Singleton
I approached; rather his eyes darted furtively, bouncing from one object to the next, looking at everything except my face. I tried to greet him, but he cut me off with an apology. Have a seat, he ordered, and once more said, I am sorry. What? I asked. Two days before the explosion, the scientist had secreted me to an examination room in the depths of the compound, one in which I had never seen. This is where I do some of my research, the scientist said. It was empty save for a small screen on the far wall. There the scientist made a brief entry and a hidden box the size of a coffin protruded from the wall. Its lid hissed when the scientist unlocked and opened it. Smoke swirled. Are you ready? he asked. I nodded. We both peered into the foggy void, which, when cleared, revealed my corpse. It was paler than me, and its skin was cleansed of the scars that tattooed my body, wrought from a lifetime of scientific scrutiny. Nevertheless, it was unmistakably me. It was my long-lost twin. My breath quicken. I withdrew my stare, never to look at it again. How long has it been down here? I asked. Only a few years. But it looks like me now. The scientist then explained that among the many advancements in genetic research and cloning was the acceleration of cell growth: where it would take a human begot out of a maternal womb a lifetime to fulfill cellular destiny, such results could be realized in a fraction of the time for human matter conceived in a laboratory. Was it ever alive?
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