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So I wasn't doing what I was supposed to be doing.

 
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Strategos
a$$


Joined: 01 Feb 2006
Posts: 2100
Location: Alll ston, MA

PostPosted: Tue Mar 13, 2007 11:19 am    Post subject: So I wasn't doing what I was supposed to be doing. Reply with quote

In lieu of that, I began writing. Thoughts?

Newborn
By [Strategos] (Not what it originally said. I hate my name with a passion, but I choose to sign most work with it anyways)

***

I am a newborn. Not really. I was born a week ago, they tell me. Of course, they tell me I was born twenty years ago, too. I wasnít, though, really. It seems to me that I am a newborn: The world is a new mystery and my limbs rarely do what I tell them to. I was born without baby fat. I was born without body fat. All I had when I was born was a needle in my arm, electrodes on my chest, and a scar across my back. It finally climbs up my neck, and eventually curls around to the base of my right ear.
I am told it was this is the scar of my conception, insomuch as I was conceived Ė again, they tell me I was conceived twenty years ago. It seems I might have been, too, but then, the baby giraffe learns to walk on its own in hours. I am still not sure how I know that, but Iíll assume for safetyís sake that I know it like the giraffe knows how to walk.
In fact, I even know how to walk. I still canít, though. My legs are weak and canít support my weight - however light I am; the rest of me is weak as well. My joints are stiff and folded, knees locked to my chest. My elbows are glued tightly to my ribs, and my hands stick out at an odd angle, with my fingers gnarled and twisted. I am always looking down, as my neck refuses to support my head. I can almost move it. I get a twitch, sometimes.
I also remember words. I can work my mouth. My throat is dry, and my vocal cords rusty. I can speak for several seconds at a time, so far, before I have to rest again. I can get maybe twelve syllables out of my jaw before the muscles cramp. The words sound like they were rattled through the teeth of a skeleton. Sometimes I think they are, but I remember then that I spoke them, and can see my own skin. Itís true: I can see my skeleton as well. I can count all the bones in my body. It is through these words, those of a man long dead Ė albeit one just born Ė that I convey this text.
A pretty nurse (I think she is pretty) sits down with what looks like a computer, except it is so small that it canít be. Still, it has a keyboard, and a small screen, and the words flash across it. Sheís so mobile. When I speak, her arms move just slightly, and her delicate fingers pass along the keys so quickly that they blur together in my weary eyes. Then when I finish, she folds the computer up quickly, with no wasted motion. It becomes smaller, then, and goes into a bag. She asks me if I want anything. Then, sometimes before I can answer, she rises quickly upon her slender legs Ė so flexible. Her knees are centered below her, and her spine is straight and her supple neck sways above her narrow frame, where a fine face and fair hair meet my eyes. The angel is illusory. In another moment, her swift, careful, economic steps carry her smoothly and instantly from the room.
It is in the spaces in between her presence that I compose my next paragraph. I donít know how long it is: Minutes, days, weeks, months? I have the words, but Iíve no concept of time. I am too young yet: that much I know.
Sometimes, it isnít the pretty nurse that comes. Every now and then it is God. I think he is God. I opened my eyes for the first time, and in a bright, white place, this powerful figure of mercy, garbed in white himself, was there, framed by the flickering of an old fluorescent light. It has since been replaced; this image of God will stay with me until I die.
Sometimes, it is people who say they are my parents. I donít believe them. I know who my parents were. I am, in reality, a child of rape. I was carried with pride, an egg in an aluminum uterus within a midsized mother. Then, a greater figure of steel came along, catching her unaware and unprepared. In broad daylight, It penetrated into this uterus, and punctured me, and I was conceived. This Father moved on; nobody can tell me who It was. My mother died soon after the accident, and was buried in a field of metal skeletons.
These pretenders seem nice enough. They cry when they see me. I donít know why. Every day I feel healthier, more able, and yet, healthy as I may get, I donít think Iíll ever be able to cry for a lone stranger, especially one like myself: one in no plight. I think, though, that crying makes them feel better. Iíll not stop them. I donít think Iím a spectacle, but Iíll do my part to help. I know they are trying as well to help me. They think Iíll be happier to know a mother and have a father. They attempt to convince me of their legitimacy, too, and cry more when I refute them. I try to go along with it, sometimes. Their tears at rejection seem to make them sadder.
God still leaves the needle in my arm and the electrodes on my chest. He claims that the scar is too powerful for him to remove. He wonít let me eat. I want to eat. In my dreams, food tastes good. I know I should have starved by now, not having eaten for a week since birth. Still, I live. He promises that He will teach me how to eat in another week or so if I behave myself.

