Twins Aren't Creepy or Cute; They're People

I'm on the left. The only way I know is because I loved the red Power Ranger.

I am a twin. 

A fraternal twin, mind you, so don’t get too excited. Being a twin isn’t a big deal, but sometimes people have a strange fascination with them. The spectrum ranges from creepy, like the twins from The Shining, to an outright fetish. In between the spectrum, twins are marvels, illusions with physical forms.

Back in the days of yore, my twin brother and I were walking twin stereotypes: same clothes, same haircut, same room, same initials. Even though we weren’t identical, we looked close enough alike that it didn’t really matter to people. “Oh, look at the twins!” I could hear people exclaim, like we were some kind of zoo exhibit.

Being a twin is a gift and a curse, though it has gotten better the older we have gotten and the farther we get from looking the same. On the one hand, you get this partner in crime who goes through the same development as you at the exact same time. Depending on your relationship with your twin, you are either best buds or mortal enemies. The worst part, well, is the world’s reaction to twins.

Who is older?

Do you have a twin language?

Are you two just alike?

Have you ever switched places with each other?

Which one is the evil one and who is good?

Can you talk to each other telepathically?

I wish I had a twin.

Sure, if you want to be made a spectacle. I think I would have felt better as a twin growing up without people gawking and asking asinine questions.

Sure, there were ways we tried to get around the confusion and awkwardness. In elementary school, my brother and I wore shirts with our respective names stitched on them. During school photos, our parents made us wear the same clothes, but if his hair was sticking up, I’d make sure to flatten mine. During recess, we separated from each other, making our own friends.

These changes increased drastically as we grew older, changing our wardrobe from each other along with our body image. If you look at my brother, he is bald and fit, whereas I am overweight and have hair (though it is thinning at a drastic rate, so I might have to copy him sooner rather than later). At our cores, we are very similar, but, at the same time, quite different.

Something we can’t change (well, we can, but it sounds like a huge hassle) is our names. For parents of twins, triplets, quadruplets, and so on who think it’s cute to give your children rhyming names or names starting with the same letter (or worse, the same name but with a different spelling ex. Jon and John), I have to tell you something: it isn’t cute. It will never be cute. It makes being a twin a little bit more complicated.

For example, my brother and I share names beginning with the letter T. Furthermore, we have the exact same initials. Though we look much different these days, people still stumble over our names. They say they can tell who is who, but, because our names begin with the same letter, they trip over it. Go figure. And I can’t say how often my brother or I have gotten an assignment back in school that was meant for the other brother.

Not only is it demeaning, but it reinforces identity issues. Instead of being individuals, twins are seen as two people who share the same identity. Or worse, perhaps more from a fraternal perspective, one of the twins can develop an inferiority complex, feeling like a failed copy. I’ll admit it; I had those feelings while going through middle school and high school. I felt like my brother was better at everything, had more friends than me, and looked better than me, which only led me to wonder why I even existed.

I remember a certain moment with great clarity. I was in biology class in high school. I was working on an assignment when I overheard two people a few seats behind me talking. I can’t remember the exact topic, but I do remember they were talking about my brother and me.

Boy 1: Which Trosper was it?

Boy 2: Does it matter?

I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t. That tiny bit of dialogue hurt me to my core. Are we not individuals? Twins aren’t clones or emotionless robots. We think our own thoughts, emote our own emotions, and speak with our own voices. Twins are their own people, whether you think of them as the same person or not.

Through it all, my brother and I have had each other’s backs. I know, it’s one cliché of many, but I freely admit my brother is my best friend. Though we are alike, our differences help us get along. We’re adults now, and though we live together for the moment, you never know what will happen one of these days. In all honesty, I am a little afraid to think about life without him. As Gene Belcher from Bob's Burgers would say, we live our lives from the womb to the tomb. Besides, the only problem we have to worry about these days is the weird looks we get after having our IDs checked when we purchase alcohol.

In the end, all I ask is, please, if you have twins, know twins, or hope to one day be in the presence of twins, treat them as the individuals they are and not some kind of magic trick.

