The Definition of Human

What makes us human?  Is it our feelings or love?  Dogs can feel and love.  Our in depth communication and language?  Most animals can communicate in ways sometimes we can’t understand.  The way we inherently know right from wrong?  Are psychopaths human?  What does the word “human” mean?  Do we have an apparent purpose past this little sphere of influence?  Is there something larger out there than our short lives and meaningless goals? Is “human” a physical attribute, moral standing, or an emotional response?  That’s what I’m trying to answer.

The beaker gurgled.  Amanda lowered her quill and glanced at her contraption.  The metal ring around the beaker’s neck seemed to be steady enough.  Her oil lamp wavered from her movement, and she flicked it until it blazed enough light to reach the gray walls.  Amanda turned back to her writing.

In my experiment, I will be testing the human response to certain amino acids such as dopamine and the enzyme glutamic acid decarboxylase (GAD).  The excessive dopamine is linked to a disconnection from the outside world and can impair most of the senses if not all.  GAD will actively turn the glutamate in the patient’s brain into gamma amino butyric acid (GABA).  This could theoretically cause a deficiency of glutamate which can lead to the dopamine-glutamate imbalance.  GABA could counteract the result by relaxing the patient so I have instituted a high-fat diet to lower the levels of GABA in the frontal cortex and the hippocampus which can cause violent tendencies.  The goal of this test is to discover if it is possible to turn a human into a monster.

The beaker rocked to its side and Amanda caught it before the liquid spilled over her desk and notes.  She quickly turned it upright and let go before her shaky hand dropped months of work.  She leaned back against the wooden chair and took a deep breath.  She was sacrificing her mental and physical sanity to discover the meaning of “human”.  The word “idiotic” bounced around in her mind.

Someone tapped on the door.  Amanda rushed to cover the notes, closing her notebook and shoving it into the nearest drawer.  She looked around wildly draping spare sheets over the machine and two beakers full of clear liquid.

When Amanda didn’t open the door, the knocks came longer and harder.  Amanda glanced at herself in the mirror and flattened a few curly, black strands down on her head. She rubbed a black streak of ink away, finally reaching the door.

The bright sun flooded her makeshift laboratory, exposing the shabby, colorless room to the light of day.  Amanda blinked as her eyes adjusted.  Realizing she held the door wide open, she forced the door within inches of the wall, hiding her lumping, white sheets.

The boy stood at the door with a beaming smile, holding a book to his chest.  He swung back and forth from his heel to the ball of his foot.  “Good Morning, Dr. Shea.”  His fingers rippled on the book’s hard cover.

“Good Morning.”

He stared at her with wide, blue eyes.

“What can I help you with?”

“I heard that you just moved in, and I thought, ‘Oh, she’d like some help with the boxes, wouldn’t she?’  So here I am!”  He returned to his smile.

“I really don’t need any-”

“Don’t be modest, Doctor,” he said, waving her away.  “I’ve got you covered.  Cloyd Collins at your service.”  He pushed the door aside and strolled onto the gray wood floor.  “Would you look at that!  This dreary place could use my expertise, not to criticize your fabulous decorating, Doctor.”

Amanda closed the door and paced across the dark room separating the boy from her experiment.  “I’ve already unpacked.  I think I can manage on my own, thank you.”

“Next order of business is to toss those sheets away.  We don’t want you to be living in a haunted house,” he said, setting his book down on her desk.  He grabbed the corner of a sheet.

“Please!  Don’t touch anything.”  The shrill sound of Amanda’s voice made him drop the rag and jump back.

“Sorry, ma’am.  Didn’t mean to disturb you.”  He bit his lip and looked at the floor.

“Maybe, you could come back later.”

His face radiated joy.  “Sure thing, Dr. Shea.  No problem at all.  I’ll come back tomorrow.”  Amanda grumbled.  So soon?  The effects of her concoction might not have worn off by then, if at all.  “See you then!”  He grabbed his book off her desk again.  Amanda caught the golden letters “Holy Bible”.

“Hey, Cloyd?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“What do you think makes us human?”

He paused under the door’s arch. He scanned the room.  “I think we are human because we are made in God’s image.”  His answer made sense in the scope of humanity.  Through Amanda’s eyes, religion was created to explain the things unexplainable by science.  Now, she could find the real answer.  “We are the only ones that are able to have a relationship with Him.”  He thought for a moment.  “Doctor, do you believe in God?”

“I believe that he exists in one sense or another.”

“That’s good, Dr. Shea.  Someone as smart as you shouldn’t be stuck in hell.  That’s what my mama tells me: smart people go to heaven.”  Amanda blinked.  “Bye!”  He closed the door.

“Bye…”  Amanda stood motionless in the center of the room.  Could glutamate and GABA be God’s image?  Amanda shook her head.  Religious folks…

She pulled the sheets off in a cloud of dust and checked that each beaker was covered and uncontaminated.  Everything was ready to continue.  She slid a new beaker into the empty metal ring.

