A Quarter Gallon
John didn't think badly of himself, nor particularly well. He always figured he was just there. After all, being made of plastic, what more could a bottle of water do than stand and look pretty?
John distinctly remembers being bought. A pound fifty, they'd paid for him, and John tried his best to not be offended. After all, his skin did tell the lie of him being filled up to a quarter gallon. When he is brought back to the man's flat, not even having caught his name yet, he is stuffed in a fridge, right next to a head of which he can't seem to find the body and a smelly carton of milk. He tries to inch away from it, yet even if he could, it seemed a jar of fingers and an open tupperware containing hair barred his path.
After countless of minutes consisting of countless of seconds, the door opens and he is wrenched loose and put right next to a microscope and petri dishes containing things he'd really rather not contemplate. Pain as his cap is screwed loose, soothed by pale fingers, then weakness as he is both slowly emptied into several petri dishes and engulfed by heart-shaped lips.
He thinks they feel rather warm and that he's never felt anything like it.
John distinctly remembers being born, long, thin fingers holding him beneath a tap while slow humming sounded. The fact he doesn't know how he got here or who he is, doesn't particularly bother him.