Why can't I die and stay dead? Why am I cursed with life after being dead for so long? Or are these memories just "racial" memories that are imprinted upon my genes and brought out by the twisted magic and manipulation of those scientists? Or could it be that when they "resurrected" my body, the soul that went with it was pulled back to life from the Great Dark? I was sure I was dying after Christine left me. In fact, I can quite clearly remember (although I am sure of the fact that it was true, but it had to have been so long ago that it is just a "racial memory") the moment my heart stilled and stopped beating, so surely I should be dead! Shouldn't I? I even placed the ad as promised—the ad that proclaimed, "Erik et mort." And yet I find myself alive again, with these strange memories that would make any sane person believe they are insane!
I know little of my origins or how I was created even, but I have been able to somewhat piece together the events which led up to my unique birth and life. Incredibly brilliant, even from a very early age, it was no hard task. I've escaped my "cage" several times over my previous fifteen years spent in that facility, and it was during these moments of self-gained freedom that I learned of my origins, albeit still with a few gaps here and there. I found I was the product, even though terribly flawed, of incredibly complex and sophisticated human genetic engineering. And although the scientists, who believed—and still do believe—that they are above the law, tried to bury and hide their evidence of their other experiments involving the same process, I found their forbidden knowledge. Their forbidden fruit, the files on the other experiments, was no problem to find and hack into for me. I was their first attempt, it seemed. Thus, my malformations and deformities that, despite the fact that they make me appear quite gruesome and dead, have not affected my other differences, i.e., my adaptations towards flight.
One of the biggest mysteries of my life since my odd birth was, and still is, who my mother is. I would love to just even be able to talk to her—even if only over a phone. That would make my day or even my life. Just the chance to know my real mother, the donor of my human DNA and the egg I started as. Yes, though I am young, and never really formally taught, I know all about the reproductive cycle of homo sapiens, or as it is otherwise called, sex. Although no sex was really used for the creation of my life, I know they used a surrogate mother. I just don't know who she was, or whether it was even her egg to start with.