To be Human

Word Count: 1361

*  My muse has had this basic concept for a while. This intro seemed to fit so well, I decided to go with it. Perhaps not what you would expect from a seemingly straightforward autumn theme but finger's crossed it's enjoyed!

To be Human.

-

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire.

You could consider that to be the truth of both the autumnal colours cascading through the trees surrounding the compound and the leaves of paper (Pages? Folios? Oh, what does it matter anyway?) that I had left burning behind me.

I have always been amused by word plays.

Even as I glanced back, a huge pile of folders fell from the desk where they had been stacked, if a bit precariously, by the scientists that had so swiftly fled the labs.

I felt a small smile spread and allowed myself the luxury.

The growing flames became fuelled by the old, cheap blend of nylon, polyester and wool fibres that made up the bland, beige carpets throughout the offices and living spaces.

The motheaten curtains and drapes, the poorly made upholstery. The rotting wooden desks and uncomfortably padded chairs

It would all serve as fuel to the flames that would hide the evidence of what had happened here.

The origins of the creatures were documented here somewhere.

The methods for their creations.

They documented every moment, every aspect of the lives of their creations.

But they failed to realise the intelligence behind those oh-so-human eyes. 

They had thought themselves so smart, so much better than the constructs that they had grown in the labs. So smart they failed to realise that these constructs were slowly learning about the world outside of the bars and sheets of plexiglass that served as their home.

They saw snippets of newspapers.

Began to understand the stories on the radio.

Noticed how the human with the broken ears would signal to the other humans and make himself understood.

And they watched.

And they learned.

And they communicated with the odd gestures from their hands.

And they planned.

And they hoped.

And it was the hope that would be the downfall of their creators.

For hope gave them the will to dream. And dreams gave them the will to believe. And because they believed they could do it, they simply did it.

Smoke started to rise from the buildings, and I slowly walked towards the rusted fence, ivy trailing through the broken wires and crumbling posts. I felt those same autumnal leaves crunching beneath my feet and felt the biting breeze that signalled winter's near arrival.

For now, there was only a hint of smoke in the air but it was enough to take me back to memories of bonfires as a child. Of standing around with toffee coated apples and sparklers, of warm spiced hot chocolates and thick scarves.

I broke out of the memories.

I would allow myself a smile.

I would not be so undisciplined as to allow myself the luxury of nostalgia.

After all, I was grown to be the new body of the rich playboy that had contracted cancer.

And my own personality was entwined so closely with that of the dying son of a doting politician father that I could never be sure exactly what was me and what was him.

Those memories, that nostalgia... It was not mine.

I would not allow myself the luxury of falling prey to it.

They didn't realise they had made us 'too human'.

And as all humans are prone to do, we imagined a better life.

Only we had never been exposed to a reality showing us that it was futile.

So we made it happen.

Now that we were free, we had been exposed to this reality.

In fact, we now even struggled to distinguish ourselves from the humans we hid amongst.

We chose to live as humans. To feel and to love and to hate and to fear and to learn and to forget.

Subject 1132: Jeremy. He is a banker now. He works late and is never home on time to see his kids.

Subject 0045: Alan. He sits with his wife and dog, watching the sea on a calm evening as the sun sinks and sends pale shades of pink and orange twisting through the skies. His grandkids run around and laugh as they eat their toffee apples around the beach bonfire.

Subject 0345: Caleb. He has decided to retire. He is too old for the games that politicians play and decides to spend his fortune travelling the globe. Maybe he will give money to a charity for those with terminal illness. Only he would understand the humour.

Subject 1043: Sara. She sighs often as she feels the initial love, she had for her husband, growing dimmer and dimmer within her. But she pastes on a believable smile and kisses him as he leaves for work, her young son bouncing lightly on her hip as the housekeeper clears their plates and leaves the dining room in its cold, immaculate state. Perhaps he paid for the 'treatment' out of a sense of duty. For the blonde hair she finds on his suits so regularly, a sharp contrast to her own auburn shades, shows he did not do it for love.

Or maybe he did, and she has changed so much, altered so much in personality that he cannot feel the same way any longer. 

Or perhaps she is younger, prettier and not altered by the giving birth of a child.

It does not do her good to wonder. It hurts. And so, she ignores it. And smiles her ever so practiced smile.

Subject 726: Jennifer/Jenny. Her father lost everything in a gamble in Vegas. He could never truly believe it had been his daughter that had come back from the 'clinic'. She was so subtly different. He drifted away. Drifted to drink and drugs and gambling as she slowly got pushed from his life and onto the streets of the unforgiving city. And so, she smiles as she serves the next customer in the high-end boutique, ever so careful not to wrinkle the well contoured foundation hiding the slowly forming wrinkles that signified her pending replacement with a younger, prettier sales-girl. 'Of course that scent suits you, Madame.' a practised line. 'Perhaps a fruitier scent Miss?' She need not mention that they are more expensive. She is on commission after all. 

Subject 1097. ****** His father was so glad to get his son back, he ignored the quirks. Ignored his son's new tendencies to wander for long periods of time. To visit anywhere and everywhere new. To experience all the world had to offer. His son was a 'playboy' after all, he would joke to the magazine editors. He had a 'near death experience' he shrugged to the frowning ladies of the higher-class society. He just needs a 'steady hand' he would say in the hearing of the eligible young daughters of rich business partners. He didn't notice when his son went on a trip to a reclusive, private and long since abandoned 'hospital' with the intent of destroying everything within.

And he will likely not notice when I return.

Those that had not yet been altered to match a customer new enough to blend. They blended so well I suppose they could even live the lie they chose for themselves.

But is it a lie when they build their own truth from nothing?

We chose to live as humans.

I think that is the true tragedy.

For this story?

My story.

Will mean nothing.

It leads to no dramatic change for humanity, no great battle or philosophical debate to rage across the globe.

I have destroyed the evidence.

The scientists will stay quiet. Who would believe them?

The rich and famous, and the rich and not so famous, will remain silent. Who would admit to having implanted the lives of their loved ones into sentient beings, committing murder of said beings?

And we will stay quiet. Which of us would want to be examined and dissected and hurled into a debate over our very existence?

It is like it never happened.

This?

Is just a story. 

The smoke is stronger. 

The leaves are still on fire.

Our secret will be safe.

And I suppose this story would be best forgotten too.

So if you wouldn't mind?

Delete

Y / N