Lab Rats

Crackers (19 May 2683)

I'm crawling around in the back of my mom's expansive closet when I find the box of animal crackers.

Needless to say, I'm shocked to see the contraband.

My jaw drops; the flashlight I'd been holding in my mouth slips out from between my glossed lips and tumbles to the plush carpet in which my polished fingers curl, my knees sink.

"Diem! Hurry up or you're going to miss your Eval!" My mom's voice has no trouble reaching me from four floors down.

Shaky inhale. "I'll be right there!" I yell the lie over my shoulder as I slink even further into the depths of the wardrobe, curiosity pulling me along like a leash.

I grab the flashlight and put it back between my teeth, biting down on the handle of it to keep its beam steady.

The cracker box is wedged behind a bag of Jimmy Choo sandals and a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps in the very back right corner of the closet, an area full of dust, darkness, and forgotten footwear.

With trembling hands, I shove the surrounding accessory bundles out of my way, which causes a tower of Weitzman flats to tumble.

Cringing, I wait for my mom to shout about the commotion I'm making, but her voice doesn't rush up to meet me.

A sigh of relief makes the flashlight go crooked. I readjust the spotlight until it falls directly on the cracker box, the front of which is now completely exposed.

Too scared to touch the box, afraid that the archaic cardboard will disintegrate in my fingertips, I slowly lower myself onto my stomach, putting the box at eye level; the stiff bodice of my Eval dress presses into my ribs and the tulle of my skirt scratches the tops of my thighs, irritating my skin.

My attention does not linger on my discomfort for long though, for I instantly lose myself in the images on the face of the box. Pictures of mesmerizing creatures. Drawings of... of animals. Animals! The word itself seems wild, too untamable to be simply defined on a flimsy dictionary page. That's probably why it's not allowed to exist in dictionaries anymore...

The colors on the box have dulled, which is understandable considering the fact that it has to be at least sixty years old. Aside from the fading, the box is in relatively good condition. There's only a few scraggly creases that spiderweb out from two of the corners and a dent in the back. But the front is near pristine.

My eyes soak in the images before me, hungry for the visuals that I've seen only in dreams and once before in a documentary about the Spree.

There's one animal the color of pearls. Another as dark as tar. There's one with worn wrinkles drawn tight across a grey body, and a different creature with a ring of thick hair around its neck. My pupils savor every detail. The body of the tar-colored animal seems gigantic, while the body on the one with the furry neck seems sleek and toned. One has ivory swords protruding from its face, while another has long delicate hairs encircling its snout.

I look down at my hands. I see the thin veins underneath my pale skin. The monotonous pores that cover my whole body. The swirls of my fingertips that I used to be so intrigued by because no two fingerprints are the same but am now so easily disappointed in because my fingerprints will never amaze me in the ways that these animals have. Their diversity goes beyond the assemblage of lines and curves. It dives deeper into bone structure and hair texture and nose length and eye shape.

Sure, one could argue that all of these things can be different among humans too. But in the end, we're still humans. Just one species.

We'll never be like the animals on this box.

We may have our differences, but those variations are easily swamped by all the things that make us similar.

And as I gaze longingly at the animal cracker box in the dark of my mom's closet, I realize that I'm tired of seeing nonstop similarities. I'm tired of seeing the same features just rearranged and colored differently.

Gently, as if I were stroking a newborn's head, I lift my hand and touch my finger to the grey creature's feet.

I yearn to see feet like this. Feet as thick as tree trunks with nails as big as my fist. I close my eyes and rack my brain-there must be a term for these kind of feet-but I come up with nothing. Frustrated, I open my eyes and focus on the animal with the hair wrapped around its throat like a scarf. There are small slits in its hands, from which-what I can only describe as-strong hooks protrude. I know that there is a better name for what I'm seeing; I've heard it whispered by the more daring of my peers. But I have no luck solidifying what it is. There are too many forbidden words to know which one is right.

And I have no way of knowing what any of these animals are called either, which devastates me the most. Beneath each creature is a blue label, the center of which has been scribbled over with several different-colored pens. A layer of ink is what separates me from the names of the animals.

The box becomes blurry and for a second, I'm confused. Then I feel a warmth upon my cheeks and taste the tinge of salt on my lips and before I can stop myself, I'm sobbing.

I know my mom will berate me for messing up my Eval makeup but I don't stop.

A pain settles behind my eyes, unleashing a roaring headache as my sobs become gut-wrenching, but I still refuse to stop.

That's the problem with humans. We don't know when to stop.

It doesn't matter if every animal is placed on an endangered species list. It doesn't matter if wildlife reserves have to be protected by the military. It doesn't even matter if at least two species died off each day during the Spree.

Nothing mattered...

Until nothing was left.

All the animals. Dead.

Animal testing no longer exists.

But that doesn't mean the tests have stopped.

Now they're just done on humans.