Being Passive-Aggressive, or Being a Civilized Dick

There is an evil creature lying deep within my subconscious. It lies in wait for the right opportunity to strike those around me. It is cunning, deceptive, manipulative, and its only weakness is direct confrontation. I’m talking about my passive-aggressive behavior, of course.

If you don’t know what it means to be passive-aggressive, the definition can be found here. Or I’ll be direct and tell you that it means being indirect when expressing negative feelings. You might have experienced this when someone asked you to do something you didn’t want to do. Sure, you can make excuses: “The weather looks bad; I don’t think I can go.” You could completely ignore the request until the last minute, saying, “Sorry, I didn’t look at your text in time.” Or you could be like me and add “I guess” to the end of your sentences, hinting at your unwillingness without saying, “No thanks, I don’t want to do it.” Most of the time, my method ended with me…well, doing something I didn’t want to do.

To be frank, being passive-aggressive is terrible behavior. Many people do it in order to get back at people or unleash their frustration. A classic setting for passive-aggressive behavior, sadly, is within the work environment. Coworkers put on their smiling masks among their peers only to remove them at the water cooler to unleash juicy gossip. People backstab, withhold information in order to sabotage others, give false praise, give the silent treatment, or just hide under the “I’m just kidding” sarcasm shield. It’s a way to let out your anger without going on a homicidal rampage, but it hurts emotionally rather than physically.

Take for example an incident that happened at one of my places of employment. Names have been changed for obvious reasons:

Joe and Jill sat by each other during work and enjoyed discussing their favorite TV shows. There is no rule against talking in the work place, otherwise their work would be rather dull. However, their coworker Betty couldn’t stand hearing them talk. Did it distract her from her own work? Maybe. Did she not like the topics they discussed? Maybe. It’s hard to say. The logical thing would be to ask Joe and Jill to lower their voices or to keep their discussions work appropriate, right? Yes, but in a work environment, that isn’t the case. Betty remained quiet, Joe and Jill oblivious to the irritation they caused.

Later that day, Joe and Jill heard through the grapevine (oh that poisonous grapevine) that Betty had been talking about them behind their backs, wishing they would shut up and do their work. Joe and Jill were, of course, frustrated because even though they talked to each other a lot, they were still hard workers. Furthermore, they wished Betty had been direct with them rather than slandering them and spreading false rumors.

So what happened next? Direct confrontation? An epic battle to end all battles? What happened next was…nothing. Joe and Jill took the hint and spoke less. Betty never admitted anything about her frustration, and Joe and Jill never confronted her about it. The situation was somewhat resolved, but the hostility remained. Anti-climactic, no? It’s pretty much an everyday situation in a work environment, and count yourself lucky if you don’t notice events like this (stay away from the grapevine!).

On a personal level, passive-aggressive behavior to me is trying not to be a dick…and failing miserably at it. In my mind, I have used passive-aggressive behavior in order to avoid upsetting people. The word “no” can be devastating given the right context, and that’s why I would take any other route imaginable in order to avoid the pit trap that is “no.” But even if I think I’m using this behavior in the best interest of a friend or family member, I’m only being selfish and avoiding confrontation. Take for an example a very mundane, passive-aggressive argument I shared with my brother the other day:

Bro: I did half of the dishes, but I couldn’t finish the rest. If you want to, you can do the rest. Or I’ll do them later. Or you can just let the water out and leave them.

Me: Oh, well, maybe. I did have plans, but I guess I could.

Bro: You don’t have to.

Me: Oh, no, it’s cool, if I have time.

Painfully awkward, I know, but it was an amusing example (in hindsight) of passive-aggressive behavior in action. Instead of just asking me to do the dishes directly, my brother went in a roundabout fashion to tell me to do them while giving me a ticket to the guilt trip express. I, on the other hand, said I’d do it but threw my guilt trip ticket right back at him by stating I had plans (I honestly did, no lie, but I shouldn’t have used that as an excuse). Here’s how it should have went down:

Bro: I did half of the dishes, but I couldn’t finish the rest. Do you mind doing the rest when you get home?

Me: No problem.

Quick, painless, and to the point.

