scifi concept
a man stands in front of a clone chamber - giant glass tube, liquid, weird blue lighting, the works. inside it is a woman: him, but with his father's x chromosome. So close, yet so far.
He custom-ordered her. Not by legal means, sure, but he doesn't need legal means with the money and connections he has. Legally, she doesn't exist, yet here she is. taunting him, from her medically induced coma that she's never been awake from. She was aged to his specifications - around 20. To get the full experience, you know. Of being young. Of all the things he could do.
You know.
He could just take her womb. That way those internet bitches, those natal double-x-havers, couldn't make their most recent argument anymore- oh you'll never be able to have your own children.
But this woman, this creature in a vat made to his specifications - she was made in a way he wasn't. He suppresses, for a moment, a thought of crawling into her skin, up her spinal cord, into her mind.
He imagines, instead, that her mind would be like his, thinking itself to be the inverse of what it should be. But no, it couldn't be. She was made perfect, chemically mothered in a way he believed his mother had failed him. Traitors, both of this parents - one in his contribution of the Y gene, the other in her, for lack of a better term, improper support of his father's fatal injury to his person.
No, he was going to go for the most invasive procedure, because he could afford it and there was no good reason not to. He was going to have his brain severed from his spinal cord, from his periphery nervous system, and attached to hers. Her brain, his body - leftovers on the surgery table.
But then, would they work? Would they align, this nervous system with an extra x in it and his central mind? That brain on the table, the jelly gray blob lying there - would still have something his didn't. If they decided to inverse it, put her brain into his old body - it would be him, yet still somehow more him than he was now. A frankensteinian imitation, yet more legitimate than the original.
Even if it all went well, and her body was in his control, he would still not know. He would never really know, for sure, for certainty, that this is what he should have been. Her brain with the two x chromosomes and whatever that truly entailed would be in a compost heap somewhere. What he wanted the most still kept from him, by his own hands. By the monstrous Y in his mind, as part of his world perception as his consciousness itself, glasses of an unknown color he could never remove.
He wanted to kill her. He wanted to keep her. He wanted to be the one in the tank, perfect and untouched by time or awareness of the self. He felt within himself a parental instinct stir - she was him, but perfect. She should be allowed to be, to live, to exist alien to the knowledge of the one that created her, just so she could exist to the fullest possible extent of all he wanted to be. He admired, for a second, what she could become, without all the chains holding him back. That was how parents felt, wasn't it?
He imagined himself in the tank, her standing outside, watching him with wonder. He imagined his parents with her, full of hope, wanting to see the them that was not them succeed, to be more in ways they could not imagine because only he could create it, his mind and his self a complete being, acting in unison.
He scoffs at the fantasy. None of that matters. What matters is becoming one with her. Placing himself inside her, locking himself in. The ultimate magical girl transformation.
He's inside the tank again, but the face outside is angry. It's determined and spiteful. His parents and her merge into one face, a face of rage, holding a knife, coming closer. You are incomplete. I hate you. You are incomplete without me engulfing you, mutilating you, becoming you. I hate you as you are. He's terrified, he wants to run, but he can't escape this tank.
He laughs at the vision. Maybe that was his experience of his parents - he doesn't remember. Closer than the loving family standing outside the tank watching him, at the very least.
But it was her outside the tank. Would she do this? This perfect woman form of himself, would she stoop to destroying her child to get what she wanted from him? Would she make of herself a creature perfect on the outside, but a skinwalker within? Was this the Y in his very mind speaking to him, seducing him?
He knew this was stupid. Women had abortions. Women weren't perfect paragons of motherhood. Real women did him dirty, like those internet bitches, like his mother did.
But he wanted her to be perfect. He wanted it like he wanted life itself. But then that's what she wanted for him, too.
He imagined her reaching through the tank. Reaching out to him, caressing his face, his chest, looking him in the eyes. There was no more anger in those eyes, but something he couldn't quite place- sadness?
Her eyes were shining from the blue light. It was somehow inversely warming, bathing her features in a new glow.
No. Not sadness.
Wonder.
1 note
·
View note