Page 142 of Rage

My creation—Casper—is the crowning example of my unflinching conviction.

“Goodnight, Casper,” I tell him before I press the button for the roof. Mechanical parts move, and I watch the ceiling shift together until the lightning is gone and a new darkness settles over the room. The dim lights of my machines cast his skin an even greener shade than it was already. I take one moment to trace the staples firmly embedded in his head. I start at the forehead and move all the way around to the back of his head.

When my fingers come away dry, I give a soft sigh of relief and move to my cot nearby. I can’t leave him right now. When he wakes up, I’ll be here for him.

I never gave up, and for that, all my beliefs have been rewarded. It’s no longer a question—Iammade for this. Damn everyone who suggested differently.

I created life.

Now, it’s time to forget about all of that, because Casper is all that matters now.

Plus…I don't want to think about the things I've sacrificed, the things I'd done, to get to this point. It’s time to press forward, to not let myself dwell on what this success cost me.

Even if it still haunts me in my dreams.

Chapter Two

Casper

“Keep trying,” she encourages as I attempt to pinch and lift a pencil from the desk in front of me. My fingers feel too thick, and bringing them together is near impossible. Her voice is patient, her body relaxed. She smiles when I look up at her. My fingers leave the pencil and go to my own mouth, covered in thick, rough thread. Even making a smile is out of my ability. I’ve been sewn too tightly.

“Let’s try again later. I need to take your vitals anyway,” she says, pulling her long chestnut hair away from her neck and pilling it atop her head. She moves around the table, and my body turns towards hers, like it does every time she moves. I lean forward, like everytime she comes close. I inhale, like everytime I catch the faint whiff of her scent.

Her fingers slide beneath my elbow, and she pulls, letting me know she wants me up. I stand and stand and stand until I’m my own towering lighthouse above her. She feels so small—frail and fast.

Her hands guide me to her instruments, her warmth burning where they touch my clothes.

I know what’s coming next, but I hold my excitement inside quietly. I have no way to express it anyway—no mouth to talk or smile with, just a sewn line. I touch it again.

“Stop fussing with that,” she admonishes, and I look down at her, my finger moving from my mouth to hers. I trace her lips, press my thumb between them, feel how they break apart. Be gentle, I tell myself. My thumb presses against her teeth, and the barest flicker of warmth and wetness tickles my skin. Slowly, she pulls her face away, wrapping her hand around my wrist. Her face is red, her lips wet.

“You don’t understand that people have personal space since I’m touching you all the time,” she says quietly. She’s always talking to herself, never really to me. I’ve heard her talk to the stray cats on the island the same way—careless rambling with no responses expected.

She believes I understand her as much as a cat, but I understand so much more. However, I doubt myself sometimes. There’s so little for me to compare to. Just her and I…and the needy stray cats that watch me fail to lift a pencil and lick their chins after drinking rainwater. Apathetic, listless creatures, but I’m thankful for their company. It’s only them and the birds.

And her.

Her fingers grab the bottom of my shirt, and I reach for it right after, pulling it above my head. We do this twice a day, so I know the motions. My shirt drops to the floor, her eyes darting from my chest to the shirt on the floor as I reach for my pants, removing them as well.

She stares at me then, right below my hips, where there is only stitching and nothing else. Her hand flattens above the stitched line and traces the incision. The muscles in my face twitch. It’s sensitive in a way the other seams aren’t, but I don’t know why. Her face is conflicted a moment before she lets it go. Her hand finishes brushing the stitched line beneath myhips, and I immediately find myself missing her touch there in particular.

“Sit down,” she says, and I do. She tips her head, looking at me in question. I followed her words, not her actions.

“Do you understand me?” she asks. How am I to tell her that? How am I to open my mouth and spill that every word from her lips is a memory I’m making? That if only these threads on my mouth were cut, how I would work to form one difficult sound after the next until I could whisper her name to myself forever.

Samantha. Samantha. Samantha.

She shakes her head when I do nothing and begins her examination. It’s never long enough. Her fingers trail over my skin as she takes her measurements, and I think of nothing but the feel of her teasing me further and further alive. Electricity drove me up from the depths of a void into living madness, but I saw her, and it quieted the pain of existence.

Samantha touches me all the time. She’s unaffected, cold, mysterious, whereas I’m anything but. I wish for her hand to find the line beneath my hips again, the smooth skin disturbed only by the thick, tight stitching. She acts strange about it sometimes, and the sensitive pleasure of her curiosity drives me nearly mad. I’ve touched the place myself but feel nothing. I don’t understand it, I don’t understand anything, and it's disorienting and frustrating.

I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know who or what I am. I just know Samantha is my entire world and that every part of me aches when she touches me, talks to me, smiles at me.

Her fingers tease my seams, following the lines on my stitched body. When a finger comes away wet from my scalp, she brings it to her nose and sniffs. But she’s still confused, so she leans in, her breasts pressing against my throat as she smells my forehead.

She’s soft and warm. My breathing grows loud and deep.

“It’s okay,” she says calmly, relying on tone for me to understand. “It’s just…” She trails off, and I feel her breath over my hairline, disturbing the black hairs that hang down loose. She must open her mouth, split it open like I did on my thumb, because I feel her tongue press against me, darting out to taste whatever she’s concerned about.

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