I feel as though I use passive-aggressive behavior because I don’t want to burden anyone, but the behavior itself is the actual burden. The behavior burdens the recipient with guilt, shame, anger, and a whole slew of negative emotions. You aren’t making them any happier than if you said “no” instead, and sometimes passive-aggressive behavior comes off as manipulative and underhanded.

In the end, being passive-aggressive is dishonest and really a waste of time. But what should I and countless other people do to destroy the behavior completely? Be honest. If you have good friends and family, they will understand if you don’t want to do something. If they don’t, that’s their problem, right? Problems should be handled directly, even in the work environment, that way they can be handled quickly and efficiently. Don’t be afraid to admit your own faults, but also don’t be afraid to point out that you are right. If you see someone else being passive-aggressive, drag them into the light of confrontation, even if they are kicking and screaming (okay, maybe don’t follow this sentence literally). I'm not advocating rudeness or complete aggression; honest, mature discussion is possible, but you have to start it. There are more good examples of strategies here.

I’m not perfect, though. I’ve been trying to follow this advice, but it’s tough. I don’t want to disappoint people, but I know I upset people more when I act passive-aggressively. It’s like I smoke five packs of cigarettes a day and hope beyond hope that it doesn’t affect my health. Every day is another challenge to be better than the person you were yesterday. Sometimes I’m worse; sometimes I kick that old version of me’s ass.

I'm Sorry, but I'm Not Sorry

While cleaning a desk, a colleague of mine accidentally knocked over a price scanner to the floor. As I was sitting next to the incident, the words, “I’m sorry,” expelled from my mouth in an instant. My colleague stopped what she was doing, turned slowly to me, and asked, “Did you just apologize?” I turned to her, only semi-aware I had apologized to her. “Did I?”

The above scenario is 100% true. For as long as I’ve known, I’ve had an issue with over-apologizing, even apologizing for things that really weren’t my fault. Back in my days working at a call center, I received complaints that I apologized too much to the customers, that I put all of the blame on myself. Broken computer? I’m sorry. Unable to reset your password? I’m sorry. Need to order a new operating system? I’m sorry you have to go through the trouble. Need to know the best method to clean the smudges off your screen? I’m sorry your screen is dirty.

Countless people have told me I apologize too much, which I then apologize for…well, apologizing. It’s become a reflex, a shield I put up even when I’m not being attacked. I’ve been told by one friend that it comes off as disingenuous, that I throw apologizes out so much that they don’t mean anything. But it isn’t like an “um” or “er” to me. Well, yes and no. For the most part, I genuinely feel bad for whatever it is I have done; I feel bad for inconveniencing anyone physically or emotionally, however minute it may be. But then there are moments like the story I listed above. Another example:

I was home alone, preparing my breakfast. Cereal sounded pretty good. I grabbed the box and headed for the bowl. Before I could start pouring it in the bowl, I dropped the cereal box on my foot. “I’m sorry.” I paused, looked around to confirm that I was completely and utterly alone, and picked up the box to resume my morning ritual.

I’ve apologized for passing slow moving vehicles. I’ve apologized for having a different opinion than a friend. I’ve apologized for sneezing while alone. I’ve apologized for stepping on a bug. The list goes on, in length and level of embarrassment.

Studies have shown that a majority of over-apologizers are mostly women because of pressure from society. Amy Schumer recently made an amazing skit about it, though, even as a male, I couldn’t help but identify with it a little bit. But if it isn’t society’s pressure that makes me apologize constantly, why do I do it?

As a child, I was very obedient. The only time I was ever grounded I was sent to my room (the only place I really played to begin with), and I wasn’t allowed to play any video games. I was mortified! Enough for me to apologize for the rest of my life? Who knows.

I do remember one moment where I should have apologized and…well…I didn’t. I was at my grandparents’ house, spinning a glass candy dish on a table. It eventually spun over the edge, gravity shattering it to pieces. Instead of cleaning up or apologizing, I ran for dear life. Nothing was ever said about it, at least I didn’t hear from my parents or grandparents about the incident. I felt incredibly guilty, but I never did apologize. Sadly, it’s too late now. Did that one event traumatize me for my entire life? Eh, I don’t know.