***

I am learning how to count the seconds. Yesterday, I noticed the clock on the wall across from me. It can move. A few days ago by this clock, God Ė he says his name is ĎThe Doctor,í and wants me to stop using his name as I know it Ė put a needle into the tube digging into my arm. I fell asleep, even though I wasnít tired. When I woke up, I hurt all over. They told me not to try to move; if I moved, I might not heal properly. I feel weak again.
The pretenders arenít crying as much, now. They smile when they see me. Now and again, the nurse comes. She is not as cold as before. Her motions remain the same, though. Stately, angelic, robotic Ė these words form her figure. Her smile comes more readily now. I think that I used to scare her. I know I look different from most people.

***

A week ago, God Ė The Doctor, I mean Ė told me I could try moving again. He unbound my arms and legs. They fell. My elbows no longer stuck so tight to my sides, and my hands hung limp. My legs shifted, unfolded slightly. The air feels strange against my chest, and the skin where the legs used to be is pale and hairless.
He brought me some food as well Ė the tiniest drop of water. My jaw fell open at the end of my words and he placed it upon my tongue. My jaw snapped shut, refusing to let it go. I began to gag on the dew. Unwillingly, I moved to spit it back out. It would not leave me, already having dispersed itself across my tongue. When I stopped dry heaving Ė it hurt my already perpetually sore throat even more Ė God told me I had done a good job, and that we would try again tomorrow.
The nurse, too, is back again. Today she helped me to stretch like she has all the days since The Doctor gave me the gifts of food and motion. I cannot yet straighten any of my limbs or digits. My jaw, however, is getting stronger; I can chew and eat soda crackers now. I can talk for longer. My voice is also starting to come more smoothly. I suppose that of my body, those have the most exercise. I wonder if it is like this when everybody is born. I doubt it. I have an odd feeling that though I spent years in an artificial womb, I was cut still prematurely from its warmth. Was it warm? I donít remember.
The pretenders brought a third into their troupe. He is another newborn Ė He appears my age, if healthier. He claims he is a friend. He talks to me about the Ďold days,í that we shared together. He says he hasnít spoken me in five years, since ĎThe Accident.í I donít know what heís talking about; I donít think he knows what heís talking about. We are so young Ė neither of us has lived for five years, let alone long enough to have shared together all the days he describes. Sometimes I wonder if he believes himself. He comes every day, now. I donít know where they find the time to convince him of his lines.

***

I have been alive for two months, now. Yesterday, the God-Doctor began teaching me how to walk. I keep telling him that I already know. I know that I know. Still, I canít. He insists on training me. I tell him that, given time, like all newborns, I will walk on my own.
The Doctorís attitude towards me has changed. I felt once that in his eyes I was both a product of his own miracle and a new toy. Now I feel that I am the object of his pity. No longer does my calling him on his lies seem to unnerve him. He looks somber, and his eyes lose some of their glow. They light back up again whenever I make some progress, though. I can support my head, now. I can look up and around for a while.
My voice no longer seems unnatural, and my skeleton is starting to be replaced with the signs of many good meals. These facts please him greatly. Then, when the topic of lies comes up, he again becomes sad. I think I may have disillusioned him; I will not be deluded, nor let him delude himself into thinking that he can.

***

I can walk now. I took two steps, with a nurse supporting me on one side and the doctor on the other. Tomorrow, I will try for three, and the next day, four. One day, I will walk like any adult.
I saw the strangest creature out on my walk. It was like a miniature person. Its head was too large for its body, and it was of waist height. They called It a ĎChild.í It seems they are similar enough to Humans to be treated in the same facilities. It too was learning to walk. It had scars like mine, except they wrapped to the left. I think It lost the ability to walk in some sort of accident. I hope for Its sake that It learns to walk before I do. It needs it more; It has been able to walk before. It knows what it is missing. I do not yet fully understand the idea of ĎTravel,í never having been able to myself.
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Sethimothy
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PostPosted: Wed Mar 14, 2007 12:26 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The baby needs to die sooner.
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Strategos
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PostPosted: Wed Mar 14, 2007 6:52 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

What baby where and when did it die anyways?
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LiQuid!
fasta dan a muddafucka!


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PostPosted: Wed Mar 14, 2007 7:38 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Gaybosayswhat?
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Strategos
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PostPosted: Wed Mar 14, 2007 7:52 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

It translates roughly to: "So I was fucking this guy in the ass last night, and he turns around to me and is like 'Hey, do you wanna suck my dick?' and I was like 'What do think I am? Gay?' " True story.
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LiQuid!
fasta dan a muddafucka!


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PostPosted: Wed Mar 14, 2007 8:01 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

I bet you even did ass to mouth!
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Strategos
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PostPosted: Wed Mar 14, 2007 9:13 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

He licked mine, not vice-versa, thank you! Just keeping it straight.
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PostPosted: Wed Mar 14, 2007 9:14 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

If you kiss him afterwards it's just as bad... Worse even cause that means you're eating out your own ass.
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PostPosted: Wed Mar 14, 2007 9:55 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Don't worry, I made him wash his mouth out with acid first. He said it was worth it, to kiss this.
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