Scrambled Parts

Content warning: ableism, eugenics, human experimentation, sexual abuse

     Somehow, I always knew I would end up here.

     My mother is crying in the other room and the doctor is with her. I can hear them through the door. 

     “Shh, there there. It’s all right,”

     “What the hell? It’s not alright!”

     “My apologies. Of course it’s not alright.”

     She sobs. “You’re certain?”

     “Yes. Quite certain.”

     “And there’s nothing you can do?”

     “It cannot be cured. We’ve been trying for the past two hundred years to find cures. There are plenty of scientists who are still trying. But the truth is, there aren’t any. I’m sorry.”

     My mother lets out an agonized wail.

     My father speaks up for the first time. “Why have you only caught it just now?”

     “The individual cases are highly variable. In this case, it tried to blend in for as long as it could.”

     “But she—”

     “It.”

     “Right. I…but it’s twenty!”

     “And that is a failure on our part and ours alone. No one should have to unknowingly spend twenty years with a parasite. We should have caught it earlier. I’m sorry.”

     My mother draws in a shuddering breath. “What have we been for these past twenty years, then?” she asks my father. “Host animals? What do we do now?”

     “I can only imagine what this must feel like for you. This is one of the most painful things a person can experience. It happened to my wife and I fifteen years ago. It’s part of how I ended up here. Truthfully, I would rather have really had a son and lost him than never had a child at all.”

     “Oh, I want to throw up!” My mother’s voice rises with disgust through her tears. “I carried and grew a gigantic—a gigantic thing!—inside me, I birthed it, and became its slave for twenty years! I…I feel so violated!” She lets out a shrieking sob, muffled by my father’s chest as he holds her tightly and begins to weep as well.  

     “I know, I know,” the doctor continued. “It takes the place of a child and invades your life. You are the victims in this situation. Now, there are a lot of resources for you to turn to while you get through this time. Therapy, counseling, support groups, retreats. I can refer you to some of them today. But first, I need you both to make a tough decision, okay?”

     There is a brief silence as they try to collect themselves.

     “The thing behind that door is not human. It looks like a human, walks like a human, eats like a human, behaves—well, somewhat—like a human. But it is not a human, and it is not your child. It is the scrambled parts of a human. But it is yours. So that means that it is up to you what is to be done about it.”

     My mother is still trying to control herself, so my father speaks. “What are our options?”

     “Well, most families simply have us euthanize it. Being able to see it when it’s dead has helped a lot of them get closure for the child they thought they had and begin to transition into grief. And then its organs and tissues can be harvested and donated.”

     “Let’s do that,” my mother says quietly.

     “Are you sure?” my father says.

     “Yes.”

     “All right, then.”

     “Hold on,” the doctor says. “That’s what most people do. But I’m legally required to tell you all your viable options. You can also do a live donation. Research facilities, laboratories, factories, and large corporations are always looking to take on live specimens. This one will be no good as labor, but it is a good candidate for research. Some institutions may even compensate you nicely for it.” He lowers his voice. “This one is especially desirable as it is a child-bearing age female.”

     “You mean she would be used for breeding?”

     “It.”

     “Right. It would be used for breeding?”

     “Most likely not, since it isn’t fit to produce good, usable offspring for breeding programs. There are other ways its anatomy and potential fertility make it a valuable asset. Truthfully, though, I can’t say for certain what they would do with it. Once I send in the report, the first thing they will do is purge all previous data on it. Census, birth certificates, medical history, criminal history, everything will be wiped from the public and private record. You will essentially never be able to determine its fate. It could be used for many things. Anything that requires human parts is something they can use it for. They can study its brain, its body, its various systems. Medical students can practice with it to become familiar with human anatomy. And they can use it in research that can potentially save other families from going through what you’re going through.”

     My mother’s voice cracks. “I like that. Our tragedy can become something that advances the greater good.” 

     “I like that too,” my father adds. “Is that all?”

     A silence. The doctor must be nodding.

     “Okay,” my mother says. “We’ll donate it. And actually, we don’t want any money for it. Those institutions will need it more than we do.”

     “You’re so thoughtful,” the doctor says tenderly. “All right, then. We will send it to wherever it will prove most useful. So the hard part is over. You’re both so brave and so strong.”

     A quiet sob issues from my mother.

     “Yes,” the doctor encourages her. “You deserve to grieve now. Now, would you like to hear about any of those resources that can help you?”

• • •

     Somehow, I always knew this would be my fate. I knew I was not a full human being. I don’t know how I knew. But even before they knew it, I knew that I was different. 

     I lay motionless in the MRI machine, alone in the room while the doctor sends out the report and notifies the International Network of Disordered Research that a new specimen is available. I shut my eyes and imagine every record of my existence being wiped away. I imagine what my fate will be. Maybe I’ll serve as a live cadaver for a few dissections before I cease to be a live one. Maybe they'll make me sterile so that strangers can in good conscience fill me with semen continually. Maybe they’ll open up my skull right away so they can feverishly cut up and study my defective brain. Or maybe I’ll just end up running mazes like they used to have lab rats do. I don’t know.

     I don’t hear my parents anymore. They do not come in to say goodbye. Why would they?

     I don’t move, but the tears slide out from under my closed eyelids. So I’ll never get to tell them. But it’s twenty years too late to apologize anyway. Selfish. Heartless. Inhuman.