Genetic cliche

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Memory

Waking

Stream of consciousness

On a sleeping

Street of dreams

Thoughts

Like scattered leaves

Slowed in midfall

Into the streams

— Delta, CSN

12.01 am

My earliest memory is of being normal, before my life — or existence — changed.

Screaming, flailing, first breath. Then the first sound. A musical cadence that makes me turn my head to meet eyes that look so much like my own.

It’s okay baby. It’s okay my sweet boy. You’ll be better soon. A soft croon that prompts my little hand to reach out to the source. Only to be whisked away, a change of hands. Wrapped in a bundle, rubbed free of the liquid that clings to my skin. Placed on a surface — cold, hard, unyielding. The contact sears through the fabric that shrouds my small frame.

A harsh noise. Movements by my ear. I turn. More sounds on the other side. I turn once more. Another voice — but not the one I want — speaks up.

Hearing’s perfect. A shivering tube is inserted. No blockages. Clear. Light across my eyes makes me go still. A scope — so, so cold — on my chest and suddenly I can hear every breath, every heartbeat. The voice continues. Eyesight, check. Heartbeat, regular. Breathing, sound. Awareness, exceptional. A flashing whirr, something crosses my small form. A fleeting prick of pain on the base of my foot, soft flesh marred already. I wince but don’t cry. Internal organs are completely intact, as is the skeletal structure and various bodily systems.

A deep timbre reverberates through my frame, automatically making me cower. I want specifics.

They’re on the reading by the far monitor, sir. I blink, trying to focus. Still, the voice I want cannot be found. I try to convey my need, but the body I am bound to does not co-operate. The only means I have to express myself is my own voice. And so I scream.

James. James, are you hurting him? Where is he? Where’s my boy? Results — that sound. My wailing tapers off into a gurgle. I turn my head, searching. But they do not take me to her. James, she continues. Do we really have to do this?

That other sound — the rich bass that rolls down my spine, instinctively repellent where hers is all I want to hear — issues forth. Cecilia, we’ve had this discussion before. We want our boy to be perfect. He’s going to be one of a kind. No other child will have this opportunity. We’re giving him the best.

A breath of air, a soft sigh. Okay, you’re right.

I’m going to be heading the procedure — nothing will go wrong.

Yes honey. Let me say goodbye.

Hands cradling me, the wrong hands. Reaching, stretching, the voice draws nearer and I smile a hello. A delicate touch across my forehead as I am held towards her.

Goodbye sweet boy," she breathes.

The deep voice, from across an open space, Honey, don’t touch his head — it’s just been prepped. What do you think about the name ‘Jotham’?

A sweet croon, my first lullaby. Jotham. My Jotham. Bye-bye my gorgeous baby. You’ll be well soon — you’ll be better than what you were.

The problem was, there was nothing wrong with me to begin with.

Part 1

Initiation

What goes up

They say is coming down

I got my head in the sky

And my roots in the ground

I’m not a patriotic man

But for what it’s worth

I pledge allegiance to this land

And my Mother Earth

— Earthbound Child, JBT

Chapter 1

Routine

You’re broken, so am I

I’m better off alone

No one to turn to

And nothing to call my own

Outspoken, so am I

Explosive words that your world

Wouldn’t understand

Turn away again

— Haunted, Disturbed

6.00 am

Tuesday morning. The alarm clock begins its morning crescendo with an annoying buzz. I lean over — shrugging off the warm confines of my covers — to punch the top of its clear dome. The sound abruptly cuts off, strangled into silence. I jump out of bed in my boxers, ignoring the chill that comes from forgoing the heat of my bed. As I cross my spotless, empty room, the sensor-activated wardrobe slides open silently. I pull out a clean pair of trackies and a white singlet. I lace up my runners. Through my window — the UV resistant glass having lightened since I woke — I can see that the sky outside is a pale pink-blue colour. The day is just beginning to dawn on the horizon.

Leaving my room — entering the aching quiet that is my household’s only noise — I spring lightly down the wide stairway. I grab my Infinity Ipod off the sideboard on my way out of the door. It slides back at my proximity. I jog down the street — feet pounding on the familiar route — simultaneously pushing the tiny earpieces into place, snuggled deep in my inner ear.

I order out a playlist, activating the device. Well-known songs blast into my ears. For many people, my music tastes are a mystery. They assume I like all the remixed Ja Rule that dominates this century, like so many other people of my generation. How little they know. Even the people closest to me have barely scratched the surface of who I am, the thoughts I possess, and the actions they drive me to. But then again, we are all actors on this stage.

I shove the thought from my head as I run, just listening to the rhythmic pounding of my feet and the forever-stable thump-thump of my heart.

7.32 am

The sun is fully risen as I sprint the last block of my route. The perfectly manicured lawns — complete with their swing sets, exotic shrubbery, water fountains, bedazzling lights and doghouses — seem to stare mockingly at me. Sensing my hatred. Their perfection thorough where mine is incomplete. Where I am caught painfully in limbo. As I run into my expansive court, people start to collect their papers, the same time everyday. Clockwork men and women, ticking along their predictable pathways, dressed in their slippers and dressing gowns. I near my house and a few call out to me. A man waves his hand from across the street. I am the son of the wealthy scientist, the gifted student, the talented athlete, the amazing musician. The perfect teenager.

