Sorry

This is from a while ago when I had to write a sci-fi short story for English, but due to my love of writing, it ended up being a not-so-short story. Had it not been for that class this wouldn't have existed. So shout out to Mrs. Verbeke! You're the best!

"I have to deactivate you. I'm sorry"

I hear him say that again and again. It replays in my mind like a broken record. It ricochets off of the metal walls, filling th small cell until there is no room left for sanity. I put my hands over my ears and curl up into a ball in the corner. I can't believe he said that. He betrayed me. Him, of all people. I trusted him. I just can't believe it. I feel cold metal seeping through my skin and wrapping it's ice cold fingers around me. I feel tendrils of cold shooting to all parts of me, moving throughout my entire being. I need to get out of here. I need to fix this. I bring my arms down when the voice fades away. It's all in your head. I tell myself.

There are footsteps outside, quiet on the tile and padding to my door. They can't see me like this. I can't show that I am weak and vulnerable. I am not some kind of wounded animal. I push myself up against the wall and dig my nails into my hips. If I don't, I'll have no way to restrain myself. They have to pay.

The bolt slides out of place, and a few gears shift. It's almost silent to the ears of a human, but I hear it easily, being what I am. I guess now would be a good time to mention that I'm partially mechanical. Not like prosthetic limbs or organs, I mean like half robot. But I still look like any of you. Humans, I mean. And I won't go rouge or anything like that-at least as far as I know.

The door eases open, and I have to take a moment for my eyes to adjust to the bright, yellowish light. A man who looks in his early twenties enters with a large gun.

"Come on, Double," he says. Chief wants to see you"

I walk to the guard, and he presses the barrel of the gun to the back of my head, using his free hand to grip my arm. H has 're hair, cut short, and freckles. I call him Peter, in my mind. Of course no one tells me anything-provided they're not avoiding me-so what I decided to remember them by is all I have to rely on.

We are walking down a long hallway, dimly lit and a little narrow.

"Move it Double! I don't got all day!" He shoves me forward, and a strand of hair falls into my field of vision. Double. I hate that name. It's so demeaning. I didn't ask for genetic manipulation, so it's not my fault I'm part clone. 'Let's clone her!' say the scientists. 'Let's make her a cyborg! Don't worry about experiments; it's just a clone! No feelings and completely expendable!' Expendable my a-

"Keep it moving! Turn here" says Peter, breaking into my thoughts. He pushes the gun barrel into my skull and squeezes my arm. I hate the feeling of metal on metal, and that gun is no exception.

"If I didn't know better, is say you were afraid of me" I say to him.

"You're lucky they need you alive...for now" He replies pushing the gun again. He acts tough, but the grip on my arm falters for a few short seconds.

We go through a series of hallways. Thank God I have a memory storage component. I don't think I could maneuver these halls alone, without it. We walk to a door at the end of the hallway. This chick must be really special to have his own hallway.

"Open the door," Peter says. "And don't try anything tricky"

Like I would. I may have bullet-proof aspects, but I sure don't want a bullet bouncing against my skull.

The room is brightly lit, daylight streaming in from the wall of windows across from me. My right eye automatically dims, but my left has to adjust again. It gets annoying, but I'm just glad they both look human.