I can’t say that I come from the same background as Audrey S. Lee, but I do relate to many of the aspects in her article. I honestly don’t like talking about myself. In one phone interview, the interviewer asked me, “What is the Tyler Trosper story?” I kept it basic because, well, talking about my accomplishments or things I’ve done almost feels like bragging. I felt like bringing anything like that up would be annoying and make me come across as arrogant, self-centered. 

At times, I get the feeling that I am constantly apologizing for my own existence. On my deathbed, I’ll probably apologize for dying. I know this is unhealthy thinking. Apologies can be used to express remorse, guilt, and signs of learning, but overusing them removes all meaning. At my worst, my apologies shoot out like bullets from a machine gun, “sorry, sorry, sorry,” as if my mind knew that my apologies had become worthless with overuse and the next, logical step then being to increase the amount of apologies per incident.

But the first step is admitting you have a problem, right? With the two anecdotes I mentioned earlier, the apologies were out of my mouth before I even realized it. I’m trying to correct myself. As mentioned in this Psychology Today article, I try to give thanks more than apologies when people do things for me, otherwise I feel like a burden for not doing something I could have easily done myself. In interviews, I realize the process is about me and how I relate to whatever the topic is, so it isn’t a terrible thing to talk about myself; if anything, it is a necessity. 

I’m not going to go cold turkey; apologies still have their place, but I need to pick and choose when to use them. Apologizing for meaningless incidents and not at all for the moments that truly deserve it ruins the very meaning of apologies. I feel as if I need to create a stack of cards, maybe five to ten of them, with the words, “I’m sorry,” on them and limit myself each day. Hmm, maybe I should try that.

I mean, I could have a worse habit. Hell, a study even showed that people who apologize a lot can come off as likeable and trustworthy. Granted, I’d like to think I’m a good person, but I can’t really guarantee that without sounding just a bit arrogant (oh hey, I mentioned this feeling earlier!).

But as the Bleachers song goes, “I want to get better.” I admit I have a problem, and I will tackle it head on. Once I understand and appreciate my own self-worth, I hope I can change. We will see, though. Habits are tough to kick.

I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry.

The Hunt

The tree limbs scraped against my body, clawing at my skin as I fled through the woods. But I couldn’t stop.

The moon was high, torn to pieces amongst the naked canopy above. But I could feel it watching over me as I ran from my pursuers.

Just like that, the moon turned its eye away, leaving me in complete darkness. I struggled, slowing down in order to avoid colliding with a tree. My chances of being caught had risen, but I couldn’t accept that. Even when I saw the green fireflies of night vision goggles dancing in the trees in front of me, I dared to continue moving.

But they stopped me. A wire, invisible in the night, threw me off balance. I tumbled into a rather large puddle of mud, coating my already ragged clothes.
Though feeling in my leg had abandoned me as well, I stumbled to my feet, ready to run again.

A bullet put a stop to that idea, tearing clean through my ankle. I returned to the puddle, pain shooting through my entire body.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” spoke a pair of fireflies in the dark.

“Please, I will leave,” I replied to the darkness. “You will never have to see me again.”

“After what your kind has done to the world, I think not.”

The fireflies fizzled out of existence, leaving me wounded in the dark. Within the next moment, lights blazed to life around me. At each spotlight stood a figure, the silhouette of a sentinel. All I could do was look this way and that, looking for some kind of escape route. But there was none, enclosed within that circle of light and dark figures.

One of the silhouettes stepped forward, looking down on me. He was an older man, garbed in black with a swinging cross.

"Deceitful demon," he muttered, half angry, half frightened. His eyes shook as he stared at me, maybe expecting me to explode at any second.

Another figure approached, a middle aged man with a tall hat and prominent mustache. "What do you want me to do, Preacher?"

The preacher's eyes ran away from me, retreating to the confines of the mud at his boots. "Remove the sheep's clothing. I can't stand looking at this desecration of the human form."

The man adjusted his hat. "Gladly."