Cloyd ambled down the street.  That doctor seemed up to something, and he was determined to unveil her schemes.  He had always wanted to be a detective.  Detective Cloyd Collins.  It had a ring to it.  Next time that he went into her house, he’d bring a notebook with him to write down all of the clues he could find.  Maybe he should find one of those really long, heavy coats that detectives wore in the stories.  Cloyd chuckled to himself.  Once he discovered that Dr. Shea was an evil scientist trying to turn the whole community into zombies, he’d be hailed a hero and go down in the history books as the youngest hero there was at age nine.

Cloyd spat on the ground.  Dr. Shea’s taste in beverage was horrible.  He looked at the round, triangular glass.  And her choice in cups was strange to say the least.  He peered through the narrow opening.  Who would drink something so sour for fun?  Maybe, it had to do with the same reason adults liked spinach.  Adults.  What were they thinking?

He didn’t care much that he accidentally walked out with her cup.  Dr. Shea had a lot of them under the sheets, and he could return it tomorrow anyway.  It didn’t seem like she was getting any visitors soon either.  The Millsberry town avoided her like the victims hiding from a serial killer.  Maybe, she was a serial killer!  Cloyd made a mental note to write that down in his notebook when he got home.  

He turned the corner and spotted the tiny, white house with the numbers “283” posted on the gate in front of the house.  He pushed the rusty, black gate open and bounced up the steps.  He opened the unlocked door and let it pound the frame as it shot closed behind him.  Cloyd sped up the creaking steps and into his mother’s room.

She laid on the bed with her back facing Cloyd, in the same position as he left her in, but now the sunlight peeked through the curtains, spotlighting her face..  Her hair still held in a golden, messy bun, and her arms weighed with stiffness.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we go on a walk now?”

“Didn’t that new person need your help?  You came back so early?”  She shifted her pillow under her arm.

“Dr. Shea said it’d be better if I come back tomorrow.”

She grumbled.

Cloyd bit his lip.  What would make her happy?  “I can scratch your back if you want.”

She lifted her blouse up a bit while he set the glass bottle down on the unused pillow.  Cloyd flopped onto the puffy cover and reached over to his mom’s pale, flaky back.  She sighed as he rubbed his fingers back and forth.

“Mama?  What does it mean that we’re human?”

She looked over with icy, narrow eyes.  “You know about John 8:34?  We are slaves to sin, every one of us.”  Cloyd shut his eyes.  That’s not what he wanted to hear.  “We’re the one species that enjoys tearing each other apart for the pleasure of it.”  Mama started saying stuff like that a few weeks back when Daddy died in a grizzly attack while hunting.  She said it was a gift from God to punish him for adultery.  It sure didn’t feel like a gift.

“Cloyd?”  Her concerned voice pitched an octave higher than usual.

“What?”

“Ow!”

Cloyd looked at his hand and at her back.  He clawed hard enough to draw blood.  His hands tingled with anticipation.

His mama shoved him off the other side of the bed.  “Boy!  Go bother someone else.”

Cloyd landed on his feet.  “Sorry,” he said, but he wasn’t.  Something ignited his energy to new levels.  “I”ll just go return this, I guess.”  He held up the glass.

“You stole from her!”

Cloyd dashed out of the room, down the staircase, and into the street.

The fresh batch of her mixture bubbled calmly in the new beaker.  Amanda realized her dopamine-GAD ratio flew out of proportion.  Too much dopamine could cause an entire removal from reality.  She thanked her luck that she noticed before she injected herself.  It would have been impossible to record anything from the experiment with that level of delusion.

She counted the beakers remaining: 26 plus the two air-drying on the rail outside and the one on the stand.  Where had her thirtieth beaker gone?

Amanda turned back to her desk.  Only the notes, a few quills, an ink well, and an empty syringe.  That kid must have done something…

A soft knock echoed through the room.  Amanda paced over quickly, determined to keep him outside this time.  “What is it?” she yelled through the wall.

“I came back to return this.  Mom didn’t want me in the house.  Parents, what can you do?”

Amanda swung the door back.  “What?”

Cloyd held out the long lost beaker--empty.  She paled three shades lighter.

“You know, I was thinking, maybe I could help you in your kitchen tomorrow after I help with the main room.  I mean, this stuff stinks.”

“You drank it?”  She didn’t want to risk it.  Although it should have been injected, Amanda couldn’t confirm it wouldn’t work though the digestive system.

“Yup.  I intend no disrespect to your cooking, Doctor, but have you ever tried hot chocolate?”

Amanda blinked.  “How do you feel?”

“Bright and dandy.”  His wide smile reappeared.  “How nice of you to ask.  And you, Dr. Shea?”

“Why don’t you come inside?”

Cloyd hesitated.  “Manners?”  Once he realized he said it out loud, he blushed and rushed into the house.  He took one look at her contraption and screamed.  “You poisoned me!  I knew you were a serial killer!”

