Monsters are not Made, but Born

Monsters are not Born, but Made

"She's beautiful," is said in an awed whisper by my newest warden.

"It's an abomination!" retorts what use to be my primary physician.

"There are reasons man cannot play God!" is yelled in agreement by one of the many consultants I acquired while I was unconsciously transforming.

. They do not know I hear them so clearly through the glass, just as they do not know I can see them through what once functioned as a one-way mirror to my eyes. They know very little about me when previously they knew my very DNA. But that was before I was transformed, before my very genes were ripped apart and replaced with Bird DNA. That was before I learned that humans are truly made of nothing that is good or right in this world.

When I signed up for the bloody experiment, it was a last ditch effort to help further the sciences before I died. I signed up for the experimental gene treatments because I had nothing to lose, I was supposed to die soon anyway. I was not supposed to live through this.

I wasn't supposed to live through this, but I have. I wasn't supposed to grow feathers the color of the crows', and my eyes were not supposed to turn the bright color of a harvest moon. But I did. I wasn't supposed to turn into a monster! But a monster is what I have become.

"What are we supposed to do with her?! It cannot be released into the world to run free!" They continue to argue, debating what to do with my life as if I was less aware than a dog. I want to scream. I want to tell them that I can hear them, I still understand. I want to pound the fragile glass until they know I'm alive and that I will fight to stay that way. But sometimes it is best to wait before you show them you care.

"We need to get rid of it," my breath hitches and my heart rate spikes into double time, "There were mistakes made but we can put this fiasco behind us and move forward."

They're going to kill me. My body screams for action but I just lower my head. My blood boils on the rising tide of my anger. Afterall, it is one thing to accept death when it was an unstoppable disease from within my own body. Now it is just another person saying I have no right to exist. I clear my throat and speak,

"Is there someone in the room? I'd like to know what is happening." I let my voice quiver but I make sure I'm heard. Let my voice remind them I am a human where my feathers will not.

There is silence behind the window, but I continue looking at the ground. They should not be reminded of my eyes. I wait in silence for what feels like a short stretch of eternity. I feel the uncomfortable drag of feathers as I shift in my seat.

"I'm going to feel pretty silly if no one's in there." I say, pretending that I don't know they were just planning my murder. Let them come into my cell. Let them condemn me face to face.

There is the sound of a door opening, as those in the observation room exit and walk to my door. I do not look up until my door opens and even then it is only a glance.

"I'm glad I wasn't talking to an empty room." I say with a small self-conscience chuckle before asking the real question, "What's happening? What am I going to do?" I do not have to fake the insecurity in my voice. My life after I woke up has not been predictable.

A woman in her late thirties steps forward. I know she starts the conversation with apologizing for the time I've been kept in here. I know she says my condition was unexpected. I know that she says the effect on my body was above healthy limits and that by all accounts I should not have survived. I actually hear it when she says with a processed solemnity, that it was expected that I would not live much longer. I look up into her face when she says that they will try to make the rest of my life comfortable.

They aren't even going to admit to their actions.

My jaw clenches, and my fists curl into tight balls. I see when the woman flinches and steps away from my glare. I see but I cannot bring myself to care. They made me, and now they will reap what they sow. It will not be my body lying in the morgue. After all, monsters are not born, but made.