Creator

S

She would’ve been 19 today, he thought, as he sat by the grey window. She would’ve been getting married, making a name for herself. She would’ve been the greatest scientific breakthrough of the 21st century.

The rain outside was light, and didn’t seem to fall. It hung in the air, unwilling to move on, clinging to leaves and bejewelling spider-webs. The sidewalk was darkened and glistening. His breath fogged the window and he slowly lifted a finger to trace a line. A spiralling double helix symbol appeared, cut away from the condensation-frosted glass. He stared at it for a second, and then drew his sleeve over the glass, wiping the image away.

S

“Doctor?” a voice questioned, but he payed it no attention, instead focussing the lens on his microscope. Nothing in this slide. He pulled it out, and moved another into its place. A bend of the neck, look, adjust, focus – nothing. “Dr Harper,” the voice said again.

He raised his head. “What?” His voice was perhaps too harsh, and the lab assistant quivered. He couldn’t remember her name.

“Your wife’s on the line.”

He turned back to the microscope. “Tell her I’ll call her back.” The lab assistant made no movement.

“But sir, she…”

“What?” he asked again, not looking up from his work. Another slide was pushed into place, taking another second that would turn into another minute, another hour.

“She said that that’s what you’ve told her the past five times she’s called.”

The doctor’s movements stilled. Looking up, he drew a delicate hand over his face. His fingers were long, their paleness a sign of too much time spent indoors. He saw the way the assistant looked at him, worried, lip bitten at his refusal to sleep.

Glancing up to the neon-green numbers glaring at him from the wall, he exhaled. There was a pause, and the lab assistant tensed.

“Tell her I’ll call her back shortly,” he said again. “Tell her I’m almost done. I know I’ve almost got it.”

The girl left without another word. Silence descended.

“I’m so close,” he said finally, his test tubes his only witness, “It’s almost there.”

S

She would’ve been 19, he thought, and it became his mantra as he fell asleep. He ran it through his mind, over and over, as if it would become meaningless if he said it enough - as if all the sharp edges would be worn away.

He’d been having strange dreams lately.

“Why did you do this to me?” she would ask, her face turned away from him. Her back was bare, he knew, but he could only just see a flash of her skin through the laboratory shelves. Journals on molecular stability and genetic mutations blocked his view, and bulbous glass vials distorted her image.

Except that when he finally saw her, and she turned around, the glass hadn’t distorted her visage at all. Skin and flesh sagged off her cheekbones, rotting, and he couldn’t look her in the eye. Her lip was cleft, and a black crack ran across her palate, a yawning break opening into her brains. Her shoulders were covered with pebbled skin.

“Look at what you’ve done to me,” she would demand, but then he would suddenly awake. He always woke up before he had to face his creation.

Thoughts of her still obsessed him.

S

Science was precise. Anything was possible. The only limit was the scientist’s determination and dedication; how far they were willing to go.

He’d been willing to sacrifice everything.

His wife left him, eventually, but not when he deserved it. Not when he spent every waking hour at the laboratory, not when he spent nights sleeping in his rumpled coat. No, she left him later, when he couldn’t afford to lose her. After the complications, when he locked himself up in his room because he couldn’t bear to face the outside world. It was that which finally drove her away - his inability to cope. That was the thing that finally broke her. She left in a flurry of clothing shoved into suitcases and tear-stained cheeks, crying that she wasn’t able to put up with anymore of his issues.

Maybe if he had realised the cost of his enterprises in the beginning, he never would have gone through with them. Maybe he would have, anyway.

S

It wasn’t until long after the cells had started to divide and multiply that he allowed himself to think maybe the project would work. It wasn’t until the foetus had a head and a brain that he told the rest of his faculty members.

And then he saw trouble. The chromosomes were irregular; there were cells without enough DNA for a full genetic code. He noticed that the foetus’ bones were slow to join. He slipped the findings back into his folder, and put the folder back into his desk. But it couldn’t stay a secret and soon his lab assistant approached him, less hesitant after months of work.

“You knows there’s something wrong with her,” she said, “And not just the slow forming of the skull. She’s not going to grow properly, and we don’t know how the irregularity will continue manifest itself. It could get worse.”

“There’s nothing fatally wrong with the foetus,” he replied, “And even if there were a few odd cells, it might not affect the being anymore than it already has. There are many people born with cleft palates, and this is a new field. I’m sure the specimen will be sound from now.”

Something seemed to grow inside the assistant, and her lips thinned.

“It’s not just a specimen, Doctor. It’s a baby girl.”

The words were out before he could stop them. “Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for science.”

“This isn’t a sacrifice,” the lab assistant snapped, “this is a slaughter. This is obviously a sign that we need to do more research. We can’t clone a human yet. We don’t understand what we’re doing.”

He spun to face the assistant, eyes wide. “Have you seen it?” he asked, “All the brain patterns are normal; the anatomy is almost normal. Nothing more will go wrong.”

The lab assistant had glared, and walked out. He wasn’t sure if he saw her again, or if she left, but it didn’t matter either way. She couldn’t have done anything.

S

At eight months the creation started to show skin irregularities. Slight chafing, wrinkling, tearing of tissues as the being grew. The slit in the top lip seemed to be permanent, and the roof of the mouth would need surgery. Nine months saw the skin across the back stretching and tearing daily. He told himself it was nothing to worry about.

On the day of the birth the sky was cloud-free, and there was a cold breeze that forced its way through the fibres of his clothing. The lab was filled with scientists, carrying clipboards - there were no nurses or mothers at this birth. He sometimes still regretted that. He always regretted what came next.

The clone was removed from the artificial womb. It was done quickly, with little fanfare, and he was left feeling cheated. She wiggled her toes, and gurgled for a second. And then, suddenly, cried, her voice bouncing off the white, tiled walls. It was harsh and inhuman. It wasn’t until her skin began to bubble that he realised something was seriously wrong. Blisters formed, red and angry, and her tiny fragile fingers swelled. Her skin was raw and shining; sores forming then erupting seconds later, pus oozing. Her skin transformed in front of his eyes.

She was whisked away before he could see anymore, and he never saw her again.

He didn’t go back to the lab.

S

Sometimes the dreams went differently. The baby stayed in his arms, her poor, sensitive flesh ripping wherever it touched his coat. Blood covered his fingers. He would lean down and press a kiss to her disfigured forehead, and her skin would peel away on his lips.

She would die in his arms. It was best that way.