I epitomise the perfection humanity has been striving towards these last ten decades, poised at the edge of a revolutionary science.

Overbalance and you’ll fall, Jotham, as hard as anyone else. Can’t they see that?

I walk into the house. Ignoring the grand piano in the music room. Only dust and memories reside there.

My mother is in the kitchen cooking me breakfast. She smiles at me, washing away my hostility with her easy warmth.

How was your run? she enquires, fussing over the toast.

Good, thanks. What’s for breakfast? I sniff, identifying, eggs — with a hint of pepper, some salt, and a dash of chili — bacon burnt slightly on the edges the way I like it, and thick toast with butter still melting on top. Such a traditional, non-fuss breakfast means that my father hasn’t left for work already. When he is gone my mother makes muffins or waffles. Catering to my sweet tooth. I scowl, hating his control over the household.

Hating him, period.

Now don’t get like that Jotham. He had a rough night, she admonishes me with a frown, placing a portion of food on a plate. It is a decidedly large helping, but then again, I need all the nutrients I can get. I pull it towards me, but don’t eat. I will need some ammo if things get heated. Still-hot eggs sliding down my father’s face appeals to my sour thoughts.

My ears pick up the sound of my father making his way down the stairs, as if he is stamping away all the petty things that continue to irk him. His perfect son included. The hands on my knife and fork tighten of their own accord.

Morning Cecilia, he says, turning his back to me to kiss my mother while outing-in his shiny platinum cufflinks. I gag dramatically. Pick up my fork and mock stab myself in the chest. My mother shoots me the Look of Death over his shoulder, warning me to quit before he turns. My father notices the look and turns his critical eye on me. My blue eyes freeze over. The hand holding my knife tenses.

Good morning Jotham, he says in an expressionless voice.

Good morning Father, I reply, my eyes holding his rebelliously until I catch sight of my mother making frantic motions on the other side of the kitchen. Trying to convince me to drop the flat stare. My father loathes disrespect.

What is it with today’s generation and being able to make the title ‘father’ sound like a swear word? he asks of no one in particular, turning back to my mother. In four seconds he has completely wiped me from all existence. A pretty mellow reaction, considering how he is usually. My father is in a good mood today.

I rise sharply from my chair — breakfast left untouched — and walk up the stairs to the bathroom, avoiding the look on my mother’s face. I steer clear of my reflection as I step into the shower. Warm water cascades down my face. But avoiding my image as I brush my teeth is another thing altogether. The mirrors are everywhere, mocking me from every angle. I hate the way I look. My hair is temperamental — one day it is straight, the next it has gentle waves running through it. It is the exact shade of summer sunlight, every hair imbued with rich colour. My skin is nicely tanned, flawless across every plane. There is not a spot or freckle to mar it. My brows are the perfect shape — they sit low over deep-set eyes given to look slightly heavy-lidded. Like an actor on a magazine cover. The straight nose, subtle cleft in my chin, and full lips that are still masculine all accentuate this unnaturalness. As does the dimple that appears in my left cheek should I smile. I frown. My face follows me wherever I go — a silent ghost that reappears in every reflective surface — ridiculing my engineered perfection.

The one saving grace is that I look nothing like my father. The only solace is that I have my mother’s eyes.

Pure crystalline blue.

For the second time that morning I enter my wardrobe and stare at the boring generic clothes that fill it. There is no uniform for my school, only an elegantly engraved wrist band used to identify students. It bears the coat of arms and the school motto: Duty Always. Duty to what? Or to whom? I choose a pair of jeans, throw on a white long-sleeved shirt that is rolled to my elbows and shrug into my favourite bomber jacket. I shove on some Adidas on my way out of the house.

Bye Mum! I yell to my parents in the kitchen, picking up my bag as I slip outside the door, shutting away any reply inside.

9:01 am

The salmon stream of well-dressed students flows through the gates of Princeton Comprehensive High School with all the inane instinct of the stereotypical teen. I shoulder my backpack and step into one of the many organised lines at the front entrance. Shouts and yells of welcome issue from all around, and I wave my hand. A god in a school of kings. The procession of highschoolers surges forward and soon it is my turn to press the pad of my thumb against a device that both beams my print and steals a drop of blood. A similar scan waves across my irises, recording the individual pattern of my retina. Caught up in my own thoughts, I do not realise what I have done until the machines beep out their inadequacy.

Sorry, Jotham. Mister Bainbridge shrugs apologetically and waves me through. As a heightened individual in a school of one of the country’s finest body of students, I am far more advanced than even the elite who walk the hallways beside me. The machines are not equipped enough to record my accelerated — substantially screwed up — genetic code.

I walk the halls, fixing my jock mask firmly into place. As I reach my locker, a whiff of strong perfume clouds the air around me, over-powering even in a room already filled with the usual smells of so many people confined to one place. I wrinkle my nose. Angelique — a mass of bobbing blonde curls — swerves into my field of vision. Disgust flashes momentarily across my face before I wipe my features clean. A polite blank slate that shows no emotion.

Hey baby! she squeals throwing her hands around my neck, shapely body pressed too close for comfort. Trying, and failing, to be seductive.

