specimen

ecimen s P

photography by tiah Bullock WORDS BY raphail Spartalis

The air was cold. And damp. She didn’t know how she knew that... how she knew anything, for that matter. What was “cold”? And how was that different to what wasn’t cold? There was a word for that... she was sure there was. Then as if by simply thinking it, she summoned the lost vocabulary from the dusty recesses of her mind with sharp realisation: hot! The suddenness of that thought jolted her just as a smile instinctively creased the length of her bandaged face. She sent a questing hand up to inspect the strange changes to her mouth. Mouth. ‘Maaauuuu-tthhh.’ She voiced the word clumsily, feeling the shape of it as much with her lips as with her probing hands. Was this warm breathy noise really coming from her?

She was moving her hands all over her face now, touching and poking it like a curious child. Eyes. Nose. Hair- no. No hair. She was sure that wasn’t right. And even while thinking it, her mind wandered to a tattered memory of thick, woolly locks dropping in heavy curls past her shoulders. Auburn. Yes, it was auburn. But this memory was at such stark odds with reality that her brain all but rejected it. Was that truly her hair? How could it be? Her fingers tracked a deep scar across her close-cropped scalp, the short bristly hair pricking her hand sharply. Her heart sank.

No, the memory was real, she thought, sudden resolve steeling her mind. With a newfound confidence, she groped after the memory, desperate not to lose this piece of herself. But it was weak, frayed at the edges like an old, dirty rag. She could feel it fading even now; each attempt to recall it weakening her grip on it. But she refused to give up, and in a childish act of fervent denial, reached out with her arms as if to grab the thought and

hold it to her chest. But it was too late. The thread had snapped. The memory was gone.

A pain suddenly rose up from inside her, pulling her thoughts back to the present. She gripped at her stomach; it burned like a furnace. (Her father worked with furnaces... yes, her father...) She closed her eyes from the pain, blinking heavy drops of tears onto the tiled floor below.

The pain was unbearable. She felt as if she would pass out. And in the next moment, she did.

Mercer looked into the room through a reinforced plexiglass window; the girl was small and sickly, and covered almost entirely in thick, white bandages. There were a handful of spots on her body where the stark whiteness was interrupted by patches of cherry red; her forearms, a spot just beneath her ribcage, a large ring circling her throat. Considering the wounds beneath those lengths of wrap made him recoil slightly. Jesse seemed to notice. ‘Best not to think about it,’ he said to Mercer, barely turning to acknowledge the man. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ ‘It’s not my job to be bothered by it. We just need to watch her.’

Mercer twisted his face at that. ‘I don’t get it though. I understand they gotta run the tests and that, but why do they gotta leave her on the ground all alone and cold afterwards? Seems unnecessary to me. And cruel...’ The words faded as he turned his attention back to the girl. She was touching her face now, and it looked like she was trying to speak. ‘Mercer, we’re not paid to worry about the comfort of the specimens. Whatever the guys upstairs decide for them, I’m sure they have very good reasons for it. It’s none of our business and none of our concern. Simple as that. You’ll understand, in time.’ Jesse turned to type something on the keyboard to his right. When he was finished, his gaze fell on Mercer again. ‘I get that it’s distressing at first, believe me, I felt the same. But you just need to turn that part of your brain off. Stop thinking about it as a little girl, because it’s not. It never was. As much as it might look like

one, you need to remind yourself: it’s a specimen; a laboratory experiment. Nothing more. The sooner you do that, the better.’

Mercer let out a low, steady breath. The girl was grabbing at her head now, he noted. She looked distressed. His heart dropped at the thought of his own daughter; she’d only just started grade school. How old was this girl? He considered it for a brief moment.

No. She isn’t a real girl, he tried weakly, then sighed. He couldn’t do it. She looked too real; moved too real. How could Jesse and the others act so blindly? He closed his eyes to the reality of it.

STAND BY. SPECIMEN APPEARS TO BE EXPERIENCING HEIGHTENED CEREBRAL ACTIVITY. DEACTIVATING FOR FURTHER ANALYSIS. STAND BY FOR IMMEDIATE SHUT DOWN.

He looked up. The girl appeared to be crying, arms wrapped around herself in a sort of hug. Then a moment later a stiff lurch threw her forward and onto her hands and knees. Then another, and another. It took thirty seconds before she passed out. Mercer stared at the bandaged girl on the floor, unable to turn away. She was coiled up on her side now, her hands still gripping at her stomach. Thick streams of tears stained her face.

Mercer thought about his own daughter and hated himself. Then he threw up.