Now, it's Total's turn to have a say!
Dear whomever this may concern,
Paper is a wonderful thing, you know that? It listens but never speaks. It obeys but quietly offers its own ideas. It comforts but needs no comfort.
But never mind. I'm not staining my teeth yellow with pencil wood to tell you the wonderful qualities of paper.
No, I'm staining them yellow for a completely different reason.
You see, for a dog, I'm quite old. Well, in my middle-thirties at least, according to your human standards, which is plenty old.
I have been able to do things no other dog have done before, been able to travel many places, flown to the ends of the earth (quite literally, I tell you). But, still I want to be remembered in some solid way, want to have some record of my existence before I die. Consider this as an informal will, if you wish.
I am the dog. The little cute, black Scottish terrier-like mutant forever fated to be the Flock's sidekick.
I have no material possessions apart from the fur on my back and the thoughts in my head, which are of no importance anyway.
But if any of you wish to have them, just read on.
I have no childhood that I can recall…no happy memories of romping around in the soft spring grass or of snuggling up against a loving mother.
My first memories were that of other experiments. Mutated, grotesque things most were, but one thing never changed: few of them survived past infancy. Some die after only a few days, some after weeks. Whether it was because of the horrible living conditions, or of the cruel tests, or just because they lacked the will to survive, I may never know. All I knew was that I was surrounded by dying sentient beings, always living in fear that I would be next to die.
And so, I watched the Erasers. At that point in time, I thought that the Erasers were the only successful experiments, and it pained me to watch them.
Why? I'll answer you.
The Erasers are huge. They are strong, fast. They are smart and reasonably quick-witted. And yet, they still die—only about half of them survive past the first few months.
I look at these 'viable' experiments, and see how even the strongest, the deadliest, die.
How can I, a tiny Scottish terrier-like thing live in a place like that when they can't? How?
Then the Flock came.
For once, I felt wanted, felt like I had the slightest chance to survive. But that's not the case.
I still depended on others to survive, still can't protect myself. I probably am slowing the Flock down; after all, most of them didn't even want me in the first place.
I don't know what I am—I'm not even sure if I want to know. But my DNA must have been mixed with something co-dependent and cowardly. How else can something be so dependent on others?
I want to be completely human—able to live in this huge world where people rule supreme. Humans can take care of themselves. They are smart, creative, and, out of everything on Earth, most likely to prosper.
I don't want to be a dog. I want to be a person. I want to be independent. I want to say that I live because of my own four paws, not because I was babied and protected my whole life.
I want to be strong.
Sure, I appear to be confident and knowing, but really? I'm still just a little puppy, staring wide-eyed at the big, dangerous world. I'm as scared and self-conscious as anyone else.
Sure, I seem outgoing, slightly self-centred, and sure of myself. But really?
I just want to be a little bit more.
Yeah, it's weird and all over the place…I realize that.
There's one more chapter left in this story…
Review?
