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Grey skin, papery with age and lack of sun. Dark, stringy hair, half-fallen out and half barely hanging on. Closed, bulging eyes stuffed into hollow eye sockets. A sharp, crooked nose; shaped that way from being broken too many times. Thin, chapped lips cracked so deep that they stained over with brown blood. A long, thin neck, veins clearly visible. Bony shoulders. A bright but stained dress, clearly from a better time. Thin feet and bony ankles, rough and calloused from use.
He groaned. Couldn’t they find any better specimens? He couldn’t work with something that’s been so clearly misused. He pressed his lips together, finishing up his notes. There wasn’t anything he could do, he supposed. His grant funding hardly covered the exorbitant prices he saw on the black market’s listings. Purchasing a healthy, recently killed, the well-preserved body would take hundreds of millions, not to mention the cost of a hundred middlemen greedy to get their cut. He would have to make do. Sighing, he rolled his chair over to the desk on the opposite side of the room, turning on the flickering lamp to get a proper look at his work.
He scattered his notes over the small table, tired but sharp eyes scanning the variety of documents he’d developed. This was the culmination of years of work over his doctorate degree, and he couldn’t wait to show the board what he had come up with. He had to get this right. The exorbitant costs of the project alone made it far too expensive to fail. But if it succeeded, God, if it succeeded! He’d be a revolutionary, a hero, a visionary ready to welcome new mankind. As he glanced over his papers, a grim resolve settled in his eyes. It was ready. He knew the risks, but he was ready for them. A baseball bat sat in the corner, prepared if necessary, and he sent up a silent prayer that it wouldn’t need to be used.
He got up and shuffled to his lab table, the fluorescent lights doing little to highlight the many test tubes and bottles spread haphazardly across its surface. He checked his setup, reminding him of a Rube Goldberg machine in its scattered preciseness. Taking a deep breath, he set off the reaction. Colorful chemicals looped through tubes, intersecting to create small explosions and puffs of steam. Finally, the mixture settled in an empty beaker, and he exhaled heavily. He had done it! Reaching haphazardly for an empty syringe, he filled it with the neon green solution. Walking over to the body, he stared down at his future masterpiece.
Lining it up with where the body’s veins, he pressed and injected the solution. At first, nothing happened. Then, the body began to shake. He stepped back, stumbling and leaning on his lab table, eyes wide as he ran a hand through his static-filled, greasy blonde hair. These next few moments would determine it all. The body stopped shaking, and he watched, praying for a miracle.
The eyes opened.
About The Author
Shreya Lokhande is passionate about books, humanities, and debate. She has in interest in legal and business career paths and spends her time teaching courses in literature through various organizations and competing on her school's debate team. In her free time, she loves to bake and cook, as well as play the piano.
Cover page by Gabriela Paulino
Editing by Gwen Nicole
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