The Savages

Chapter 2: Perseverance

Past

He always envisioned a world where people looked out for another; a world free of violence, insensitivity, crime and backstabbing. When he first opened his eyes on the fourteenth of April in two thousand and thirteen, he held on to the vague sense of hope that maybe, if he was friendly to all of those around him, the world would return the favour.

The man who had created him was named Caspian. He was very helpful when the clone of Rick Savage asked him a million questions about who he was, why he was created, what his purpose was, and other things he could no longer remember. He was supposed to be given a name, but during the process of his creator selecting one, the clone was dragged by the hair into the back room of the facility.

"Why does he have to keep making more of you guys?" The black haired man groaned outwardly, stomping his feet on the expensive linoleum like a toddler throwing a tantrum. "I'm getting really sick of seeing more and more clones of the same person. You don't even look that different!"

The clone backed up against the wall as the man advanced on him, swinging his fist through the air. His first experience of human contact left him with a bruise and throbbing, stinging pain in his cheek. The man pummelled his fists into every part of the clone's body, fracturing his ribs and adding further marks to his arms, legs and sides.

He was left a crumpled pile in the corner of the room after the man was done, locking the door from the outside. Hours and days stretched on into one endless cycle of pain, dehydration and starvation. The rumbling of his empty stomach grew violent as the hope of Caspian finding him slowly faded away into nothing, just like every other innocent thought he once had. He felt betrayed and abandoned; merely another burden on the friendly faced creator left to die and rot.

It wasn't until a month later that he was recused, and learnt the truth of why his saviour didn't show up. Caspian had left the responsibility of preparing him for the world in the hands of his assistant, Matthew, the same man who assaulted him. He was so distraught and angry by that point that he refused to follow anyone's instructions, Caspian's included.

For the first year of his life, he locked himself away inside his bedroom. The house he was forced to live in belonged to someone named Teemu, supposedly another, older clone of the same person as him. He never made an effort to speak to Teemu, or any of the other clones living there. His meals were always delivered to his room because he refused to leave the safety it brought him, protecting him from the dangers of the outside world where people hurt and killed one another. He refused to risk the chance of getting used as someone's punching bag again. Every day on the news, without fail, he heard the same story: a body being found somewhere, having been dumped or buried months beforehand. Sometimes years.

It wasn't until three months had passed since living in the house he finally gained enough courage to open the mahogany door, his heart racing inside his chest. He found the entire upper storey was deserted, much to his relief, save for a pair of mud clad sneakers someone had left against the wall. He was still trying to wrap his mind around how a house as spacious as the one he stood in could belong to nine other clones just like him. He was the youngest of the bunch, which, he found, he didn't mind all that much. If he ever found himself struggling to understand something, he could always approach them and ask for advice. That was, assuming he could stay in the same room as them and not totally freak out.

"He finally emerges," a sarcastic voice teased him from the other end of the hallway. "What's wrong? Did you get kicked out of the room?"

The clone looked up to see Ricky Edgar leaning casually against the wall, sharpening a glistening dagger in his hands. The charcoal hilt was lined with numerous silver studs on each of its four sides, and poking out from the middle was the skeletal face of the grim reaper. The crossbar, in the form of long misshapen sleeves, had skeletal hands dangling from the ends to match it.