Hey Angelique. My voice is deadpan, monotone, but she doesn’t notice.

I love how you call me by my whole name, she purrs, fingers playing with the hair at the base of my neck. Her lips are not far from mine — glossed a shiny pink. And I can see, towards the side, my mates grinning at the exchange. Flashing me the thumbs-up. But I feel nothing for this girl — as beautiful as any Barbie. A doll of strawberry curls and cherry lip balm, big blue eyes and porcelain skin. Totally bereft of deeper awareness or intelligence.

But then again, she wasn’t engineered for that.

I deftly twist out of her hold as she leans closer still, careful — even with this distasteful robot of a girl — not to hurt her with my strength.

It’s your name, I say, turning away to slide my palm across the face of my locker, unlocking it. Opened, I shove my pack into its depths and slam the door closed with more force than I intend to.

You were given it for a reason, I mutter. Preoccupied with trying to smoothen the dent in the highly-developed metal, stronger than anything of the previous century.

Small hands curve around my bicep and stroke down my bare forearm, sleeves still pushed up to the crease of my elbows. Her breath tickles the shell of my ear.

There are better things for you to smooth with those hands. I shudder — not with pleasure as she interprets it — but with revulsion. Just as her lips come within a breath of my own, a shout rings out and a broad hand clamps down on my shoulder to spin me away from her cloying grip. Relief makes me smile — a real smile — at my best mate. Slinging an arm around my shoulders he guides me away.

Thanks, I murmur.

Dal grins. Looked like you needed a helping hand. He punches my arm — a fairly light blow that would nonetheless have left most other people reeling — as way of greeting and steps away, knowing I like my personal space. Knowing I’m more tolerant of him than I am of anyone else. It is a game he likes to play. Jokingly wanting to ‘knock me off my perch’, Adalstan is as proud and mountainous as his name suggests.

I roll my shoulders, pretending his punch hurts. Humouring him when really I am trying to rid myself of the feeling of Angelique’s hands still around me. So what’s up?

Coach called a swim meet.

Now?

Yes now, that’s why we’re walking to the pool. His teeth flash white against milk chocolate skin.

For how long?

Dunno. Said it would go for about two periods — reckon it’s important.

I frown. I have —

Dal interrupts. Yeah, yeah, I know — your Advanced Bio class. But c’mon Joth, you of all people can afford to miss one lesson.

My frown deepens. My Biology class, coupled with Chemistry, are perhaps the only subjects I pay more attention to than is strictly necessary. Genuine attention.

C’mon, do you wanna win or not? Dal demands lightly.

Yeah, sure.

Liar, he grins, knowing that winning such trivial sporting events — at least to me — does not matter in the slightest. Apparently there’s extra training related to this meet after school. He dangles the bribe in my face with supposed innocence.

How long’s it going to take? I grab at the opportunity — the physical activity an excuse to spend less time at the house.

He grins, knowing he has me. Three hours, or thereabouts.

Fine, I agree, and smile, letting him push me on towards the pool and the small freedom it offers me.

12.33 pm

My white teeth bite into the apple viciously, driven by annoyance rather than hunger. I have once again missed an exceptional breakfast because of the venom that scalds my tastebuds with my father’s proximity. No emotion shows on my face, but internally, I am steaming. First two periods — gone far into recess — wasted listening to the Coach and his supposedly inspirational advice. Then a further two hours of torture with a perpetually tedious Legal class and bubble-brained Angelique. The whole experience of the second day of the week is enough to kill anyone’s appetite. But my body needs its sustenance, so I eat out of habit.

Finishing my apple — packed with more than enough nutrients to substitute a full meal — I lob it across the length of the cafeteria. Turning to cut a swathe through the moving press of the people around me, I know it will hit the mark — the farthest disposal bin — as soon as it leaves my fingertips. Before I hear the slight thud across the noise of the lunchroom. Before I sense the exclamations of praise that issue forth a second afterwards. When Jotham Knightley aims for anything, he always strikes the target. Always.

Nice shot, Dal says, and nods to the seat beside him. I shrug, truly uncaring. I am perhaps the most accomplished cheater in a school of genetic cheaters. I slide into place and Coren — on my right side — turns to clap my shoulder.

May I just be the first to offer my congratulations. He grins mischievously, cheeks dimpling.

I stare for a second, uncomprehending. For what?

He gestures with his chin. Three-pronged attack from the highest ranking Queen Bees, headed your way.

Dal joins in, rubbing my shoulders mockingly, as if in preparation for a major swim. Competition is fierce, and the stakes are high. Pressure is rising. Which lucky girl will have the honour of being escorted by Master Knightley to the annual Winter Formal? He and Coren dissolve into laughter, and exchange a high-five behind my back. I groan and immediately rise to vacate the premises. I am in no mood to deal patiently with the trivialities that are about to unfold.

Dal’s massive hand clamps into place and presses me back down. Now, now, he grins. Be a gentleman. In this instant, I want anything but to be gentle, and debate fleetingly as to throwing Dal for a six. My jaw tenses, and then I relax and shrug off his hand.

Fine, I say tersely. But don’t expect a happy ending.

Coren’s smile widens. Anything but, mate — we’re hoping for a bit of drama to liven up the day. And these three are the most gorgeous sources of entertainment around. He winks.

