Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
His brow dipped. He didn’t know what any of her questions meant, but he was especially confused by the last one. Why would anyone want to eat an elephant? He’d never heard of such a thing. He wanted to ask her why she would wonder about eating an elephant.
He squinted, mulling it over in his mind. You couldn’t eat an elephant, even if you tried. Some of it would be disgusting, and you’d throw it back up.
Maybe you could cut it into pieces so small, you could swallow them whole. You wouldn’t even have to taste them.
He frowned, thinking about that. No, because if you did that, it would take decades. The meat would be rotted by then, and you’d die of food poisoning.
He gave his head a small shake, feeling mildly ridiculous for pondering such a thing, reaching up to massage his temple but letting his hand drop before it made contact. He didn’t like the way the metal felt beneath his skin. It gave him the oddest sense of sadness. He told himself it shouldn’t. It’d been very necessary.
Sam turned the page, moving on from the elephant eating question, looking at the drawings next to the words. She’d sketched things. She wasn’t good. It made him smile because he saw the effort in it and also her frustration in the renderings she’d scribbled over. But next to each scribble was another attempt. She never gives up. That did not surprise him.
He turned another page and another. He’d start over from the beginning and read through every word, but first, he wanted to flip through and take it all in, see exactly what it was. Had she written stories? Poems? Cartoons? Private thoughts? His heartbeat quickened. He flipped a few more pages, stopping suddenly when he came to a drawing. He tilted his head, bringing the journal closer, his breath stalling. Was it…him? She’d drawn a full moon shining down on a person—a man with hair falling over his eyes, his chest bare, a long scar running from throat to navel. Sam lifted his hand, running it over the twin scar on his own abdomen.
A buzz of something lifted the hairs on his arms, and he felt like laughing out loud. Joy. He felt…joy. She’d drawn him! She’d thought of him when she went back to her room, and she’d picked up a pen and this book and sketched him from memory. His body and his face. He closed his eyes, picturing it, wanting to be in that moment with her, if only in his head. The features she’d drawn were blunt and unskilled, but he thought he saw himself in them anyway.
That buzz grew, making him feel happy and alive. His eyes moved to the words beneath the drawing, reading each line and then again, this time more slowly.
I made a boy of moonlight,
Skin of dusk and starlit eyes.
Waxing, waning, or in between,
A wish, a miracle, or just a dream?
He blinked, reading it for the third time. I made a boy of moonlight. Him? He’d never read anything so…beautiful. He’d never read anything beautiful at all. A boy. The girl saw him as…human? Sam lifted his hand slowly, waving it in the air in front of him, bending his fingers. Was he? Sometimes he didn’t feel that way. He felt created, yes, but not by moonlight or miracles. He felt made of nuts and bolts and steel and things that invaded his mind whether he gave them permission to or not. Visions that circulated in his brain even as he tried to sleep.
His thoughts of the girl belonged to him though. There was no way anyone could know, and because of that, they could not be taken away. The thought felt odd, secret, and victorious in a way nothing else he’d been told was a victory ever had. The tests. The completion of surgeries. The successful experiments performed on his body. All the things Dr. Heathrow and the others had celebrated.
He heard a noise outside his door and closed the book quickly, sliding it under his mattress. His treasure. His only one. The person outside passed by his room, but Sam stood anyway. He’d look at the book more later when everyone else was sleeping.
He made his way down the hall, passing by the game room where he heard blasts and booms and yells and whoops of victory. Outside, the air was cold, the electric wires close by tingeing the early afternoon with a slight metallic scent. It was better than the heavy pheromones and disinfectant smells that filled his nostrils inside the building though. He stood there for a few moments, staring at the old hospital building beyond. It was where she lived. He wanted to see her. Talk to her. Know her.
Possibilities—fantasies—wound through his head, leaving only feelings and imprints. He didn’t know how to clarify them, and he was too scared to do that anyway, so he left them as they were, a blurry silhouette in the back of his mind that he felt but refused to define.