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Authors: Raymond S Flex
Tags: Fiction
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familiar creak-creak of springs.
Beneath his weight.
The smells of baking wafted in beneath his bedroom door. He caught the scent of butter and flour.
He could already feel his mouth watering.
When Mitts opened his eyes, he realised that the bright fluorescent lights were operating at full power. It was morning. Perhaps mid -morning if his judgement could be trusted.
The battery in his wristwatch had finally run out a couple of weeks ago so he could never be one-hundred-per-cent certain of the exact time.
Today he turned eighteen years old.
He didn’t need a wristwatch to know that.
Seven years.
In the Compound.
In the Restricted Area.
He propped himself up on the mattress of his camp bed, still lost in a dream . . . of that superhero, or whatever the hell he had been . . .
He thought back to the moment when his father had told him that he was going to die—that he would be dead within a week.
That was the last time Mitts had attemptedto share his dreams with anybody.
Before, it had been the dancers.
Before that, visions of the hills.
Over his years in the Compound, Mitts had learned that each one of them needed to find their own way of coping with being encased within their own mind.
Mitts had never thought— not for one second —of telling anyone what had happened that early morning. When he had crawled through the air vents.
When he had come up against that . . . that creature . . .
And yet, Mitts was certain it was the encounter with the creature which explained why he hadn’t died a week after the dosage; as Heinmein had expected.
Mitts thought about how he’d felt Heinmein’s eyes lock onto him a week following the administration of the serum. It was like Heinmein had been holding up a test tube, patiently waiting for the liquid within to change its colour, so that it might confirm a hypothesis.
But Mitts had refused to change colour.
He had stayed the same.
He had got better .
Once a month had gone by, and Mitts still hadn’t died, Heinmein had begun to carry out experiments.
At first, these had taken the form of an extended weekly medical check-up.
Mitts had no doubt Heinmein had designed his approach to be subtle, so that his parents wouldn’t suspect. That Heinmein was merely doing all he could to ensure their son was fully cured.
But, soon enough, it had been impossible for Heinmein to hide his intent.
Following one of the weekly medical check-ups, Heinmein had insisted he be committed to one of the examination rooms. Heinmein had wanted to hook him up to all sorts of machines. To display all of Mitts’s bodily functions neatly on neon-lit monitors.
That was the first time his father said no .
Even now—even seven years later—Mitts could still feel the swelling sensation in his chest as his father faced off with Heinmein.
When he had analysed it afterwards, he knew just what the feeling represented:
Pride.
After that, Heinmein had taken special care not to pay Mitts more than his due attention during the weekly medical check-ups.
After a few months, Heinmein seemed to forget entirely about the matter.
If possible, Heinmein had become more reclusive.
Only ever leaving his office for food once every few days, rather than several times a day, as had been his routine.
Not that Mitts was complaining.
Not in the slightest.
Because, despite the years, his opinion toward Heinmein had not shifted.
He blamed him.
Distrusted him.
He knew it was his responsibility— his responsibility alone —to keep an eye on Heinmein.
But everything changed several months later.
Mitts’s mother gave birth.
Mitts slept through the entire experience.
When he went to the kitchen the next morning, he recalled seeing his father. He had been shaking all over. His complexion bone-white as he gripped a cup of black coffee.
His parents named the baby Fluva, and though Mitts wasn’t sure about that name, or his own, to be honest, he said nothing about it.
He had seen all those photos his
Beneath his weight.
The smells of baking wafted in beneath his bedroom door. He caught the scent of butter and flour.
He could already feel his mouth watering.
When Mitts opened his eyes, he realised that the bright fluorescent lights were operating at full power. It was morning. Perhaps mid -morning if his judgement could be trusted.
The battery in his wristwatch had finally run out a couple of weeks ago so he could never be one-hundred-per-cent certain of the exact time.
Today he turned eighteen years old.
He didn’t need a wristwatch to know that.
Seven years.
In the Compound.
In the Restricted Area.
He propped himself up on the mattress of his camp bed, still lost in a dream . . . of that superhero, or whatever the hell he had been . . .
He thought back to the moment when his father had told him that he was going to die—that he would be dead within a week.
That was the last time Mitts had attemptedto share his dreams with anybody.
Before, it had been the dancers.
Before that, visions of the hills.
Over his years in the Compound, Mitts had learned that each one of them needed to find their own way of coping with being encased within their own mind.
Mitts had never thought— not for one second —of telling anyone what had happened that early morning. When he had crawled through the air vents.
When he had come up against that . . . that creature . . .
And yet, Mitts was certain it was the encounter with the creature which explained why he hadn’t died a week after the dosage; as Heinmein had expected.
Mitts thought about how he’d felt Heinmein’s eyes lock onto him a week following the administration of the serum. It was like Heinmein had been holding up a test tube, patiently waiting for the liquid within to change its colour, so that it might confirm a hypothesis.
But Mitts had refused to change colour.
He had stayed the same.
He had got better .
Once a month had gone by, and Mitts still hadn’t died, Heinmein had begun to carry out experiments.
At first, these had taken the form of an extended weekly medical check-up.
Mitts had no doubt Heinmein had designed his approach to be subtle, so that his parents wouldn’t suspect. That Heinmein was merely doing all he could to ensure their son was fully cured.
But, soon enough, it had been impossible for Heinmein to hide his intent.
Following one of the weekly medical check-ups, Heinmein had insisted he be committed to one of the examination rooms. Heinmein had wanted to hook him up to all sorts of machines. To display all of Mitts’s bodily functions neatly on neon-lit monitors.
That was the first time his father said no .
Even now—even seven years later—Mitts could still feel the swelling sensation in his chest as his father faced off with Heinmein.
When he had analysed it afterwards, he knew just what the feeling represented:
Pride.
After that, Heinmein had taken special care not to pay Mitts more than his due attention during the weekly medical check-ups.
After a few months, Heinmein seemed to forget entirely about the matter.
If possible, Heinmein had become more reclusive.
Only ever leaving his office for food once every few days, rather than several times a day, as had been his routine.
Not that Mitts was complaining.
Not in the slightest.
Because, despite the years, his opinion toward Heinmein had not shifted.
He blamed him.
Distrusted him.
He knew it was his responsibility— his responsibility alone —to keep an eye on Heinmein.
But everything changed several months later.
Mitts’s mother gave birth.
Mitts slept through the entire experience.
When he went to the kitchen the next morning, he recalled seeing his father. He had been shaking all over. His complexion bone-white as he gripped a cup of black coffee.
His parents named the baby Fluva, and though Mitts wasn’t sure about that name, or his own, to be honest, he said nothing about it.
He had seen all those photos his
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