Post by Floyd Looney on Sept 18, 2009 16:07:29 GMT -5
I scurry across the ground between two buildings, it was just getting dark and I had awakened. There were still beings walking around and things moving around far down passed the alleys. I try to be aware of them without paying them attention unless they threaten me. They hardly ever come this way and hiding has always worked so far.
I dig through their trash and eat their scraps and leftovers, although sometimes I find things I cannot stomach. Not that I have the highest standards. I have no standards. The ones who made me did that on purpose. When there is rain I’ll lap water from a puddle, when I am hungry I will eat your garbage, bugs or rats that I manage to catch.
I found my hands to be very useful. Rats don’t have hands and neither do dogs or cats. This gives me the advantage in our encounters. They will not steal my food; I can bash them with chunks of wood or concrete. This is my alley. I sleep soundly under some metal stairs behind a trash dumpster, unbothered.
The people who live in the building throw their trash in the dumpsters. Most of them will have food scraps. Sometimes I get lucky and find tasty morsels that are pretty fresh. Once in a while I’ll find socks and other items I can use. They throw out clothing cleaner that what I wear. I have no shame stealing from their unwanted garbage, I wasn’t designed for shame.
I remember only flashes of the other place. The place where I came from, the place where they made me: White lab coats, machines, chambers, cages. I remember how scared I was there.
I remember when I finally knew that I needed to escape. I remember the look in their eyes when I did fight my way out. It was dark outside when I escaped and there rain falling. I got away.
I am not sure how many days or weeks or months ago that was.
I am barely aware of the passage of time. All I know is to wake up when darkness falls and to fight for food and hide if danger comes but I can fight if I have to. Those who made me wanted me to fight if I had to. Why else would they have given me these things?
These claws, this night vision and this hearing that allows me to hear a person sneeze blocks away even when many people are still about. Sometimes in the deepest night it gets quiet enough to slip out of the alley into the bazaar. There are hundreds of stalls that sold everything during the day but sometimes they leave food dropped on the ground. Sometimes I am hungry enough that if it is very quiet I risk foraging through the maze of vendor booths.
I have even learned their language since I escaped. I can read, with effort, the writing on the paper scraps that are everywhere.
I have heard humans speak enough that I picked up their language, or most of it.
I found a body once. I studied it. It did not have claws like me. It did not have eyes like mine and his ears were narrow and small.
His legs were too thick to be a good jumper. I don’t know how they made me if this is what they started with. I don’t know exactly how they think but they built these buildings and those machines and the road. There must be some remarkable individuals among their species for them to have these things. Or to have the ability to make me, I suppose.
I found something in the pocket of the humans’ trousers. A photograph of him, in better days, with a female human and two younglings, they looked so happy. His skin was smoother in the photograph and he chin was hairless. It must have been a long time ago, when he had a home. Home is a conception that I know almost nothing of.
I am neither human nor animal. All I know is that I am a scavenger.
I dig through their trash and eat their scraps and leftovers, although sometimes I find things I cannot stomach. Not that I have the highest standards. I have no standards. The ones who made me did that on purpose. When there is rain I’ll lap water from a puddle, when I am hungry I will eat your garbage, bugs or rats that I manage to catch.
I found my hands to be very useful. Rats don’t have hands and neither do dogs or cats. This gives me the advantage in our encounters. They will not steal my food; I can bash them with chunks of wood or concrete. This is my alley. I sleep soundly under some metal stairs behind a trash dumpster, unbothered.
The people who live in the building throw their trash in the dumpsters. Most of them will have food scraps. Sometimes I get lucky and find tasty morsels that are pretty fresh. Once in a while I’ll find socks and other items I can use. They throw out clothing cleaner that what I wear. I have no shame stealing from their unwanted garbage, I wasn’t designed for shame.
I remember only flashes of the other place. The place where I came from, the place where they made me: White lab coats, machines, chambers, cages. I remember how scared I was there.
I remember when I finally knew that I needed to escape. I remember the look in their eyes when I did fight my way out. It was dark outside when I escaped and there rain falling. I got away.
I am not sure how many days or weeks or months ago that was.
I am barely aware of the passage of time. All I know is to wake up when darkness falls and to fight for food and hide if danger comes but I can fight if I have to. Those who made me wanted me to fight if I had to. Why else would they have given me these things?
These claws, this night vision and this hearing that allows me to hear a person sneeze blocks away even when many people are still about. Sometimes in the deepest night it gets quiet enough to slip out of the alley into the bazaar. There are hundreds of stalls that sold everything during the day but sometimes they leave food dropped on the ground. Sometimes I am hungry enough that if it is very quiet I risk foraging through the maze of vendor booths.
I have even learned their language since I escaped. I can read, with effort, the writing on the paper scraps that are everywhere.
I have heard humans speak enough that I picked up their language, or most of it.
I found a body once. I studied it. It did not have claws like me. It did not have eyes like mine and his ears were narrow and small.
His legs were too thick to be a good jumper. I don’t know how they made me if this is what they started with. I don’t know exactly how they think but they built these buildings and those machines and the road. There must be some remarkable individuals among their species for them to have these things. Or to have the ability to make me, I suppose.
I found something in the pocket of the humans’ trousers. A photograph of him, in better days, with a female human and two younglings, they looked so happy. His skin was smoother in the photograph and he chin was hairless. It must have been a long time ago, when he had a home. Home is a conception that I know almost nothing of.
I am neither human nor animal. All I know is that I am a scavenger.