Jotham. A chorus of three feminine voices makes us all look up. The girls glare at each other. Around us, I can sense the sudden interest of those closest. The gradual ripple effect as the cafeteria becomes aware of what is about to happen. Showtime, Jotham.

I take the underhanded approach. Wanting to get through their defences and so have a better chance of escaping the sure punishment one or all of the girls are about to bestow. An invitation to the Winter Formal, it being girls’ choice. Head lowered and tilted calculatedly to the side so that my eyes smoulder up at them. My lips part in a lazy smile that is designed to render the object — or objects — of my scrutiny incoherent. And indeed, for a full and long fifteen seconds, the three girls struggle to form intelligible words at my sudden and highly concentrated appraisal.

Ladies, I murmur, pitching my voice low. Anticipating their reactions even as they play out in front of me: Angelique’s barely-concealed swoon and fluttering fingers. Akila’s soft blush. And Calida’s biting of her full bottom lip.

Unsurprisingly it is Calida who recovers first, closely followed by Akila. Angelique’s eyes are still slightly glazed when Calida begins to talk, but she quickly snaps to attention.

Jotham, Calida repeats, her pleasantly throaty soprano trying to be sure.

Yes?

Again, she momentarily loses her train of thought, and this is when Akila’s cool voice speaks up. Do you have a date to the Formal? she says quickly and then clamps her mouth shut, blushing furiously. Being outright is not Akila’s forte.

Angelique shoulders forward to flutter her considerably long eyelashes. Because I was wondering —

Calida interrupts, her tone fiery. "We were wondering." The two girls exchange dagger-like stares, with Akila still quiet, twirling a finger through her dark curly hair.

"We were wondering, then, Angelique says. If you were planning to take one of us." All three look at me, almost expectantly, each concurrently knowing and hoping that I will pick one of them. Each dreading that it will be one of the other two. The silence rings around us, tension almost palpable.

Great.

No. At this there is a collective murmur from those watching — the entire student body. Angelique’s eyes widen and then her lips curve down into a pout. Akila’s gaze turns downcast. And Calida bridles, wanting specifics.

What do you mean, ‘no’? she demands, and when I turn my gaze on her she bites her lip again for a second before stubbornly meeting and holding my eyes.

I mean, I deliberate. "I do not have a partner, I emphasise. For the Winter Formal." The electricity in the air calms. Slightly.

So, will you be asking one of us? Akila asks softly. Of them all, it is her and Calida that I like the most. Calida for her athleticism and fiery spirit, and Akila for her bookish intelligence and quiet wit. Angelique, on the other hand, I cannot stand. But none of them know what I feel or think.

No, I will not. At this revelation the cafeteria all but erupts with noise and conversation.

Why not? Calida asks, frowning.

Simultaneously Angelique speaks as well, in more of a whinge than anything else. But baby …

I shake my head and stand, meeting each of their gazes squarely. I am truly sorry that I will not be able to accompany any one of you lovely ladies to our school formal. My voice is rich, deep. It wraps around whatever hurt or hostility is in their minds, liquefying all emotion into compliance. Unfortunately, I will not be attending the function — I have a prior family engagement to see to. I step over the bench and walk around to the three girls. I hope you will all find suitable partners for the dance. I nod to them all — every one of the girls struck into silence — and then move past, heading for the exit. The crowd melts away from my path.

Just as I exit, I pick out Coren’s cheerful voice from the mass of sudden noise at the unexpected occurrence. Jotham may have a previous engagement, but I’m free girls — and perfectly capable of satisfying all your needs for the Formal.

I laugh quietly as I walk the silent halls of my diurnal cage.

6.37 pm

For the final time that evening I plunge into the cool confines of the school lap pool, smoothly breaking the seamless surface. The rest of the team has long retired, retreating from the echoing expanse to their showers. And then further on, to home. But I remain, pushing myself to the absolute limits of my considerable physique. Prolonging the inevitable when I will have to drive Dal, Coren and myself to our various abodes for the night.

My head breaks the membrane that separates my tranquility from the outside world, and I see that Dal and Coren have taken a seat on the white bleachers alongside the pool. They are simply watching me swim. Back and forth, back and forth. An endless, apparently inexhaustible routine, fuelled by emotions I am unable to put a name to.

Ready to go? Coren shouts.

Sure, just let me get a shower, I reply, breath slightly ragged, jumping lithely out of the pool and taking the offered towel from him with a quick smile. I walk away from my two closest friends, the weight of their gazes making the hair on the back of neck stand straight. Unable to shake the feeling that the worst is about to come, though from a source unknown and a direction unseen.

A hot jet of water — more therapeutic than any remedial massage — hits my skin, sending shivers down my spine. I think of the probable argument that will await me on my late return to the house. Ever since I was a boy I have instinctively avoided contact with my father. These feelings manifested as I grew older, as did his seeming dissatisfaction with me. Nothing I do can make that man proud. A callous observation — a cold one — but completely true. So I gave up trying to please him a long time ago, instead finding perverse satisfaction in displeasing him.

