He returned and sat beside me. He picked up one of the tapes and slid it into the recorder. His eyes met mine, asking permission with his eyes, and as I nodded, he pressed play.
“In March 1980, patient Ezra Zane was experiencing pain in his lower abdomen. We discovered he had stage four cancer. Due to this diagnosis, I will no longer be able to treat him. Hewill not survive the winter. At most, we believe he may live until 1981.”
There was a pause. Papers shifted.
“My colleague, Dr. Haiko Wong, discovered that cells from treated patients can be used when placed into a fertilized female egg. Within two weeks, the cell transplant proved successful. It can form a fetus.”
Silence followed, then a soft laugh.
“I did it,” the voice said, breathless with pride. “I successfully transplanted two cells from Ezra Zane. Twins.”
Another laugh.
“They will be born in May this year.”
His tone sharpened.
“I will find a cure for what we callthe killer instinct.Patients who experience trauma, whether in childhood or adulthood, develop urges to kill as a means of control. If they can’t control their own life, they seek control over another’s, including death.”
A throat cleared.
“God complex develops. They believe themselves invincible. When that illusion fades, the urge returns. Again and again.”
A pause.
“We discovered that the prefrontal cortex in Ezra Zane showed impaired judgment. The temporal lobes were overdeveloped, increasing aggression. By focusing on the right side of the brain, we can build a new environment and remove aggressive traits.”
The voice slowed.
“To do this, the mind must be reset. Start from zero. This is why I gave life to Ezra Zane again. From day one, we can control his surroundings. We can raise not a serial killer, but a good man. A successful man. A family man.”
The tape clicked off.
I turned my head. My eyes locked with his.
“He told my mom you died in childbirth,” he said. His voice roughened. “She always called it a miracle pregnancy because Dad couldn’t have kids. They tried for years.”
The recorder sat between us. My palms slapped against my face as I dragged them down until they caught on my jaw.
“I was raised in a lab,” I said. My voice shook despite my effort to steady it. “He was doing things.” I sighed. “I thought I was sick, but turns out he was the sick one.”
He pushed up his sleeve. Scars lined his arm, round white circles all over his skin.
“Mom was sick too,” he said.
He swallowed once before continuing.
“When I turned nine, she started drinking. When I felt like shit, I played with a ball inside the house. That was enough.” His jaw tightened. “And when she lost her shit, she took a cigarette and pressed it into my arm. Over and over again.”
He rolled the sleeve back down.
“Believe me,” he said. “The childhood I had was no better than the one you had in that lab.”
“Are we…” I cleared my throat. “Are we monsters?”
He scoffed softly.
“No,” he said. “They were.”
