Generation:clone

Part 1

After an excruciatingly long morning of preparation, the originals finally reached an acceptable level of primping and preening. The three of them exited the mansion’s large front door in a cloud of intermingling and choking perfumes, their brightly colored formal clothes swished as they walked. I moved quietly behind them, no overpowering perfume trailed behind me nor did the swish of elegant fabrics announce my presence.

“My horse is most definitely going to win father!” My Original, Miss. McKenna cried thoroughly assured, her nose characteristically high in the air.

“Whatever you say darling.” The Mr. replied. He rubbed his forehead absent mindedly and looked for the car. I went to close the door behind them, but before I could the Mrs. spotted me.

“Double S,” She said, looking through my mask, into my eyes. Her deep stare, unbroken by falling lids, always made me squirm with discomfort. It had taken years to master my reaction to her, to create my own mask beyond the simple one they gave all Double S’s. She continued, “I expect the house to be put back together prior to our return. As you know we will have company over tonight and everything must be perfect.” The Mrs. pronounced perfect long and slow and used her hands as an accent, as if I wouldn’t comprehend her otherwise.

“Yes Mrs. Dumphrey, the house will be pristine upon your return.” I assured her with both my government manufactured and self-mastered masks in place. I inched the door closer and closer to its frame and shouted “Good luck!” with fake enthusiasm to accompany a fake smile.

The car pulled into the drive and the family of three slowly climbed in, taking care not to wrinkle, rip, or make askew any critical piece of formal wear. I closed the large oak door with a satisfying thud, turned around, and slumped onto it. My manufactured mask was permanently in place. It covered the entirety of the face I wore, except the eyes and mouth. A sturdy elastic band, wrapped around my head, held it in place. My self-mastered mask, however, was not as permanent a fixture. It came and went with my strength. I rested my back against the cold hard wood, and let out a sigh of desperation that resonated in the now empty mansion.

This is my life, I thought to myself. I slid lower and lower down the door at the thought, until I collapsed in a heap at its foot. A tear threatened to escape my ice blue eyes, curiously brighter than Miss. McKenna’s, but I squeezed them tightly together. I scrunched up my face, and breathed deeply in, held it for a moment, and then slowly back out.

The efforts to control my body did not extend to my mind. This is all I will ever be- a slave. An uneducated, unimportant, unoriginal, organ donor. My scrunching technique failed as an uninvited sob racked my body. I brought my knees to my chest and rode out the most recent in a series of emotional breakdowns.

I hadn’t always looked at my position as a negative thing. In fact when the Dumphreys first retrieved me from the surrogate center, I was excited! The surrogate center, or SC, is where destitute women make money the only way they legally can – carrying and giving birth to clones. They spend nine months carrying and one month recovering, then they leave with a small pay check, big enough to sustain them until they qualify for their next surrogacy. The birthing mothers leave after delivery, but the newborn clones remain.

I had been raised in the SC, just as all clones are. The Federal Cloning and Surrogacy Association, FCSA, keeps clones in the center until we are 10 years old. This is done to maintain our health and safety. Additionally the time is used to prepare us to serve our originals- those who’s DNA we are cloned from. Some children are pulled out early, however, if their originals require some form of donation.

In the SC I attended foundational school where they FCSA brainwashed us five hours a day, six days a week. When the Dumphrey’s came to retrieve me, I walked out the center’s door feeling like I was finally fulfilling my purpose, serving my original- my maker.