I feel it awaken before I actually begin to move. Like a snake rising up to a charmer, uncoiling itself from the basket, it strikes repeatedly until each of my limbs is rendered useless. I grab the showerhead in front of me tightly — too tightly — and it snaps off in my hand. The water flows freely from the new hole in the wall. It cascades down the shiny white tiles that reflect my agonised face back at me a hundred-fold. There is nothing to hold on to without demolishing the whole shower block, so, with nothing else to do, I sink reluctantly to the floor and hug my knees. Refusing to cry out in any way. In the fetal position, The Shakes are easier to control, though they are no easier to bear than the very first time.

The flashbacks have always arrived hand in hand with The Shakes. If the uncontrollable tremors are a raging gale, the memories are the crows that ride it. They bring forth the most emotional experiences of my life. In a life that has no connection to sunshine and daisies, these emotions tend to be hatred, anger and pain.

The first starkly colourful picture to brand itself across my eyes — unlocked from the recesses of memory by the surfacing of The Shakes — is one that does not hold a happy picture. I was seven — newly begun primary school. Playing hockey. I was in the defending D, watching a boy from my class run tirelessly down the field, stick fluidly flickering the puck in front of him. I ran to meet him, wondering if I could successfully steal the puck from his skilled hand. I took a swipe and he spun to protect the puck, leaving his legs open to my unintended attack. My stick made contact with the boy’s bare flesh with a sickening crunch. A sound whose consequences did not really register with my mind at the time. He shrieked, mouth stretched wide and silent in the memory. Dropping to the floor, hands clasped around his legs as if to keep them from shattering, I watched mutely as my peers and teachers rushed from all corners of the pitch. Awhirl in sudden panic. Later that day I discovered that, with one casual swing of a stick, I had broken both of his legs as easily as one would snap a toothpick. I would not be permitted to take part in any physical activities from then on, until I could learn to control my overwhelming and unknown strength.

I had broken that boy’s legs just as casually as those people had cracked something close to my heart, knowing that I would be regarded with fear thereafter.

The next scar to be ripped open in the form of an image I cannot wipe from my retina is of my mother crying — no, screaming — at my father to release my boyish form from his iron-tight grip. It was at that moment, so many years ago, that I first realised I truly hated my father. And the dizzying depths of that feeling. The Shakes had taken hold of me for the first time. Taken unawares — scared beyond the limits of my mind — unable to stay in control, I was pained and confused. My father had coldly pinned me down, and pushed a glinting syringe filled with heavy anaesthetic into my arm while I screamed through gritted teeth. My rolling eyes locked with his. They had seen none of the protectiveness of a parent, but rather the callous dispassion of one who viewed such an occurrence with the same feeling they would a failing project. In that moment, it had become clear that I was nothing more than a science experiment to him.

Another image flashes forth, immediately after the second. Allowing me no respite. With the pain The Shakes bring, this memory also holds an old realisation. The day I discovered I did not possess the capacity for remorse.

I was older by far than the boy of my first and second flashbacks — just beginning high school. My golden boy good looks had made me a new and obvious target for the older boys in school. Not knowing who or what I was, they had taunted and teased me about my hair, tanned skin and blue eyes. The chanting and the snide remarks surface in my head as if through foggy water, getting snatched away before they can coalesce into true sound. School had just broken for lunch when their easily ignored verbal barbs transformed into something more physical. With a cunning that belied their small minds, they had cornered me behind the porta-bins. Shielded from the view of patrolling teachers and fellow classmates. I was pushed around and yelled at — each touch a hostile emphatic warning. That they ran this school. That I did what they said. When they said it. Weirdo. Freak. Inhuman.

How right they were. Human, I was not. Not by their standards at least.

The unrest in their heads escalated once more. One of the boys actually stepped forward to punch me, causing me to fall over into the mud. I had jumped up. Possessed by a white-hot fury that had them stumbling back, suddenly unsure. Another boy had tried to hit me again. Wanting to prove something to himself, and to his mates. Dodging his infantile attack with graceful ease, my hand whipped out, flat palmed, to strike him in the face. One strike, enough to put him out of action as soon as he had entered it. The other boys had screamed at me then, calling me crazy — their uncertainty turning to fear, and then to rage — and had attempted to overpower me.

The conflict, which had been boiling for so long — striving to overflow — was over embarrassingly quickly. My small form the only one still standing, bodies broken and prone around me, littering the ground like rubbish. I had not felt one ounce of guilt at the magnitude of so much hurt. Had in fact laughed at their feeble attempts in breaking me.

That day everyone had known I had retaliated to such an extent that it had resulted in the deliverance of five of the schools most infamous boys to the local hospital. Three of them were in intensive care. That day everyone knew I belonged to no one, that I would answer to no one.

The Shakes — the memories — cease as abruptly as they begin. After the startling recall of events, I am brought back into the lucidity of the present. My head thumps like a drum. I can hear Dal and Coren talking in the poolroom, discussing whether I need any help. I spin the taps closed on the now-broken shower, grabbing my towel as I exit. I stick my head out of the door.

Just a second guys, I say, a stoic mask atop my own features.

You okay? Dal asks, deep voice slightly apprehensive at my long disappearance.

Yeah, ‘course I am, I say, smiling, but as I turn back towards the showers my grin turns to a painful grimace.

I told you he didn’t need help, I hear Coren say.

