SCRAPS

Birth

Father was always good to me. Never fussed, never complained. He was always happy. I was always happy. I never understood why but we were always happy. Father never let me go outside. I often watch girls my age walking past my house freely. They smile a lot, like me. But, it's strange they smile for many reasons. I smile because father. But father is really sick now and I do not know how to react. Do I keep smiling? Act like everything is fine? Or do I cry, like a normal person...?

****

Sixteen years earlier

??? pov

I rush around looking for them. Covering my nose and mouth with the sleeve of my lab coat, I run down the corridor. Other scientist rush past me in the other direction. Some limp others crawl. The rest lie dead. I pray that they aren't like that. A wave of panic washes over me as I near the observation room. I make it and I sink to my knees. There they lay, nearly burnt to a crisp. I bang my fist on the steel floor and let the tears fall from my eyes. I curse the world. Why was this happening?! I crawl over to her as she turns to ash. My cries turn into sobs and wails as she slips through my fingers. Why? Why? was all I could ask.

I crawl over to the next corpse. I gently lift her. Her body so limp in my arms, her dead weight was burning me inside. She was so young. I still had more to teach her. Now she was gone. They both were gone. I lift her face to mine and kiss her forehead one last time before she disappears into dust. Goodbye Minerva...goodbye Nataliyah...forever. My loving wife and daughter.

****

Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, soon it'll be a year. The funeral ended but I still think it's going on inside my head. I remember it as clear as day. The sky was blanketed with a pale grey and everything was in black and white. Nataliyah's mother and father cried and gave me hurtful stares. I can't help but think it was my fault. I drink my beer and stare into the fireplace. Not too long ago I was diagnosed with lung cancer, as a result of the gas explosion. I don't have long to live. I have no one with me. There's no way I'll make it...at least I'll be with them right? I snicker at my sad realization. Nataliyah would tell me to keep living until I can't live anymore...I'm already dead though so what wouldn't matter. The doctor says a few years but no specific number. I sigh and take another swig. Leaning my head back I think of my darling Minerva...She died at sixteen. Her birthday is today...I hold up m bottle to the ceiling as if saying "cheers" and take a big swig. Often I cry thinking about them They were so bright and spirited.

"Minerva! Honey you're going to hurt daddy hehe" Nataliyah smiles.

Minerva crawls in my shoulders as I sit at the piano and smiles brightly.

"Daddy is strong! He's my super hero! right daddy?" Minerva smiles.

Yes. Daddy will be strong for you honey...

I just want them with me one last time. Minerva at least, there's so much that she didn't get to experience. I look over at my old equipment from my lab resting in the corner. Until the lab is rebuilt all workers are to stay home. I don't need the money really, I'm sitting on a lot. The inheritance from my uncle got me this mansion...it was our mansion I solemnly look at the family portrait. I look back at the box and I catch sight of a metal appendage. Squinting I crept over to the box curiously. Once I'm close enough I see what's really in the box. It was a disfigured android from my lab. Maybe...

****

Thirteen years later

???pov

"Make a wish!" he calls from the kitchen. I stare at the candles. It is my thirteenth birthday. No one was here but father and I. It has always been that way. Then I remember the staff. Father was in the kitchen with the cooking staff. There is the cooking staff, maids, and gardeners. But besides them just father and I. Mother died giving birth to me as father tells me.

Though I did not know her, I miss her. I close my eyes and blow out the candles. Father sits at the table and servers place plates of food in front of us. I smile broadly and begin to dig in.

"Ahem, Ah Minerva?" Father clears his throat and I look at him. He had his palms together prepared for prayer and I spit out my half chewed bread roll. "Sorry," I say placing my palms together.

"Thank you for the meal." I say allowed for my father to hear. Father tells me mother was a religious woman, therefore we should carry on her tradition. I wish I knew what she was like..

After dinner I walk up to my room and sit at my grand piano. I run my fingers gently across the keys. My eyes widen some. I forgot to practice today. I hope father doesn't find out. I don't see why I am worried though. Father is very fond of me. He rarely gets angry. Except when he thinks of mother. He cries. I never cry, not even when I was born. I don't know what it feels like. My fingers fly over the keys as I play "Fêtes de Noël" composed by Sergei Lyapunov. I'm very advanced in the arts. It makes father proud. Though I do not compete in competitions or perform at a school it makes him happy just watching me play in the music room.

I stop playing once I hear my door open. One of the French maids Lola enters to clean. She greets me with a warm smile and I begin to speak to her in her natural tongue. I am also multilingual. I can pick up any language without the help of a teacher. I never understood why I could do these things, father just tells me I'm gifted. Lola begins making up my bed and I begin to help.

"Ms. Minerva, you don't need to help have to help me dear." She quickly says fluffing my pillows.

"I insist, Lola you work too hard. Promise me you will rest once you are finished cleaning father's room." I kindly smile at the young maid, she returns the smile and nods.

We have many servants here. I often feel bad that they must work for us. When I was younger I couldn't even dress myself. I couldn't tie my shoe until I was ten years old. But through all of that Lola was there. She is a very nice girl, so sweet and loving. Lola is in her early twenties with short dark hair and dark eyes, her skin tan and her face as soft as cotton. But now these days she is tired and she wears the bags under her eyes well. It makes her look older than she is. It is like she works day and nights.

Later father reads to me. He reads stories every night. He says it will enhance my learning abilities. I never understand my father when he says things like this but it is working whatever it is. But regardless the story I love when father reads to me. I feel like he really makes the story come alive.

Midway into the story I dare as my father "Father...what was mother like?" This is a very touchy subject when it comes to father. We have photos of mother, there is even a giant portrait of her in the living room but, I've never known what she was like. Father likes to avoid the question. I know I'm torturing him with questions about mother but, I need to know. He rarely speaks of mother everything has always been about me. Father and I against the world. He never has the slightest thought of mother it makes me...sad? I don't know what sadness is like, I've always been happy. Father's face falls some and he leans into me. He whispers softly "Sleep." I have the sudden urge to obey. I close my eyes and drift off without another word or thought about mother.