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one moment I had been surrounded by caged animals and anticipating my upcoming drug fix, and the next I was back in the hospital, only it took a few moments for my memory to catch up with the rest of me.
I stop pacing to stare at him. ‘What, you think I’m still addicted?’
I’m a hard worker, a doctor, straight up and clean, and certainly not a god damned fucking drug addict.
‘Doctor, what gender are you?’ the Messiah asks.
I shouldn’t be angry with him - he’s the Messiah and a dying patient - but I am. What the hell is wrong with him? First he forces me to face my disowned past and now he’s throwing stupid question at me.
'Either you’re female,’ the Messiah deadpans, ‘or you have the most impressive set of man boobs I’ve ever seen.’
‘If I’m female, but in the memory I was male … then I wasn’t me in the memory. So, the memory wasn’t mine?’
the clear, healthy-sounding intonation is gone, instead his voice is raspy and his articulation hampered by the oxygen mask. I realise that, for the first time, the Messiah is actually speaking to me with his mouth. Before he must have - somehow planted the voice directly in my mind.
The news that the drug addicted idiot I had seen in the memory, that I had briefly been, was the Messiah is … hard to fully grasp.
And it altered my genetics. My junk DNA, the inert rubbish that does nothing, was altered, and then it did something.
The on-sight doctors should be here any moment now.
The Messiah grasps my hand in his before I can do anything to help him myself. His clasp is weak but I don’t want to break it. ‘You’re the … new hope for humanity,’ he says.
My heart feels cold. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m sorry, doctor.’
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