Sit down, little man, before I break something, is Dal’s swift reply, his voice strangely taut with a stress I do not understand. I rack the confusing mess of memory from the past moment. Wondering if my agony-ridden voice did indeed escape my lips, with no knowledge on my part of ever doing so.

A few minutes later we step outside the sprawling expanse of school buildings and into the balmy night air that surrounds the student parking lots, as closely as the teenagers that packed it a few hours before. Dal is on my left, Coren walking by my right. Their easy banter fills the spaces between the silences of evening.

So happy Akila’s goin’ with me, Coren grins.

You two goin’ to the Formal then? I ask, barely curious though my lack of caring does not show in my voice.

Hell yeah, Coren exclaims, practically jumping, smile so wide as to split his face. An errant thought dawns on me, and pieces to a puzzle slip back into place. I smile, teasing.

You been crushing on her or something? His happiness is enough to confirm. I punch his arm — lightly — in congratulations. He veers slightly off course but soon regains his position by my side. Never thought an intelligent girl like her would go for a muso like you, I joke.

Surprisingly, Coren sighs. Yeah, me neither. His face turns thoughtful and then clears. But hey, I am gorgeous.

You’re a douche-bag. Dal smiles.

And you’re gonna have your hands full with Cali. Coren retaliates.

What? I ask, swinging my head in Dal’s direction.

He smiles hugely. Hands full is exactly what I intend.

Hey, hey, hold up a sec. You bagged Cali? Nice job. She could cut you to ribbons though — she’s got a wicked tongue.

Dal shrugs. Fiery. I like it.

Well, I’m happy for you both, I say wryly.

Get off it, Dal pushes me. It ain’t like we’re getting’ married or nothing.

A wistful sigh makes us both turn to Coren and crack up laughing at his dreamy expression. He scowls at us jokingly.

We’re not an item, Dal continues. He smiles wickedly. Yet, anyway.

Bet you anything that Akila and I will start going out before you two ever do, Coren challenges.

I take that bet and raise you ten dollars, Dal says holding out a plate-sized hand for Coren to fit his thin, lithe one in.

You’re on, mate, Coren says shaking Dal’s hand vigorously.

Somehow, guys, I don’t think it’s right to bet on the ladies’ affections, I caution, a smile playing across my lips, But, despite that, Coren and Akila will definitely be the first to start goin’ out.

Ha, told ya, Coren grins, jumping on Dal’s back, trying — and failing — to mess his hair.

We cross the tarmac, bathed in carefree camaraderie. A quick scan at the school sentinels — twin lions — and the gates swing open wide to let us pass. I never park in the school bays, but rather leave my car a block or two down the road, preferring to walk the rest of the way. A small space of solitude before the hectic struggles of the school hours.

I breathe deep the evening air, perfumed with the sweetness of the hour between day and night. The pinks and golds, and soft purple of dusk paint the sky with all the brilliance of a stained glass window bathed in shimmering dust motes and sunlight. Feathery shadows begin to creep upon the world, tinged with deep violet and tender blue. It is a time of peace and serenity. Made all the more precious because of the scarcity of such a moment.

Tall, highly powered streetlights have already lit up. Technological glowbugs that mar the beauteous glimpse of a natural world. We round a corner, my friends’ voices loud in the lull of noise and commotion. Just as we step to cross a road, a flicker of movement towards the right makes my head whip up, focusing on the other side of the street. My body instinctively grows taut at the unexpected movement. I know that something has stirred in the shadows not twenty metres away, though the thing itself cannot yet be seen. Dal and Coren continue talking amiably, unaware of my sudden scrutiny of the opposite footpath, or the tense line of my shoulders.

My eyes rake across the growing darkness, stubbornly searching even as my mind tries to convince itself that I am being overtly paranoid. Just as I am beginning to relax — mentally and physically — the shadows ripple once more. A figure detaches itself — seemingly from the very air — to cross the cone of light a street lamp casts.

Time freezes for a heartbeat or two as I focus on the small form, drawn towards the figure because of the very fact that it is so out of place. Not belonging, though for a reason I cannot describe. As if feeling the weight of my gaze, the person turns its — her — head, caught midway across her lighted path. Every function in my body stills — though I still continue to move — for although there are no distinguishing aspects to her features, the girl is completely arresting. Long dark hair softly gleams purple and raven blue hues in the golden glow of the street light. Seemingly spun out of the very material of the twilight hour. A sheen of darkness, the shimmer of oil in sunlight. Her eyes are as dark as stone, and just as fathomless, inspiring a sense of vertigo within me.

And then she turns her head. No emotion on her face, just as there had been none across mine. Whatever connection bound us together momentarily snaps, breaking apart like gossamer as if it had never been. She steps out of the street lamp’s light, and just as suddenly as she had appeared — wraithlike — she fades away. Neither sound nor scent to mark that she had ever existed in the first place.

7.29 pm

Dal and I travel in strange silence. Strange because though the atmosphere is light, the underlying vibes are taut as wires. The road whips beneath us with smooth speed. There is no music. Only the barely-heard hum of the engine, loud to my finely-tuned ears. I allow the silence to stretch and grow, heavy after Coren’s cheerful departure. Thick with things that cannot be explained or spoken of, but with him sensing that such things exist. Knowing, because he is my best friend. And yet not knowing how to broach the subject without completely understanding what to ask or talk about.

