3.8 billion dollars. That how much it had cost Billionaire Lewis Bronson to create his daughter. 3.8 billion, and decades of research.
Nothing about Mirabelle Bronson was a mistake. From the exact HEX number of her hair, eyes, and skin, to the wire...
"Are you blind?" My question comes out more insulting than I mean it to, and I half expect him to turn around to berate me. He doesn't.
The boy looks to be around eight, dressed in the same hospital gown as me. Despite being eight, he's still a full head taller than me. We're the only two people in the white room, yet he refuses to look at anything but the north wall. The wall where they're watching us.
"If you don't look at me, I'm going to tickle you." My threat doesn't come off as threatening at all, and I swear I see his mouth almost tilt up. Three minutes go by in silence, and he doesn't do anything.
Talking to him feels like talking to a wall, and at times I feel as if the wall would have a greater reaction to my words.
This is the fifth time they've placed us in the same room, and for some god awful reason they always leave us together for at least twelve hours. My internal clock reads it's only been seven and a half hours.
Hesitantly, I reach out to poke his side. He doesn't move, doesn't even flinch. I poke harder. When he gives no reaction, I jump onto his body without warning, sending us both crashing to the floor.
His hospital gown nearly rips off as I attempt to pinch and squeeze his stomach. I had never actually ticked anyone, nor had anyone ever tickled me, so I'm sure I'm doing it wrong. The boy doesn't seem to care though.
Casually, as if I hadn't assaulted him, he grabs me by the arms and sets me onto my feet. He brushes off his gown, then returns to the spot on the floor where he stood before. With an annoyed huff, I cross the white floors to sit in the corner. It's fine if he doesn't want to talk to me. I don't want to talk to him either.
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After the fourteenth visit, I understand whats happening. They're trying to socialize the boy. Like a dog, they're trying to get him to make friends. I stop talking to him, making myself spend those hours in agonizing silence, staring into the corner of the wall. I try to make it easy for him, even though he never had a hard time ignoring me to begin with.
"I don't want to see him again." The faceless scientist looms over me, pushing the heavy door open. "He doesn't want to see me again."
The scientist doesn't respond, and I enter the room. But this time, the boy isn't standing in his usual spot. He's huddled in the corner, gripping his arm. No, not his arm. His arm is gone, and he's clutching the stump where it was before.
I promised myself I wouldn't talk to him, but I can't stop the horrified gasp that escapes my lips. Wires and gore surround the ground around him. For the first time in the months we've known each other, he makes eye contact with me. His jaw tightens with something I don't understand, and he turns his head away, closing his eyes.
"Are you going to die? Where's your arm?" It feels like such a stupid question to ask, but I simply can't wrap my head around where his arm could have possibly gone. Did it just disappear? Unconsciously, I wrap my own arms around each other, as if they would disappear too.