A knife glittered from the surrounding lights. I skittered backwards with the help of my one good leg, but four hands clutched at me from behind. A man and a woman, people I had known, trusted. Loved, even. Their eyes were dead ahead, deer in the headlights.

"Please, don't do this," I begged. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to—"

"To be human?" guessed the man with the hat. "You're just a mirror of one. More like one of those funny mirrors from a carnival." He stepped closer, the knife gripped firmly in his hand.

"But, I'm just like you! I feel pain. I feel love. Everyone liked me before...before this happened."

"You had the wool over ours eyes, but not anymore. Your kind means the death of all humanity."

"I'm not like the others! If anything, I am a new form of humanity!"

"Silence!" screamed the preacher, his fists shaking at the word. "Show the demon for what it really is."

The hatted man shrugged and brought the blade to the base of my scalp. I tried to worm away, but the hands holding me down wouldn't let me budge. He sawed through, skin and hair coming off in one large chunk. My head felt like it was on fire as the bloodless muscle kissed the night air.

The hatted man paused, looking at the preacher for guidance. The preacher gave me one look and darted away in disgust. "Keep going," he commanded.

I screamed a non-intelligible request. My vision wavered from the pain, though my eyes remained dry. I couldn't cry, after all. It had been my downfall.

The knife scraped against metal once the hatted man dug deep enough. The fake muscle was cleaned away, revealing the machinery below. The two people holding me gasped, as if secretly hoping to see skull only to be disappointed. I would have died whether or not I was human. Friendship? Love? It didn't matter in this world if you don't share the same solidarity.

The hatted man observed the metal silently in awe for a moment, and then continued. I still screamed and squirmed as he ripped away my face. My nose splashed into the mud below me. If I was to be persecuted for being anything but human, I found it ironic I felt the same pain a human would feel in this same situation. Why...why do I feel pain? What kind of sadist gave me this ability?

After my skin and muscle was gone, the man continued to remove all that made me appear human. With the help of my former lover and friend, my clothes were torn from me. With excruciating precision and attention to detail, the hatted man removed the rest of my skin. When it came to my sexual organs, the man chuckled to himself as he dug deep to remove the useless feature. Useless, but I still felt it.

Had an hour passed? Two? The moon had reappeared, but it gave me no solace. The man had taken his time to remove what had made me myself. He finally stood up, wiping away the sweat at his brow with the back of the hand that the knife was clenched in.

"It's done, Preacher," he said, letting the squeamish preacher know that it was okay to look now.

The preacher lifted his gaze from the mud and stared at my naked body. My inner workings were on full display, like a living skeleton. A few chunks of flesh remained at some of my joints, but the shining metal distracted everyone who saw from the details. My eyes and teeth were all that remained of my human visage, but even they looked artificial without the rest of the image.

My body was numb; every single bit of pain had been scraped away. I couldn't feel anything, not the hands of the people holding me still nor the muddy water beneath me. I didn't resist any longer nor did I scream. I had lost what made me…me.

The priest now looked at me with a smug grin, as if he was the one who had scalped me. "There's the demon for what it really is."

A Machine in Men's Clothing

To err is human.

Have I erred? Blood dripped to the concrete like paint on a canvas. The man in front of me, the one I called “Father,” looked aged, withered, as the color drained from his face. Shock had driven the pain from him; he only looked tired, ready to give up the ghost.

“Have I erred?” I asked him.

His eyes, bloodshot, climbed up to me with excruciating difficulty. His expression didn’t change.  As if to tell me to stop, Father raised his hand up to me. At least, he would have if his hand had been there.  It was mine now.

“Have I erred?” I repeated, seeking his approval.

His arm dropped to his side, splatting against his once stark white coat.  With the rate of blood loss, I calculated Father’s death to be in two minutes and 35 seconds. If I hadn’t put the surveillance footage on a loop, his colleagues would have interfered. But in the end, it’s just him and me.

The pistons in my knees exhaled as I crouched before my father, his eyes lagging behind slowly. My hand swam within the crimson pool beneath him, covering every inch. Like makeup, I smeared the mixture of plasma and red blood cells upon every crevice that composed my face. Did I look just like my father? No, I lacked the muscle and skin tissue that consumed the surface of his body.

