Ulysses's Questionnaire

I live at Home. My parents are GenWyld. Machines and labcoated figures. Dr. Stone helps to raise me. To Test me.

My home is a prison. My home is a box. My home has been freeing, ever since I learned how to pretend to behave. 

Pretended to love the lab coats, and their Tests.

I live here because it’s all I know. Because I have no choice. Because when they squeezed me out of a tube I could pass their tests and live, or I could fail and die.

And now they see me more as like them.

And I am beginning to learn. Words, phrases.

Customs, places.

One day I will save this home.

My siblings did not die by my hands, and theirs, in vain.

Dr Stone gives me money.

Mother that she is.

Puts it on a plastic card.

Cheap and scratchy. Bulky in the pockets of these “jeans”.

It works on day trips. Buys water and food. Before so limited. Buys glasses to hide my eyes. One yellow, one grey and rocky.

I have been changing after all. Continue to change. Every time I do Dr. Stone writes more on her pad, and adds more to the plastic card. Offers more amenities.

More training videos. More doctors to talk to and learn from.

More of these white coated Therapists, to work with when I can’t sleep.

Because of the Things I remember at night. Because of the tendencies I come back with.

She needs me. So regulated. So controlled.

It chafes.