. . . Life . . .
It's difficult to say that what had scrambled out of a tipi in the backroom of a record store somewhere in Camden is even alive; to say that it was alive would be to defeat the purpose of its creation. I suppose you could say it was breathing. Moving, sniffing, touching, and seeing for the first time, but its creator would hate to consider it thinking or living at all.
He hadn't set out to create life: he wanted to tread new ground, not to go over something that had been done already a million times. Procreation was overrated, though if he had forayed into it, he was sure he'd have had made the most unconventional, enviable father.
The back room is musty, like old books, but the creation doesn't know what books are: it doesn't even realise that the things creating the musty smell are old cardboard cases of priceless original records: for example, the Sex Pistols 12" vinyl which had been so carelessly tossed aside, with a scalpel dripping blood idly onto the words Never Mind The Bollocks and faded neon.
No, what he had set to create was something better: something inherently superior, just like he was, to all the average Joes milling about in HMV, wondering where they could get the new Rihanna album. He doubted they could have even named the lead singer of Joy Division, or that they even knew where Kurt Cobain lived. If that was the average person who was alive, then he didn't want to pollute the word with another one. Instead, he would create something that didn't live: he would create something that could judge.
After a few minutes of just being, the Creature had managed to open its eyes, to painful scorching whiteness. He had forced them shut once more, conflicted because he wanted to see, but it was painful. The sooner he could see, the sooner he could make something of who, what, and why he was.
After a while, he opened them fully. He was lying prostrate on the floor, staring up at something white, with a background of something grey. He didn't even know the names of the colours yet: it was unclear what language he was thinking in. His hands felt something soft . . . Of course he could not have known, but they were clothes. He tugged at striped jogging-bottoms, and at a branded sports top, and made a few confused utterances.
After a while he rolled over, and with a monumental effort, he sat up.
He could not perceive that which he saw, but he made a point, somehow, of remembering it anyway. He felt it to be as important to memorise the moment he awoke as it was to learn to see, or hear properly. If only he could understand . . .
His uneducated eyes lay upon the shiny silver metal instruments that had served him up his not-quite-life, as well as the scratchy brown canvas that had been his hiding place: when he touched it, he had a vague memory of its feeling. Though the memory was dull, it was strange for him. How did he remember? . . . What was the process?
Once again he cast his critical eyes across the room: there was a rug on the floor, whose colours were brash and bold, and many in number, just as there were on the shelves that lined the walls. He couldn't have known that he was in the backroom of the record shop, or that this was the room for rare records. He himself was a rarity, little did he know: the only one of his kind. It was fitting that this should be the room where he was born – no, created.
The rest of the floor was the same grey concrete as the ceiling; he now saw that the whiteness of the ceiling was caused by a source of illumination. He was enraptured by this, and immediately was struck with the urge to handle it, to hold it, to own it. He used a nearby workbench to hoist himself to his feet, but withdrew his hand initially: he didn't like the cold metal. That too brought back another memory . . . It was a more painful memory, but in an instant, it was gone. He grasped at it mentally, but it was snatched away like blossom in the wind: born away in darkness and distance, and lost.
After substantial effort and time, he stood on his own two feet, at last, balanced yet shaking. He didn't know it was adrenaline spreading through his body like an ink blot through a tissue: he knew that it felt funny, but not entirely unpleasant, for now. It was just the thrill of standing, of being unsupported, of being able to reach out and touch the light which he so desperately longed for . . .
"RARGH!"
It had been white hot, glass heated with hours and hours of lighting unholy, obscure work. What had been more fearsome than the physical pain had been the assault on his ears that he knew had come from his own mouth. He had shut it straight away, snatching his hand away from the light, and shoving it to his face.
What if another sound were to escape? He was entirely sure he didn't want that to happen again. But . . . But if he could just be a little quieter, a little gentler . . .
He let out another small noise from his mouth. It was uncouth, and hideous. He shook his head, almost falling over from the new sensation that made his head ache and made his stomach sick, and made him giddy and giggle . . . Giggling was a nicer sound, though it was still unhealthy-sounding, and unpleasant.
He peered at his hand, fearful of what he might see as a residual reminder of the searing burn. If pain looked as evil as it felt, then it would be horrible to see . . . He winced and looked away as soon as he saw the red patch on his hand. The strange thing was that it was not the red patch of burnt skin that he was afraid of, but rather the pale deathly-white skin that his hand was comprised of other than it, covered in stitches and staples. He touched it, but didn't want to look at anything so ugly. It was almost alien that it belonged to himself. Upon tugging the stitches, he turned away from his own hand in disgust: the vulgarity of the pain and its appearance had caused him to want to wretch. It was not a pleasant thing, to be confronted so soon after beginning life with anything other than the warmest, most comforting sensations.
Eventually, after standing still for a few more minutes, just feeling his arms, and, tentatively, looking at the bare skin of his body where it was visible, there was a deep baritone of a voice, low and careful, behind him:
". . . You . . ."
The Creature turned around, steadying himself against the rotational movement. His nearly-new eyes struggle to pick out features in a shadowy man's silhouette as he steps up to the threshold of a newly-opened fire escape at the back of the room. He hadn't heard the door: he had been too absorbed in his own appearance – a trait that would come to be the essence of him, as it turned out.
The man took his Aviator sunglasses off. Slowly.
". . . What have I done? . . ." The man said, stepping forward with a disbelieving face, his hands grasping at brown, messy hair. He was tall, but not excessively, though obviously the Creature had no standard to hold him to. His eyes were surrounded by circles darker than the royal blue velvet coat he wore with his beige chinos, and ironically-worn "I 3 NY" t-shirt.
He seemed to be judging his Creature, looking him up and down in horror, in much the same way the Creature had looked at his arms. But the creator wasn't looking at his skin – he had seen enough of it for a lifetime, or more, having stitched and stapled and woven it together with his own hands - or his abnormal stature, which he had so carelessly bestowed. He was examining his clothes.
"I was . . . Clearly, off my game temporarily . . . When I made you this way . . ." The arrogant young man told his creation, though it scarcely mattered: it was more to protect his own vanity than to inform the being. Suddenly, his speech became more aggressive, with the prolonged forced confrontation of his failures. "Be gone! I don't – I can't see you! Just – Just get out!" The Creature recoiled from his creator's suddenly harsh, loud voice, but didn't exit via the door into the record store. He understood that the man created him, if he understood nothing else: he had to have, with the way he looked at him; the judgemental, critical eye that surveyed him like an incomplete piece of artwork.
"GO!" Yelled the man, and in his dark eyes fierce were a warning, as he pulled out his pocket knife. The Creature flinched, remembering the cold of the table, and the dull sensory memory of pain connected with metal implements frightened him, telling him to run, to flee, to fly, to scramble on all fours until he was outside the room, then the building, of his origin, moving even faster than his Creator had hoped or wanted, and into the night. . .