The patient struggles.
They twist and they turn, under my hands. They writhe and jolt.
But this is not who I want, here, in my lab.
This is a loathsome excuse for a replica of him— my assistant is not here. He would not struggle. He would not cry. My assistant would relax to my touch, my assistant would smile and assure me that I'm doing no harm by him. My assistant would not be screaming, as you are. My assistant's body does not bend in the way this one does, my assistant's eyes are not this color. My assistant's voice doesn't sound like this.
He does not beg as you do. Does not plead for my mercy.
You, are not my assistant. You are a replica. And a poor one at that— so I wonder.
Imposter. Does your heart look the same, as his? Do you bleed the same?
If I tear you to shreds. If I shatter you. If I break you, and if I ruin you until you're no longer. Would you still love me, as he does?
Would you forgive me, and would you hold me, like him?










