Creators(19)

I believe the council has been making genetically engineered humans for quite some time, much longer than they have let on. I have only been given a little bit of information because I am still rather new, but things are worse than either of us ever knew. There are whispers of things I shudder to write down, not out of fear that someone will read them, but more from a deep-rooted nervousness that by writing them, they will be true. No denying the rumors anymore.

Needless to say, when they assigned me to Harper, they forgot one important detail. When Kendall created me, he wired me so that I could only sense when someone was in trouble when I cared for them deeply. So, while I followed Harper for days, I was unable to prevent him from receiving an injury while awakening a new batch of chosen ones. One of them bolted straight up and attempted to strangle him. It was the oddest thing I have ever witnessed. Once everyone had regained their composure, they looked to me, wondering why I hadn’t foreseen the event and stopped it.

I am not certain, but I believe they spoke with George, who decided to share what he left out about my gift. No doubt he gives and holds information in ways that suit his personal agenda.

He told them about you.

Not about the community or even meeting in the woods. I still don’t understand why he kept those things secret, but he did. He told them I had fallen for a Templeton girl, and since meeting her, meeting you, my loyalties have been shifting.

That is when they decided to get to work on re-programming me. As you must remember from your time at Templeton, while we are incubating, the creators flash images into our brains that depict naturals in the worst possible way. Images of war, betrayal, wanton lasciviousness. So, when we wake up and begin our training, our minds are more apt to listen to the propaganda—the countless history lessons on how time and time again the naturals, due to their emotional weakness, turned on each other and their governments.

Chosen ones are not created to rebel, let alone think for themselves, so the creators have decided that I must be re-programmed. Every morning they tie me down and make me watch those films, the images that made up what I can only call my childhood. At first, I struggled against the ropes and tried to keep my eyes shut. But without scaring you, they have ways to make me watch, Tess. They have ways.

In the afternoons, I sit with a creator, a man so old I sometimes foolishly wonder if he was there at the start of time itself. He talks to me for hours and hours about the council, their beliefs, and even you. I don’t mind talking to him of the council. I have millions of questions that I want answered, but when he brings you up, I cannot speak. I cannot say your name in this place.

You are the brightness.

This place is the darkness.

And I don’t want to risk it destroying you. So, I say your name a thousand times in my head and write it here, knowing they cannot take it from me if I don’t give it to them.

When I refuse to talk to them about you, it makes them angry. And so a man appears, and he has ways. So, I talk. I am so ashamed by it. But I never say your name.

And when I’m done talking about you, they take their turn. They try and convince me that you have tricked me, manipulated me with your natural ways. They want to corrupt my feelings for you, but I never let them.

When I return to my room, my head hurts so much that I wonder if it would be better to just bash it against the wall. Then I think of you. If there is even the slightest chance I will ever see you again, I must keep going. I won’t give up. Every day, I thank the God that created you, asking him to bless you for that letter. I am so happy to hear you are trying to reconnect with your sister. I will continue to hope to receive another missive. Just the thought of it makes all the pain worth it.

George came to see me this morning. He told me to pretend. He told me if I didn’t, they would wash my memory completely. Re-start me. Re-make me.

I have to pretend to hate you.

Because if I don’t, they’ll make sure I don’t remember you at all.

And for some reason, George wants me to remember.

~James





Chapter 8


“It’s all right to be nervous,” Eric told me, scratching the back of his head, clearly more apprehensive about the day’s lesson than I was.

I gritted my teeth and held my gun level with the target. “I don’t have time to be nervous.” I didn’t have time or patience. Every time I re-read James’s letter, I was filled with rage. If I ever came into contact with the men who tortured him, I would murder them. I would.

I took a deep breath and squinted my eyes, trying to bring the can into focus. The hardest part about shooting a gun was shutting out the rest of the world. A good shot had to maintain complete composure, focus, control. At least that’s what Stephanie had told me during breakfast.