A Preview of "Melancholic Macabre Patchwork Boy"

June 7, 2013
“He is a boy, can’t you bloody damn see that?!” a man in the standard white-coat screamed at a similarly garbed man, the defense pushed his glasses up to his nose which seemingly bounced down his bridge in his rage.
“Yes, I am not a blind man, Briggs! But can’t you see he is another one of your stitched up nut-jobs, just a subject made of useless junk and dead bodies! A useless number, remember that’s how we are supposed to treat them. How the hell do you even know how if it even has feelings?” The prosecuting professor was enraged, too enraged in fact; he brought his hand two an empty beaker and through it against the wall.

The argument was held in a viewing room next door to a subject holding cell, the borders between the two quarters weren't that thick, so a subject could hear the muffled arguments, observations, and decisions made in the observation spaces, or vice versa. Any subject, visitor, guard, janitor, doctor, nurse, or scientist preferred any type of sound that beat the stiff muggy silence which plagued the laboratory’s long hallways. Any sort rapping or tapping beat the inhumanely clean slates of tiled floors which flooded the facility.

“My name is unofficially Murk. I am labeled unstable, and have been seen as many things, a beast of greatness, and a possible new hope, however most tell me that an abomination of god, the ugly duckling, and various harsh or interesting things that name me as an object. I am a person however, I must be real!” He repeated himself harshly whispering the incantation, like a whip cracking down on each word as he clashed his rotting tongue against his teeth, as he listened to the argument, only a child, looking around the age and height of an eight year old boy.

The two doctors left the room splitting their paths down to their living quarters to get some sleep, they just needed time to think was the conclusion, and what doesn’t keep the mind going like some decent sleep. The mind must be good and ticking, shouldn’t it? This was a question that rang in the little experiments head wildly.

This disfigured child’s body was composed of various materials. Thick layers of cloth with what would be a possible life-size ragdoll to scale the age of an eight-year-old, under the thick layers were various organs; heart, lungs, brain, and a reassembled nervous system, the rest of the things inside him were machinery, almost toys. To even take in the morbid sight; one must begin slowly and should do so starting head to toe. The Orphan Child had almost Little-Orphan-Annie-like gnawed ropes hanging out from the top of his scalp, his head was a decently normal shaped one, and relatively a human one, that is for an eight your old; it would not exactly suffice for humane however, for example lumps and clots of the heavy cloth made patchwork along the skin, stitches large and bountiful, under the cloth were the beads made in stuff animals, however scaled up for a child. His eyes were putrid and almost decayed however the lab always gave him new ones and hooked them up with his electrical wire receptors connecting to his brain.

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