until the last of my days.
After all had calmed down the dog stopped trying to viciously rip me to pieces and the officers decided to handle me cautiously and I stopped crying, for my heart was about to give out. They treated like an alien.
Finally one stepped up and put a blanket over my clothes. And from crying, and so much shock, I past out in the officers arms.

Breaking News: In the town of St. Alberts there has been a family murder. The family members that were killed were Adam, Eve, their cloned son, Clone Two and a seventy two year old man - Paul. The family members were dragged one hundred feet from the house after being cut and stabbed repeatedly by their cloned son, Clone One!
I could hear the news babble on in my half sleep, and I awoke. My eyes opened to people surrounding me; they greeted me, and seemed nice at first. They were detectives. Soon after we had a calm talk, they got frustrated, and got more offensive; asking me tons of questions, over and over, question after question. I got extremely tired and blacked out.

Months past, they took me to scientists, psychiatrists, psychologists and to some extent concluded:

“Clone One (that’s what they called me) has a glitch in his gene, he has frequent conscious black-outs that cause, manic memory loss, and aggressive behavior. Clones are going through the process of being illegal; they are an abomination to the human race. When Clone One has black-outs he is still awake but has no recollection of what he is doing in the state, hence memory loss. Only his subconscious is operational, and this is where the glitch is thought to be.” And in the news it was being broadcast all over the world; “human cloning is an abomination” and they were probably right.

However, Christian foundations proclaimed:

“Clone One is an abomination.” They all seemed to agree on that I was an abomination -- I felt like I was the Abominable Snowman -- at the time I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. “We are to believe that his evil doings is a curse by God; only God can give a soul, not mankind, we believe that this evil that has come over this clone is a curse, a curse on all clones, an act of God. Clone One has no Soul!”

Today many year’s have passed and I got older in this stench jail cell of mine; after all I didn’t have a soul, so why not treat me like an animal. Like this model airplane that hangs from my ceiling; I was a symbol; what should never be, a symbol of evil, one of humanities mistakes in history never to be repeated again, maybe so. But now I made peace with myself, and all things, for now God is in me, and no longer Satan.

Autobiography,

Clone One