Feelings are things we would both rather deal without.

We pull up into his driveway, but I do not cut the ignition, my hands still resting on the steering wheel. I can feel his eyes on me, urging me to turn and face him. But I resolutely keep my own eyes locked forward, tracing blindly over the contours of his large house. He lets loose a gust of air — frustrated, or resigned — and opens his door. Before he exits he turns back, loyalty prompting him to speak.

Joth, I don’t know what’s wrong. I just want you to know that you can tell me anything. I’m here for you man. I nod, throat a bit tight, eyes still forward. Out of the corner of my eye I see Dal rub a hand down his face. Right, well, thanks for the lift.

Yeah. Sure, I murmur.

Seeya tomorrow. I nod again. The door slams shut. Not with any vicious force, but I still flinch slightly. I wait for a few seconds, hearing Dal’s footsteps cross up to his entryway, the door opening to allow him in. He turns, silhouetted by the light from inside, to raise a hand in farewell. Even though I know he cannot see me through the tint of the window, I flash my palm as well before peeling expertly back out of the driveway.

In the loneliness of my own car I begin to fortify my strength for the confrontation that is to come.

7.45 pm

I walk into the dining room — shoes and bag discarded in the hallway — to be greeted by my father.

You’re late. Not a greeting then, but really, I never expected one. Dinner began at seven, as it always does.

I take my customary position, midway down the table. Between my mother at one end, and my father at the other. Our dinner table is not long — at the most, two and a half metres — but with the kind of atmosphere that shrouds this family as tightly as the chill of a ghost, it may as well stretch for eons.

I ignore him and smile brilliantly at the lady that has proved time and again just how much she truly loves me, in unnamable and innumerable ways and forms. Not for the first time I wonder how such a soft and compassionate woman was ever joined in unity with the cold indifference that my father personifies.

Her lips curve upwards slightly as her eyes rake over my face, checking my health with all the worry of natural parental concern.

How was your day, sweetheart? Her eyes flick towards my father meaningfully, urging me to talk to him as well. Admonishing me at the same time, silently, that I have not said hello to the man.

I pick up my shiny cutlery and begin to eat. My stomach wants me to eat even faster from the long stretch of lack of sustenance. I ignore its growls and concentrate on rhythm.

Yeah, good. This is awesome Mum, by the way. I grin at her and she smiles.

Yes, I decided to try something a bit new. Crushed pepper sauce, hints of garlic and a dab of onion thrown in. Some salt and red wine. The trick is to coat the meat and bake it until it’s half done, take it out of the oven. Coat it again and cook, and then serve with another pouring of gravy. She winks, happy with herself, and I laugh. This careless banter and useless information is what I love most about our relationship, and the ease with which we get along.

My father clears his throat and she instantly falls silent, assuming a docile nature I know does not penetrate to the core of her character. I turn, quiet, hands clenching on the knife and fork, jaw taut. He looks up from the portable Holo Screen that has captured his attention — no doubt for the duration of the meal I have missed — and spears me with his eyes. They are the icy, changeable hue of liquid mercury.

You did not answer me, he says quietly.

I swivel fully so that my back faces my mother. So that I cannot see the hurt over what is about to unfold cross her beautiful features.

You didn’t ask a question, I reply, voice just as quiet. Tone just as dangerous, if not more so.

Jotham — my mother starts, but is stopped suddenly by my father’s raised hand.

Apologise for your impertinence, boy. Now. My eyes flicker to the sudden tensing of my father’s arms. He is a strong man, my father, both physically and in presence. I have his height — a solid six-foot-two — but his build is a different matter. Where I am all lean muscle and tempered lines, he still retains the body of a man much younger. Stockier than my own frame, robust, untouched by time, by age.

Like everyone else on this Godforsaken shell of a planet.

Silence. Our eyes drill into each other — his metallic ones met equally by my blue.

Jotham, my mother repeats, softly. Please. Apologise.

Sorry, I grit out curtly. Apologising to him, but for her.

He does not acknowledge that either of us ever spoke. You are expected to be at home, by seven, on weeknights. Always. There are no exceptions. Explain to me why exactly you are late by forty-five minutes, when your swim training would have finished by six.

I blink — caught off-guard by his knowledge. I maintain my silence, feeling the flame of anger inside me grow hotter by degree. A white-rage lingers on the peripherals of my vision, tainting my focus. A lack of control over my emotions that always and only surfaces in my father’s presence. My father leans forward.

Do not push me, boy, he warns, eyes flat with a fury I only glimpse.

I throw my words at him like a gauntlet. I stayed longer. And then I drove Dal and Coren home.

He sits back. Ah. That is all he says and yet I can hear the contempt in that one sound. And did your extra time at the pool better your disappointing time from the last. I clench my jaw. Not surprisingly, I hold most of the school sporting records, or at least those that interest me. Swimming, soccer, hockey, cricket, basketball. I hate it. But what I hate even more is the insistence that I always do better. The disbelief that I ever will. The regret that I am not perfect. Really, that I was ever born. All bestowed on me by my father.

I fleetingly debate over lying to him. And then figure, the outcome will be the same no matter what.

No. I bite the word off viciously. I do not allow myself to give an excuse.