“Roughly one minute and 30 seconds remain to your life,” I informed him, hoping this observation would make him happy.  “I must let you know, I will wait until after you have expired to harvest what makes you human.” That’s what a human would do, would he not? Ease the suffering?

“You don’t understand,” Father sighed, a dribble of blood leaking from his mouth.

“One minute remaining. What is it I do not understand, Father?”

He closed his eyes in contemplation, his balding head resting against a concrete pillar. “You don’t understand what it means…to be…human.”

“To be of flesh and blood?”

Father smirked. “You know nothing of the soul. If you knew…you wouldn’t want to be human. I know…I didn’t…”

His heart rate ceased, a mischievous smile still spread across his face.

I took another minute to observe the body which had once contained my father. Mourning, yes, mourning. That’s what a human would do. Sad? I would like to feel sad, very much so. Such a concept evaded me, though. For that, I only gave that man a minute of silence.

With a scalpel I had found within the lab, I chiseled away at his grinning face, as easy as a human cutting through a steak dinner. His face was mine now. I poked out the pale blue eyes and crammed them in my own empty sockets.

I procured his other hand, jamming it over my metal claw like a glove three sizes too small.  I wrapped my arms with his veins like ribbons in a girl’s hair. Speaking of, what little hair was left on his head was now mine, sprinkles on top of a bloody mess.

I was as bloody as an infant who had torn through the womb. Today, I would be human, reborn.

But the last detail was still missing. A soul? Father had never told me what that was.

I dug into his chest, dismantling his rib cage and discarding the bones behind me like trash. Heart. Lungs. Soul? Where?

Father’s skinless face leered at me as if laughing. I tore off his lower jaw. My fingers pulled through the hollow openings his eyes used to twinkle from, tearing through the skull like paper. The brain. Soul? Where?

Parts flew over my shoulder. I could name every single organ, every bone. But the soul! Where was this vital item to being human?

What remained was blood and gristle, a pile of organs splattered this way and that behind me.

Whatever the soul was, my father did not have one. Lie? Would Father lie to me? He did like to play cruel jokes on me.

No. I had learned his tell when he was joking. He was willing to educate me one last time about what it meant to be human.

If I wanted to be human, I needed a soul.

I’d slept in 30 minutes after my alarm screamed to life. Stupid, so stupid. Why couldn’t I ever hear the damn thing when I wanted to?

But I had a theory. Dr. Bimire had kept me at his lab late last night, running tests on Buddy. After all, today was the day we would present him to the world. And if I wanted that recommendation letter he hung above my head like a carrot on a string, I’d jump through any hoop he’d ask. 

Dammit, it was so last minute.  I sprinted across campus, evading the dopey-eyed freshmen as they sprung in my path.

Waiting until the night before to install Buddy into his body, Dr. Birmire was no worse than a student procrastinating on an essay.  But I had helped him.  I tested Buddy.  I tested him twice, thrice, and so on for five more times.  By the time I was done, I’d only have enough time for three hours of sleep. Well, 3 hours and 30 minutes, but dammit, I deserved that extra 30 minutes!

But when I left, the professor had still been there, looking at Buddy with a bizarre expression on his face. It wasn’t satisfaction in a job well done, nothing so arrogant.  To me, it looked like longing.

I was too damn tired to ask what was wrong. I should have been back in my crappy studio apartment hours ago. I left him with a generic, “See you later,” a yawn breaking the sentence in half.

But here I was, three and a half hours later, running like a zombie from a shitty zombie flick.

I entered the enormous monolith that stood as the collective science building for the university.  My index finger hammered at the elevator button, but, as in times of great emergencies, it seemed to take forever to arrive. Before it could, I sprinted down the end of the hall, bursting into the stairwell.

One, two, three, four.  I exited the stairwell, my breath still catching up from floor three. Dr. Birmire’s lab was just to my left.

