It had been days since the incident in which my hopes and dreams concerning the portal were shattered in the face of reality. Perhaps weeks. I had no true way of knowing, as I ignored all things but the workings of my own mind and my search for answers.
Fiddleford was right! It was all my fault! Why couldn't I have just seen it sooner? I blamed myself over and over, as I uselessly scribbled my thoughts into my journal, my only outlet and companion.
I was in shock with my losses, and any scrap of sanity or self-care was cast aside in favor of cracking the great enigma of my former Muse. I stayed awake for days at a time, terrified that he might try and take me over to finish his handiwork, napping perhaps only 5 minutes at a time. I felt that I couldn't risk it. I strained to hear any whisperings, the way a prey animal listens for predators, even as it settles into a restful state.
Even as I lived in obsession, the great looming threat downstairs still stood, waiting. Sometimes, I had the courage to go down there and gaze upon it. I thought of all my hard work, and felt a glimmer of pride in my chest. I latched on to this feeling of former glory, even though the feeling gradually became tainted by my intense guilt and the memory of my friend's trauma. But the eye that stared down at me through the dark, cold depths had a certain allure to it, and sometimes I'd have to catch myself if I stared too long. I felt a certain loneliness at most times. But the eye was always there, waiting for me, whether I wanted it to or not. And once in a while, I'd stay.
During my time, it occurred to me that despite all my worrying about the demon, he had not shown his presence since the day of the incident. I could neither hear his voice, nor feel the certain energy that permeated the air around him that I often could. It was strange, but I did not take this for his absolute disappearance. He could be waiting, watching the world from my head, waiting for his chance to strike as soon as it was opportune. But in a way, I was still relieved. He'd chosen not to torment me any more in my emotionally unstable time, and for that, I was at least grateful.
As an experiment, I decided to let myself sleep for one night, and perhaps dream to get a better understanding of my subconscious. I understood the risk of meeting Bill again, but I hoped that in his quietness, he would not impede on my dreams either.
I awoke, pleased to find that he didn't, but I only thought of it for a moment before the contents of my dream became the center of my thoughts.
I dreamt of Fiddleford. It was not in a setting of danger, nor during the time of the trauma as you might expect, but rather as if nothing like it happened at all. It was a simple dream of enjoying another's company.
It was just like the old days, when we would sit down in one of the smaller study rooms for our break. The room was only dimly lit, but it felt relatively early in the day and was quite calming. There wasn't much noise, apart from the constant hum of the fish tank and little noises of the computer and machines from the rooms outside. Fiddleford sat at the desk, his feet propped up on the surface, spitting bucket sitting nearby, as he chewed a wad of tobacco, and I sat in a chair across from him. Of course, I never agreed with his annoying little habits, but I always managed to look past all of that in favor of his otherwise intellectual air and incredible mind when it came to speaking. Outside of work, he was nowhere near as anxious or tense as he normally seemed, and it
was almost as if he took on a new personality.
He relaxed into his chair and stared off into some distance, recalling his home life he was quite fond of, as his long fingers traced gently around the edges of his puzzle cube. He talked of his son and wife, and thoughts on his living situation.
He pulled his feet down from the desk and leaned in my direction, and asked for the billionth time, elbow on the desk, whether I was planning to settle down or not, with a half-joking smile. I shook my head, just like always, as I had absolutely no interest in those sorts of things. One with as many studious and rigid pursuits as I couldn't possibly afford to get tied down by family obligations the way he did.
He then sighed, with a chuckle, then relaxed back into his chair, and continued on with his talk, to which I would smile and nod politely, only half-listening. I watched him fidget with his cube, gesturing this way and that, until he paused to spit out his tobacco, then continued on until we eased ourselves out of the chair to get back to work, during which the surroundings began to fade, and I was slowly pulled from the dream.
As I woke, I felt a deep sinking feeling in my chest, which arose from a combination of fondness and grief. As I recorded the dream in my journal, I wiped a few unwelcome tears from my eyes, and wondered out of spite if perhaps the demon did have some control over my dream.
As much as I missed Fiddleford however, I decided there was no time to dwell on it, as I was already particularly vulnerable to my own guilt. I continued on with my research of Bill as I normally would.
But unlike before the dream, I became painfully aware of my own loneliness during the time. I realized quickly that without someone working by my side and without the swapping of ideas, and even idle chatter to alleviate my stress, and keep me company, my endeavors would eventually burn me out, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I could remain solitary.
Scientifically speaking, humans, by nature, are social creatures, and have adapted over millions of years to become what they are today. They're hardwired for interaction in groups, and it has proven useful from an evolutionary standpoint when it comes to working together to find food, scare off predators, and domesticate other species. Obviously, I'm no exception to this, considering what I felt, despite my penchant for shutting myself in with my research.
Though studying Bill was my priority, I made it my new mission to find my companion again for the sake of our well-being.
I realized quickly that though I wanted to find Fiddleford again, the odds of finding him were very slim, and it was more likely that he went off into hiding to possibly avoid me, or whatever danger he foresaw than driving all the way home. I had no leads to his whereabouts, and I reasoned that he might not want to see me ever again after what happened, and I already had enough problems as-is.
Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I had the passing thought that I could contact my brother, but I realized the same could apply. I hadn't seen him for years, and it was very possible for him to carry a grudge. Knowing myself, sometimes I find myself lacking in the ability to communicate my thoughts clearly and efficiently, and unless I have the time to sort out any problems that may occur after I slip up, I don't find that getting him angrier with me would be of any benefit.
In the midst of my studying one late night, a strange idea came to me. I tried to sleep, but it was so intriguing to me at that time, I could not let it go. Being a twin, of course, I'd always taken a slight interest in the nature of genetics, and I read enough on the subject in my spare time for the sake of my study of anomalies, and began experimenting in thought about how I might achieve it.
The idea was not to embark on the hopeless task of trying to find my assistant or reason with my brother, who would be entirely useless in scientific fields, but rather recreate Fiddleford through the process of cloning.
Though I considered the fact it may seem controversial, I never intended to publish any specific studies on it that would raise questions of moral concern. Perhaps a few vaguer findings.
The consequences of creating a human being artificially have already been pondered over centuries by philosophers and writers, but in my own perspective, I didn't find it much different than creating any regular human being. Just in a different way, and perhaps they will appear as a different age, and already have an idea of themselves if they are programmed that way, and would likely be totally fine with that if it's already just a part of their own mind. As long as they are aware that they are a separate person from the original, but can still share a similar perspective, I believe that it's fine. While I understood that there might be a disagreement, I didn't find much of anything wrong with it, personally.
I began to collect a variety of research materials from the library as well as around the lab, and was even lucky enough to come across some of the research of the brain Fiddleford and I compiled for the memory erasing gun, which already gave me a big start. Going in, I already knew that it would be one of the hardest parts and take the most time, so I was at least glad that I found it.
But of all the preparatory stages that I took before actually creating the clone, I found going into the old guest room, Fiddleford's room, was one of the hardest for me.
In his frenzy to leave and half-delirious state, he only took the things most important to him at the time, and many remained behind, still organized in their neat little drawers, or tucked away in the closet to collect dust. The bed was still made, untouched since the morning of the day he left. I ventured in and out quietly, not wanting to put a disturbance in the quiet ambience of the room, and left with only a few things in a box to take DNA samples from, shutting the door softly.
I sighed, and then put it out of my mind.
I told myself that in a month or so's work, it would be occupied again. I knew that patience was the key to my success, and that it would all be worth it in the end.
