The Thin Line

The Thin Line



         On my sixteenth birthday, I spawned the most ill-fated idea that had yet occurred to me. Without consulting anybody I decided to conduct an experiment. Making my way to the lab I giggled with that slightly insane, mad laughter that defines scientists like myself. Opening the door I strolled inwards with purpose, gliding past the cages that held my captives, my experiments. I smiled at them with a sinister smirk and watched, satisfied, as they shrunk away in terror, dreading whatever unspecified punishment I had in store for them. My lab was a large room, and almost offensively clinical and clean.

         I made my way to the far side of the room where a small table was positioned. The table was decorated with a wide diversity of surgical equipment. Taking one of the many tools I cut a thin slice of my own skin, relishing the pain and discomfort, before placing it within a glass vial.

           Inside the vial was a growth serum, my father’s last great invention before he went mad and had to be killed. The serum was powerful stuff, I had once dropped a rat in it and had watched with fascinated delight as it grew and grew until finally it exploded, drenching me in its blood and guts. I think I still have its entrails somewhere. Good times. Good times. I sighed happily as I remembered the fond memory and then returned to work.

         Already the shred of skin was beginning to grow. Carefully I began to measure out volumes of chemicals, making sure beyond all certainty that the quantities were correct before adding them to the mixture.

         I was at this point unsure whether my experiment would work. My research suggested it would work on lesser mammals, but it had not been until earlier today that I had considered using the technique upon my own cells.          

         As I looked down upon the mixture I was pleased to note a change within the skin cells. They were returning to their most basic form, Embryonic Stem Cells.  At this point I should have been pleased, I had discovered a way to make stem cells, a process scientists, like my late father, had been trying to discover for years. The amount of diseases and aliments within the body this could be used to rectify were endless. But that did not interest me, I had greater plans.

         I wished to nurture these cells, to grow them, to force and to bully them into becoming what I wanted. I wished to make a clone. A clone of myself. With two of me there would be no end to what we could achieve. The world would just be an appetizer; the universe would become our play thing. Together with a combined IQ of over 600 no-one could stand before us. Dear mother up in heaven I hope you are watching me. With my own hands I will conquer this world and many, many more. I will live your dream.

         I laugh insanely, throwing back my head and letting my insanity flow forth. I laugh and laugh until I can laugh no more. I cease, and silence falls. I remain still for a moment relishing the silence. Then I begin to work once again. Initiating stage two of my greatest plan.

         I spend the next few hours in blissful unawareness. Focusing solely upon the task at hand. My clone is developing fast, what are mere minutes to me are like years to him. He is already on the verge of puberty and in less than an hour he will have reached my age. I pour the contents of a small blue vial with utmost, almost loving care into the large, bath like container that I now use as a vessel to grow him. As I do his eyes open, revealing white orbs like my own, tainted by red pupils. His hair is like mine also, long and white. The hair of a person who rejects sunlight and the outdoors, nature and all the goodness it embodies. He is not yet fully alive. He may be conscious of his existence but he has yet to comprehend his surroundings or his reason for being. I continue to raise him with utmost care.

         I am sure he is conscious now, but he has yet to speak. I try encouraging him, but he remains mute. I do not mind much, for I find the silence agreeable, and I am sure that as a clone of me he must also.     

         Several days have passed now but he has yet to speak. Concerned I distract myself by torturing my experiments, but even their screams fail to completely distract me. I am confused by my concern; I have lived my life without caring for anyone except for myself. Perhaps that is why I care for him, after all he is me.

         Suddenly a voice derails my train of thought, my voice. No. Not mine, my clones.

“Help!” It splutters, the clone staggering towards me, oozing blood, oozing pus. I am shocked by what I see. Horrified I stagger back. My clone calls again, a horrible, guttural, cry that rips forth from the deepest part of its soul before it silences, ceases, and explodes. Showing the room with blood. Drenching me in crimson rain.

         I stand unmoving. Shocked, and unable to comprehend. Blood drips from my hair into my eyes as I collapse. Deep within me it feels like part of my soul has been ripped away. I scream. Leap upwards and grab a knife from a table. I bring it to my chest. I do not know what caused my clone to die but I am sure that it is my fault. Was I not careful enough? What did I do wrong?

         I am mad, insane. Driven past the edge of sanity by the look of pain and terror upon my clones face, my face. I scream again and plunge the knife inwards, cutting through my flesh to my heart. Suddenly the world turns to gray and sanity returns. I see my mother, I have failed her. I never ruled the world, I never crushed the people.

         “Mother. I am sorry. Please forgive me.” I breathe these final words as even the gray leaches from the world. I keel over and die.