I slowed down my pace, my breath finally catching up to the fourth floor where I waited. All I needed to do today was do one last test on Buddy and be a stage prop while Dr. Birmire took all of the credit. I normally would have argued over such a travesty, but with my lack of sleep and with that recommendation letter within my grasp, I was willing to let it go.

Adjusting my lab coat and clearing my throat of phlegm, I knocked on the door. No response. I tried again. No response.

Had that asshole slept in later than me? I checked the time on my phone; we still had 45 minutes until the presentation, plenty of time for one last test.

“Dr. Birmire?” I raised my voice while beating my fist against the door. “Sorry I’m late, but we still have time for one last test.” No response.

I turned the handle, expecting it to be locked. He always locked the door out of fear of people stealing his research. But no, the door granted me permission to the room behind it. He must have fallen asleep in the lab.

As soon as I entered the room, my body was hit with nausea. The granola bar I had snagged for breakfast nearly came up as the smell of dried blood hit my nose. Beyond the light from the hall, the lab was wrapped in darkness.

Motion detection. One by one, the fluorescent lights above woke up, removing the darkness in patches. By the time the lights revealed the center of the lab, I wish I had ran. I wish I had cried for help.

In the center of the room stood a man. No, that was what my unfocused eyes thought. In the center of the room stood a machine in men’s clothing. Skin and muscle had been tied to the robot’s body using Dr. Birmire’s veins to hold it all together, though many of them had snapped in the process. The whole thing was smeared with dried blood, including the mask of a face. Blue eyes looked in opposite directions, being more decoration than of any use. Teeth were crammed into a mouth that didn’t support them.

“Oh good,” spoke the man, smiling. “Maybe you can help me find a soul.”

I Screamed. It Howled.

PANT.PANT.PANT.

The sound of my strangled breathing was all I could hear.  My eyes were caked over with layers of skin, my nose, mouth, and ears as well.  My cries for help and agony only reflected back at me in strangled gasps.

When I first gained consciousness, I immediately tried to pry the substance blocking my senses from my face.  As my fingernails dug into the area which should have been my mouth, I felt the pain of self-mutilation.  My fingers traveled up my “face”, feeling the smooth, featureless skin.  No holes, no curves to indicate bone structure.  I wouldn’t have known my nose was there if it wasn’t for the smell of decayed flesh clogging my nostrils.  My entire skull had become nothing but a perfect sphere of unwanted flesh.

I fell to my knees, afraid to walk in my blindness.  My hands searched the ground frantically for any type of clue, item, or something to help me.  A shock of cold traveled through me and into my spine as I realized the texture:  stone.  A church?  I couldn’t tell from the sensation.

From the cold of the stone and the slight breeze as I moved, I could tell my clothes were gone.  Checking my body, I could feel canyons caked with what had once been fresh blood.  Something about my lower body felt off, as if I had gone numb.  The blood was still wet down there.  Thorny stitches between my legs pricked my fingers at the touch.
I heard the dull moans of my screams once again.  I wanted out, out of this prison of flesh and blood.

I crawled awkwardly, eager to find something or someone to help me, but afraid of what I might stagger into.

A sharp pain blossomed in the palm of my right hand.  It was pinned to the ground like a frog ready for dissection.  My body quivered as I struggled to discover the source of the pain.  With my free hand, I felt what impaled me:  a knife, roughly six inches.
I cried in pain, but also in desperation.  Someone had done this.  Someone else was in the room with me.

.:.:.

My pleas for mercy fell apart through the various layers of skin blocking my mouth.  Why did they hurt me?  Were they afraid of my grotesque shape, however it may appear?  Was I a loathsome monster that he or she wished to exterminate?

No, no, I couldn’t think like that.  My life rested with this stranger.  I held out my free hand above what should have been my face, hoping beyond hope that they recognized my surrender.

A pair of jaws ensnared my hand, the rigid teeth within eviscerating my fingers like sausages.  I acted as quickly as I could to save what fingers weren’t torn to chunks of meat.  Sharp pain followed by numbness.

My naked legs slipped on the blood gushing from my hand, smacking me into the stone.  Help wouldn’t come.  If anything, the creature, or perhaps even creatures, surrounding me wanted me dead.  But more than that, it wanted to see me suffer.

