Not meant to be... -4-

***

Three weeks later.

I’m used to the house: to the smell coming from the kitchen every morning as Jenny cooks breakfast, to the warm feel of the steam as it envelopes me in the shower, to the quiet conversations Myron and I have in the library every night when he’s not working. I am not really limited. I’m allowed to explore the house when Jenny goes out to shop for food, I’m allowed to read any book in the library (I have found that I can indeed read, and do so vigorously when Myron is busy). But there are a few things I am not allowed to do, and I do not know why. Myron does not allow me to leave the house. Not even for a moment. So the only fresh air I have had for the past three weeks has been through the windows of the apartment. I am also not allowed to read anything on Myron’s table. I am not allowed to watch the television (which I am very angry about, as it takes up a whole wall in Myron’s living room) and I am not allowed to answer the phone.
It confuses me why I am not allowed to do these things, but I don’t protest. The library is my haven during the day.

Myron does not have many fiction books in the library. His shelves are filled with large, complicated books about science and history. About the evolution of man, about the countless revolutions and wars, about famous people…
I have finished all the fiction books in the library, and have now moved onto history. I read about the Third World War in 2039, over Jerusalem; about how so many people died due to Chemical warfare in France, about how the fuel for cars and planes ran out 60 years ago… then I find an interesting thing: 2222 – Sir Myron Hamilton, knighted at age 26 for his work on soul transplantation. I reread the sentence. Twice. Thrice. Soul transplantation… it sounds so familiar… maybe Myron has mentioned it before?
I cross over to the science section and grab an encyclopedia. The index has 300 references to Soul Transplantation, and 25 to Myron Hamilton. I look at the first couple of references. Nothing new, just the scientists back in 2100 who wanted to transplant souls. My arm goes numb from holding the huge book, so I sit down at Myron’s table…
After an hour of reading through most of the references about soul transplantation, I turn to the references about Myron. I find out that he studied at one of the most prestigious universities in modern-day America, that he initially studied philosophy and religion before moving into soul-science. I eagerly read about Myron, about all the things he never told me about in our conversations in the evenings. About how he was the only child and how he was the highest ranking professor at his university for three years before he succeeded in the first human to human soul transplantation. I read about how he was the youngest multi-billionaire this century. I hear the door open behind me but I don’t think much of it. It’s probably just Jenny. I put the encyclopedia onto my lap and glance in front of me. On the table, right in the middle, is a sheet of heavy paper addressed to Myron. I scan the first couple of lines:
Dear Mr. Hamilton,
We are pleased to hear that your experiment with the first animal to human soul transplantation was successful. We would like to come and look at the specimen as soon as possible…
“Connor! What are you doing?”
I look up from the letter, my ears buzzing with Myron’s voice, my vision going foggy. He was standing only a few feet away, a mingled look of anger and fear on his face. I could see his jaw working angrily.
“What are you doing at my table…”
I open my mouth to apologise, but stop. Why should I apologise to him? After all the things he lied to me about…
“I could ask you the same thing.” I reply quietly, closing the encyclopedia on my lap. Myron walks closer to the table and snatches the letter away.
“I told you to never read the things on my table!!” I jump. For the past three weeks, Myron has never yelled, has never lost his temper… I look at him. He’s clutching the letter in his left hand, looking down at me as though he’s about to strike me.
And he does.
I fall off the chair, my hand flying to my smarting cheek and glare at him from the ground. Myron’s face is a mask of surprise. If I wasn’t so angry, I would think that he’d never hit anyone before…
“Why did you use me?” I scream at him. He blinks at me and steps towards the table, as though to stabilize himself. “Am I just some sort of pet to you? Something that you can experiment on and keep in a cage?” Myron slowly shakes his head. I can feel tears welling in my eyes. “You made me into a human! Then treat me like one!” I can feel my throat going hoarse. Blood is roaring in my ears. I stand up and run out of the library, blindly running through the corridor and hitting walls…
I finally reach the front door and fling it open, running out into the cold evening; into the city that is growing darker by the second.

Myron was still in the library, clutching the letter and holding onto the table for support. He looked at his hand and balled it into a fist. How did it come to this? Connor’s words still haunted him, as though he was still here, blaring them through a megaphone… You made me into a human! Then treat me like one! And he was right… he was absolutely right…