In one swift motion, Amanda locked the door and stifled his outburst with her hand.  “Hush, child.  It’s not poison.”  The lie slipped out faster than she processed it.  “There might be some side effects so listen carefully.  I’m going to go get some,” she chose her words carefully, “cures that will help curb the symptoms, but it might over stimulate your brain and send you into a coma.”  Amanda flung her closet door open.  Glutamate, glutamate.  Where’d that bottle go?

“Am I going to die?”

“No.”  Worse.  Existing as an inhuman might be worse than nonexistence.  She hoped she wouldn’t have to spare Cloyd the misery and end it herself.

Someone banged on the door.  “Dr. Shea?  We’d like a word with you.”

Amanda tried her best to give Cloyd a comforting look and opened the door.  “How may I help you,” she looked at his badge, “officer?”

“We are looking for an orphan with the name Cloyd Collins.  Have you seen him recently?”  For whatever reason they needed to see him, it could wait.  Once the dopamine kicked in, no one could predict the results.

Amanda motioned behind her back towards the closet.  “No, sir.  Have you tried his mother’s house?”

“He’s an orphan,” he repeated.  “His mother died a few years ago.”

Amanda gupled.  It was too late.  “Oh.”  She couldn’t think of another sentence.  Just get him to leave.  “Well, good day.”

“Good day.”  The officer tipped his hat, and she shut the door.

Amanda turned around to Cloyd cowering in the closet.

“Why are they looking for me?”

“One problem at a time.”

His eyes shot to the beaker, now overflowing.  “Why would you make stuff that gives people delusions?”

“For the sake of knowledge.”

“But you’re a doctor.  Aren’t doctors supposed to help their patients?”

“Cloyd, I am not a doctor of individuals.  I am a doctor of humanity.”  Amanda clenched her jaw.   “Sometimes humanity has to endure an incision for it to heal a bone.”

“But we are supposed to be kind.”

“Sometimes we have to sacrifice niceness for knowledge, the greater good.”

“My mom used to say something like that.  She’s not nice.”  He paused.  “You know, I saw her today.  I heard my dad’s voice too.  It’s been years since that happened.”

Amanda bit her lip.  “It’s going to be okay.  I’ll fix it.”  She stepped over his crouching figure and dug deeper into her stash.  

“You’ll fix me or my mom?  Or my dad?”

Amanda saw a worn label nearest the wall with “gluta”.  The other chemicals obscured the rest.  She pushed the glass aside with a clink.  The label read glutamate.  Yes!

She dashed to her desk and hurriedly poured the liquid into a syringe.  “Come over here, Cloyd.”

He tentatively held out his arm.  “Doctor, I’m not fond of needles.”

Amanda plunged it into his shoulder.  

Cloyd gasped and flinched back.  “What did you-”  He yawned.

“You’re tired?”  

Dopamine wouldn’t work like that.  Something must be off with the GABA levels.

Amanda blinked.  She looked at Cloyd and his lean figure.  She dug her nails into her temples.  “No, no, no, no…”  The fats were supposed to counteract the GABA levels.  He’s not prepared for that.  Coma plus GABA?  He’s going to die.  His heart rate, his bloodstream, his brain.  He’s not going to make it.  How could that slip past?

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.  Do your best to stay awake for me, okay?”

Cloyd nodded.

Amanda’s mind blanked.  Salt.  Where was it?  She grabbed a clear square container filled with white power from under the machine and shoved it into Cloyd’s hands.  “Cloyd?  Eat.”

“Salt? Straight salt?”

“Cloyd, you need to trust me.”

He dazedly dipped in a few fingers and sucked them dry.

She checked the clock.  12:01.  Ten minutes would be enough to confirm.  Maybe, he’d just throw it up by then.  Or it wouldn’t effect him at all.  Or he could die.  “Talk to me, Cloyd.” 

“Why do you keep saying my name like that?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?”  His voice was solemn, not scared.

“No!  I won’t let that happen.”

“At least I’ll be in heaven.  That’s something to be happy about, right?  And you’ll come too after a while so it won’t be that bad.”

Amanda stammered.  “Yeah.”  Say whatever.  Whatever keeps him going.  “What, what’s heaven like?”

Cloyd sat on the wooden floor.  “I don’t really know.  Guess I’ll have to find out.  Sorry I couldn’t help you with this place,” he said, looking around the room.

Great.  Now her eyesight was blurred.  Amanda covered her mouth.  “What?  No, it’s fine.”  She choked.  “Maybe we can clean up my house in heaven when I move.”

“Yeah!  But I do the decorating.”  He launched into a coughing fit.

Amanda collapsed on the floor next to him.  “Cloyd, I’m so sorry.  That was only meant for me, just me.”

“Why would you do that to yourself?” he croaked.

“Science, stupid science.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

Amanda wrapped her arms around him.  “Yes.”  Silence.

“You’re going to share it with me, aren’t ya?”

“Cloyd, you are one of the most human-like humans I’ve ever met.”

“Well, I sure hope so.”  He thought of his mom and hugged Amanda tighter.  “By my definition at least.”

Amanda peeked at the clock.  12:13.