The End

Chapter 15

            The next day passed uneventfully—no word from Jason, or more importantly, Duke.

            By Wednesday, I was prepared to call; ready to find out if Duke was still alive. As I sat mentally debating, my phone lit up, the call I had waiting for gracing the line. Duke.

            I answered immediately, wanting to hear his voice.

            “Hello?” I asked timidly, now unsure of myself. What if it wasn’t Duke?

            “Florence,” he answered, his calm voice stealing my fears, comforting me. “You need to come over.” 

            Before I could respond, he had already hung up.

            Following his instructions, I headed to the car.

                                    *                                    *                                    *

            Jason answered the door before I could bring myself to ring the bell. His posture was rigid, his smile absent, a tense nod being the only form of greeting given.

            “Upstairs,” he said simply, which was all I needed to hear before launching myself to Duke’s bedroom. The door at the end of the hall was shut, faint light spilling into the dark space from crack above the carpet. Creeping through the corridor, I knocked softly, relieved when he called out, telling me to enter. Hesitantly, I turned the knob.

            He sat upright in bed, supported by a mountain of pillows; he still looked terrible, but better than he did Monday. Evening light poured through the large windows that lined the wall, giving Duke an unnerving, sickly glow. At his beside, stood a chair that had not been present Friday night.

            I drew closer, sitting carefully to fully examine the boy in front of me. He smiled weakly, moving closer to my seat. His eyes, normally light, were rimmed darkly with exhaustion; he seemed terrified by my close proximity.

            “Florence, we need to talk.”

            My heart crept into my throat; those were words that typically had no good place in a relationship.

            “W-what’s wrong?’

            “It’s about Monday.”

            “What about Monday?” I pressed, wanting to finish this conversation as soon as possible.

            He sighed, forcefully pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

            “I’ve not told you the whole truth. I know everything about you, and you know nothing about me.”

            I found myself at the edge of the chair, waiting, dreading the words to come.

            “I’m sick,” he said simply.

            “Yeah, I know, Duke. You almost died at my house.”

            “No, you don’t know,” he corrected. “I’m sick for a reason.”

            “What?”

            “I’m a mutant.”

            Not understanding, or wanting to understand, a word he said, I cautiously felt his forehead, certain his fever was spiking. He aggregately pushed my hand away and continued.

            “I was the experiment before you, to see if what Stephens wanted to do would work.”

            “What?”

            “Before Stephens decided to create you, an exact genetic copy with a superhuman immune system, he wanted to see if it would be possible to create the disease resistance in a ‘normal’ scenario.” He paused to judge my reaction.

            “Stephens and my father were friends from college, so when he asked, my dad agreed. My mom was only a few weeks pregnant when they began injecting her. I was born, and she died, the stress of the injections too much. I-“

            “Wait—you take Sub-D, too?”

            “No, but I’m the reason you do,” he mumbled, his cheeks pink and his eyes downcast, ashamed.

            “W-what?”

            “They injected my mother with diophonate—it wasn’t addictive or toxic—but still harmful. It killed her, but not me. They needed a stronger substance for you, so they tweaked it, making oxidiophonate, or Sub-D.”

            The information stunned me—I wasn’t the only one?

            “Do you know why it’s called Sub-D, Florence?”

            I shook my head, not trusting my voice.

            “Because Substance A and B killed the test subjects, and Substance C killed my mother. The fourth, Substance D, worked, successfully creating a living organism—you.”

            “But- how does that- why are you sick?” I stumbled.

            “Another reason they use oxidiophonate is because it's stronger, and does its job. Sure, the diophonate does an excellent job of protecting me from ‘normal’ illnesses, but not ones that it causes,” he explained.

            “What?”

            “A few times a year, I get sick—really sick. That is, I guess you could call it, a ‘side-effect’. I can’t catch a cold, or the flu, or pneumonia, but because of the drug, I can still be ill.”

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, hurt that I had been kept in the dark.

            “I-I thought I had more time,” he mumbled. “I guess I’ve never really accepted it.”

            For some reason, I was angry—no furious. I was mad at Duke, for not telling me, Stephens for messing in what should’ve been left alone, and at myself, for not expecting it.

            “Do you think I’ve ‘accepted it’, Duke?” I asked, enraged at the world.

            “No-Florence, I’m sorry-I don’t-“

            “No, Duke. Why? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? You practically died in my bed, then you tell me Stephens messed you up, too, and you expect me to magically be okay with this?” I continued.

            “You knew about me the entire time, and you don’t bother to mention that, in some ways, we’re the same, because you’ve never accepted it?”

            “Florence, listen to me,” he shouted. “I’m sorry. I-I should’ve told you sooner, but at least I told you. I understand why you’re frustrated, but you have nothing to be angry about.”

            I felt what little color my face carried flood away.

            “I have nothing to be angry about?” I whispered, fury racing through my veins. “I have everything to be angry about.” 

            I stood, leaving him. I heard Duke call out before I slammed the door shut.

            Maybe I was overreacting, but for the first time, I allowed myself the luxury of anger, anger at everyone. Maybe I was being ridiculous, but for once, I was allowed.