Unfinished Stories

Purpose(less)

A Diamond without Color. A gem without Worth. What purpose does it Serve?

I woke up to a blinding light. Then I see his silhouette loom over me.

"Brilliant. Divine..." he crooned, combing my hair with his fingers. There was a sense of pride there, but also a sort of fear. "You really have out-done yourself when you came up with this design."

I wriggled and twisted my fingers as I tried to get a sense of my surroundings, slowly getting motion into my arms. It was painful and felt somewhat unnatural. He tensed and started to lift his fingers. Slowly, yet in a hurried way.

I sat up and slipped out of the bed and it's stiff fabrics, just like the way he slid his fingers out of my hair as I moved away from him.

One step. Second step. Then I fall like a feather to the cold black ground. Suddenly my breath starts to shudder, like as if I had just recovered from a spell of hysteria. Or as if they were adjusting to just being used for the first time. He comes behind me, his footsteps, the sound of his feet seeming more profound than before, but without the sense of smugness, he used to have around me. He slowly lifts me up, avoiding my arms and my legs. Will the light fading out of my eyes, I could finally see my legs in a piled heap, slowly being untangled.

There's something wrong with them. The muscles seemed too sharp, yet they flowed into each other like . The skin looks like carved and polished graphite if it were a pale olive color because of lack of vitamin D. The toes looked like the fine ones from a well of man, well cleaned, and the nails carefully buffed and polished.

I move them. He tenses, but he still continues to draw me upward and onto my feet. Slowly, he guides me to a table. I hear him back up a few feet.

My old work-and-hiding clothes are on it, and so is my old journal, covered in new scrapes as well as new ones. I realize he had opened it during my coma. The pages are hinted to be crinkled in certain areas.

Slowly, I push my hands across the cold surface of the table, and noticed my arms and hands have changed, too. Chills go up my spine, and a nervous fear settles in. The same kind you get when you realize that your nightmare wasn't a dream.

I pick up the book and rubbed it's spine. Like second nature, I open it. Two-thirds of the book has been gone through, and slightly smudged and crinkled. The pencil attached to the book-mark has been worn down to a nub. I take a moment to play with it. I hear him recoil. I realize I have not questioned the fact I was able to stand up minutes after a coma. And I think a long one. Then I find it, and I choke.

The page is covered with a long, streaking burn mark, but the contents are still readable. It still contains the notes I have take, about genes, mutations, and types of surgery applications that could be done to the body. All of this crammed into the remaining space of a carefully done drawing, fully colored and well done. All of these features I find in my old drawings I find on me. I choke again, but this time, with hits of a scream.

There is no mirror to look in. Perhaps it is for the better. I don't want to face the idea I had that he made me become, yet. I let a moment to take it in and drown my emotions, at least for a little while. Finally, I turn around and lean against the table to facing him. I just end up crumpling to the ground.

"Why?" My voice is still raw and recently reused, so it still crackles a bit.

He does not answer or greet my eyes.

"I said, 'Why?', I repeat again, feeling my anger growing. My mind starts to bit at me like feral wolves. I look up.

You were to curious, so this happens to you. You always wanted to fit in-but you can never get the chance-You had to "befriend" this creep and show him your journal-you-

You never wanted this.

I bit the inside of my lip to keep myself from screaming. The wolves in my mind continue to snarl, but they are fading...for something much worse.