Magcon BoyxBoy

The Boy

cameron
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Who let the pale boy in here?

Everyone else in here has brown hair, brown eyes and tan skin, but who fucked up?

I mean, I thought that was the point. Whatever they're doing with our DNA and crap, I thought that it only worked because of our genes. Like the dominant brown hair, brown eyes stuff.

But this guy, holy hell, he was paler than blank white paper. He looked so awkward and tall, but I felt bad for him, because everyone, and I mean everyone, was staring at this kid in the commons room. He was just sitting in the red leather chair, feet flat on the floor and hands wrapped around his knees, not looking at anyone.

"What are you going to say to him?" this little nine-year-old kid named Charlie whispered into my ear, sitting next to me on one of the bar stools.

"I don't know," I replied, but I got up anyways.

Besides myself, there are about 60 other kids in this facility. I guess I'm the leader of everyone, since I've been here the longest, but it's not like I tell people what to do. I make sure the younger kids are okay and stuff and that no one is fighting and I guess I make the executive decision, but not much more than anyone else.

I think I'm the oldest. I certainly look the oldest, but not many know how old they are. I certainly don't, since I've been here since I was a toddler. Unless you came here after you had an understanding of age and birthdays and stuff, then you picked a birth date.

I know I had a sister, and I kind of remember her, but not much. She and I were separated a long time ago, the same time when this research place picked me up off the streets and she was taken to an orphanage place.

But anyways, I don't know why the sudden change. Since I'm kind of recognized as the "leader" by what I just call The Board, they kind of alert me first. Sometimes kids leave and then they never come back, but I've been here practically my whole life, so it's almost pointless to make me leave because I know the most.

When you get here, I guess they wipe most of your memory. You're given a number name for your file, and then the other boys pick you a new name, since you've forgotten your real one. I've been told that the first one or two numbers is how old you were when they found you, but you can't really count the years in here. The oldest boys here when I came picked my name, mostly because no one else had it.

But I walked up to this guy, tapping him on the shoulder. He looked up.

"Who are you?" I blurted. Dumbest thing I ever could've said. I know that he doesn't remember his name, or much of what happened before now, but I couldn't help myself. This was just so weird.

"Not sure," he responded. Already predicted.

"Okay, what's your Number?" I said.

"I'm sorry?" he said, either not hearing or not understanding.

"The number they gave you when you got here."

"I don't have one," he responded, looking around at all of the confused stares in the silent room.

"What do you mean 'you don't have one?'" I said in astonishment.

"I don't know! They didn't give me one."

I ran my fingers through my hair before rushing out of the room. Heading down the hallways in nearly a sprint, I pushed past some of the guys who worked here. They did all the cleaning and cooking and stuff. All of them were guys too, as with everyone else. I haven't even seen the other sex since my sister and I split.