The Clone

The lonely girl crawls into a ball, whisks of hair fly out of her ragged bun. Ignoring the specks of dusks circling her in the worn room she puts her head into her arms. "One minute left," the timer speaks impatiently. She feels a wet drop coming from her eye, its cold and smells like the ocean, she quickly wipes it away she rushes out the dusty room and onto the pebbled concrete, the next girl goes in. She looks up at the others confidently and marches into place for she is nothing but a copy, a robotic copy made to kill the world.