Very old story, needs new home

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Just moving things around, just typing to myself. contemplating now

Submitted: June 22, 2015

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Submitted: June 22, 2015

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Marcus Brandy was thirty-five years old, but he didn’t look it. He looked at least fifty-three. It was 1959 and Marcus had spent the last twelve months living in Manhattan, New York. The most recent four months he spent homeless.

It was the winter, harshest one on record yet. Winds had no regard for Marcus’s parka. It was minus eleven degrees. Marcus no longer recognized his extremities. His hands out in front of his chapped face, channeling orders to nerves in his fingers, “Wiggle.” Nothing. A mild grimace snapped his lips in several places, beads of blood warmed him up a bit.

Marcus would have frozen to death that night. But luckily, a doctor named Raz Yousef found Brandy on that street corner somewhere uptown. Dr. Yousef was round, a bit tan, late sixties, and forbidden from practicing medicine in the United States. After opting to live in Yemen for several years, he finally returned to New York to work with his cousin Ferma. They worked for an unspecified family business. The doctor had taken Marcus back up to his very decent apartment which he shared with three or four cats. After Marcus regained consciousness, Dr. Yousef explained how he had gotten there.

“As a physician and a human being, I cannot allow my brother to freeze out there in the cold,” preached the doctor. “You are to stay here, stay as long as you like. Please! I have plenty of room.” The high hallway echoed with his last word. Confused by Dr. Yousef’s philanthropy, Marcus stressed that he had no means of repaying him, for he did not intend to ever seek employment. The doctor’s expression implied sympathy, but hollow eyes had less life than Marcus’s frostbitten fingers. “You could help me with my studies, and in return—a warm bed.”

Marcus showered and shaved and put on the powder blue pajamas folded at the edge of his new bed. He wandered quietly one morning. The fifth room to the left bubbled and whizzed, clanked and whistled. A bit intimidating to a cautionary ear. The parted door revealed a sliver of a jungle gym of tubes, beakers, burners, liquids, powders, wires… a giant chemistry set! How
curious! A disinterested cat seduced his leg.

Marcus returned to his bed, which come to think of it, kind of looked like a gurney. His bed, where different cocktails were administered intravenously to him regularly. Marcus realized he had agreed to become a lab rat, but it was a little late. But hey, a warm gurney, soup, morphine? He didn’t complain.

Now, Dr. Youssef conducted studies solely for the advancement of science. For the progression of mankind. However debilitating or altering, all but small sacrifices. All these findings, major contributions to medicine, all kept secret. Six months had passed since Dr. Yousef took in Mr. Brandy that cold night. And four months had passed since they concluded that Marcus’s fingers were beyond salvation, amputating them. And one month passed since the doctor decided he preferred Marcus to be legless. A peculiar man of peculiar taste indeed. But this peculiar man had a vision. He was to create a clone from a human, in a human! Oh how magnificent! To be witness to such primal survival, all within the one body of two friends. Of course the doctor knew, that in the end, only one would survive. But with the proper growth hormones, the clone stood an equal chance, after all, Dr. Youssef was not an unfair man.

Marcus weaved in and out of chemical comas. He was already hard of seeing so he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating again; but for several days now, his blurry naval was starting to look like a clenched, but smiling, mouth. His suspicions were confirmed after awaking to a full beard and Dr. Yousef chuckling at something funny his belly button had said.

Marcus lay there, on an old hospital bed inside an uptown Manhattan apartment, with a bodily detachment much like that winter night. He forced himself to look at his abdomen. In place of his naval was a wry little smile, with teeth and a tongue. Eyelids and dilated pupils, stretched and peeled from his nipples. He was weak, his neck stiff, his jaw tight. Without asking, Dr. Yousef answered his question. “Marcus! This is the clone I have been working on! I know, I know, he is not exactly what I had envisioned, but none the less… he is brilliant!”

Marcus, unable to open his mouth, reached to feel his lips with his nubs—his mouth was sealed, clenched, skin had grown over his lips, how long had he been asleep? Dr. Yousef interrupted Marcus’s discovery, “Marcus. This clone has won the battle of natural selection, I am sorry. But his mind over powered you. He does not use your mouth, he eats through there now. As we abandon what we do not need, so will our body and mind. In a matter of hours your brain will be retired. But thank you Mr. Brandy, so long.”

And just like that Marcus Brandy fell into a deep beautiful dream, he died that night, aged fortyfour.


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