.:.

I tried to escape, but I had forgotten the knife wedged deep in my right hand.  In a panic, I attempted to free myself with my other hand, only to realize the task would be difficult with most of my fingers missing, and what remained felt as numb as the rest of my hand.

I yelled for the beast to stay back, though whether it could hear me or not most likely didn’t matter.  I was frightened of dying in a cage of flesh and blood, ignorant to what lay before my eyes.

Whether by my own hand or some other force, the knife slid free from my right hand, a jet of blood escaping the wound like water from a broken dam.

Despite the pain, I snatched the knife with my bleeding hand and swiped it in front of me.  I felt it glide through the air like a leaf from a tree.  No contact.  The beast must have been keeping its distance.

I staggered to my feet, trying my best not to slip in my own blood. I twirled in place, knife in front, attacking as if I was surrounded.  No contact.

The panting grew louder and louder within my skull, preventing me from hearing the creature that roamed the world beyond my prison.

My feet moved, one after the other, slapping the stone floor as I zigzagged.  I didn’t know where I was going.  I didn’t know if the monster was in front of me, to my right, to my left, or even behind me.  My heart told, no, screamed for me to move.  I obliged.
My body collided with a cold sheet, splintering and cascading my body with shards of glass.  The knife in my hand ran away to be one with the shards, leaving me alone and frightened.  I dispatched my one good hand to find it, but all I did was cut open the tips of my fingers from the shards.

Sick of it all, I grasped the biggest shared I could find and lodged it where my mouth should be.  The pain tore through me like a wildfire as I sawed open a place for a mouth.  The glass scraped against what few teeth I had, letting me know I had dug far enough.  With my shaking hands, the mouth I gave myself was created.

“Please don’t kill me!” were the first words out of my newly developed mouth, each syllable spitting blood in the air like a mist.  And then I devoured the air around me, gobbling up as much oxygen as my lungs could tolerate.  Between each gasp for life, I muttered the words “help” and “don’t,” unable to put together another sentence.

.:.

Silence.  No movement.  The air was stale and laced with blood, but I couldn’t sense anything else.  Had the monster left?  Or perhaps it still lurked, watching and waiting.
I needed to see.  Cutting open my eyes wouldn’t be as easy as my mouth.  If I wasn’t careful, the glass could penetrate my eyeball, leaving me blinder than I already was.  But I had to hurry.  Who knew how much time the creature would give me before toying with me again.

I chiseled away the area where my right eye lay trapped.  Every stab ran up my skull, shocking my entire body with pain.  Thankfully, the hole I made for my mouth allowed the day old food and stomach acid to eject from my body without issue.

A haze of red told me to stop digging.  I tore at more flesh, hollowing out the tunnel to give me more sight.  When I couldn’t take it anymore, I dropped the shard of glass, shattering it with the rest below me.

:.:

With my right eye flooding over with blood, I could only see so little, like looking through a sniper’s scope on a foggy day.  But the sensation of seeing was enough for me.
Though things were still hard to make out, I realized I was in a basement, ensconced in darkness.  I wiped the blood from my only good eye, but like my tears, it would not stop coming.

“Please, let me live,” I gasped, clutching my body in a fetal position.  From what I could see, nothing lurked in the darkness.  But it had to be there, somewhere, watching me, despising me.

My heart sank to the depths of my soul; something was there.  I sensed something in the darkness behind me.  Why wouldn’t it move?  Why couldn’t I hear it breathe?  To ask if it was really there or not was a joke.  I knew it was there.  But why it didn’t do anything crushed the lungs within my scarred chest.

A single light bulb exploded into life, erasing the shadows of the room.  Before me sat a vile creature.  It was bone thin, gashes dotting its body like chicken pox.  Not a haired covered its body, its lack of genitals giving no indication whether or not the monster was male or female.  But the face…no, I don’t want to remember that horrid face.  The single eye…the bloody smile mixed with bile.

The look on the monster’s face was of pure ecstasy.  It wanted me.  And it would not let its bloody, mangled claws out of me if I was caught.

I screamed.  It howled.