My father’s eyes cloud, and then move back to his Holo Screen and his meal, dismissing me. Useless.

I stare at him, furious. What?

He doesn’t deign to look up, utterly erasing me from existence with indifference. "You heard me, boy. With all we’ve given you — and you still can’t push yourself a little harder, achieve something a bit higher. Wasting your time with people like those friends of yours.

You should be grateful I even call you ‘son’.

The white rage explodes, cloying up my throat, making me mute with its power. As if through water — or glass — I hear my mother come to my defence, at the same time trying to satiate my father. My hands come down with force, without my conscience knowledge of ordering them to do so. I whip to my feet as an almighty crack strikes my parents into silence, the table riven with fractures. My knife and fork are embedded deep into the surface. My movement unlocks the blockage in my throat and now the words spill out, hot with fury.

I should be grateful to you? I spit. "Grateful? After all you’ve done to me you want me to turn around and thank you." I am so consumed with anger I am shaking.

Sit down, my father snarls.

And what the hell do you know about my friends? I yell. "What gives you the right to think you know every farking conceivable fact about the people around you? You have no idea what kind of people they are!"

My father is on his feet now too. "People are never what they seem boy — I know more than you could possibly imagine. Sit. Down."

"Well I know you’re exactly what you seem. A presumptuous, egotistical, megalomaniacal shadow of a farking bastard, who doesn’t give a damn about the people he should."

My father moves faster than I have ever imagined. Faster than I have given him credit for. Vice like, his hand clamps onto my shoulder, and pushes me down with such force that I smash through the chair and sprawl atop the ground. Cuts of blood and small slivers of pain open up to stain the plush carpet. I hear my mother’s screams for us to stop, but my arm is already arcing forward, fuelled by pain and rage. It makes contact with his jaw — the delightfully sickening crunch of bone on bone exceptionally loud — but he does not stumble back. A first, when I am so much stronger than everyone else. Instead he retaliates with a swift blow of his own to my abdomen, and a lightning kick to my solar plexus. I roll with the blows, but not fast enough. Pain shoots through my body, briefly overriding the torrential rage. I slide and twist to my feet, coming up ready.

Ready to kill the man that made me.

My mother’s small form wedges itself between our two large ones just before we come to blows once more. Fleetingly I marvel at her courage, in the face of so much violence between the people she loves, in the confines of her own house. She pushes us away from each other, and though her hands and the pressure of them are light and soft, they still manage to create a safe distance between my father and me.

"Stop, stop. James, stop. He’s my boy, he’s my boy." I can hear her words now, her sobs. My father’s eyes are still locked with my own. Both of our stares matching the murderous intensity. He shakes himself slightly, ordering his attire, before turning from the room as if nothing occurred. My mother turns to me, silver tracks staining her face. I had not thought that what would happen tonight would escalate into a physical confrontation. Something that has never happened before. At a magnitude that surprises even me.

Her fingers — shaking — extend slowly to stroke my face, from temple to cheek. And I realise that she is trying to offer me comfort, where I should have been offering my own. I should be the one apologising to her. A strangled sob escapes from me — traitorous sound — and I jerk away from her touch. From her eyes, so like my own. I whirl away.

I escape — to where, I have no idea — but away from the hurt and destruction I have left in my wake.

12.04 am

I am still awake, sleep just beyond my reach. Insatiable hunger makes me grit my teeth while I lie. I am looking up at my ceiling — cleared by my order — so that I am able to gaze at the stars. I wonder if those glimmering points can see me too. See me struggling with myself to remain in my room, unwilling to enter the rest of my house and fill my roaring stomach with food. Unwilling to give into my own weakness. Unwilling to creep through my own house because of my father who sleeps not far away. Because of the conflict that has occurred, and whose presence still lingers, tainting the air with traces of fury and pain.

My mother had followed me up to my room not long afterwards, begging me to open the door if only so that I could eat. I need to eat. Need to badly — all three of us know that. And yet I had ignored her. Not wanting to upset her, but instead wanting to flip off my father with the gesture. To throw his precious gift back in his face.

And what a gift it is.

Genetically modified — genetically enhanced — individuals are no longer the substance of visionary dreams and Hollywood theatrics. Nor are they the basis of science fiction novels. They are a reality. And although the idea of being able to manually design present and future generations — before ever giving birth to them — may seem far-fetched, it is now the key foundation to human life on earth. Pre-programmed individuals are all around us. They are the norm, not the exception.

And I am one of them.

Genetic engineering is any process in which genetic information — DNA, our lines of inheritance — is altered. Transformed in a way that results in the creation of new substances and functions. The procedure — of being able to genetically modify an as yet unborn embryo — is in itself quite straightforward. It is simple in theory. And now, it is hardly more difficult in practice. The infinite coded library of all DNA on Earth has long been cracked by human science.

Modification requires three basic, key elements: the specified gene to be transferred. A host cell into which that gene is inserted. And a vector — an incubator of sorts, one that will carry the gene through to its full assimilation — to successfully bring about the transfer of material.

The initial step in the genetic engineering procedure is to obtain a duplicate of the desired gene. A perfect copy that can be derived from a natural source. The copy is usually obtained by using certain bacteria. As it replicates, the inserted gene replicates too. This replicated material is then manually inserted into a suitable