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芒聙聵What rights do I have?芒聙聶 I ask with query in my eyes, 芒聙聵None芒聙聶 they shriek, jeering in my face with laughter behind their eyes. I芒聙聶m hidden away. No light do I see? For days I just sit, wasting away, wondering, wishing, wanting. Until the door is opened and I芒聙聶m led out, the light is white and it burns the inside of my eyes even though I have shut them fast. The men are big and brutal; I am not a woman to them, just a piece of machinery with a fleshy shell. 芒聙聹Clone芒聙聺 they whisper with talon like tongues, shooting glances in my direction as if I have some kind of disease. I am a disease, why else would I be hidden from sight and treated like scum. I used to cry out for my mother, but I guess she didn芒聙聶t care for me either, for she never came. The small man who stood above me the first time we met called me Elsie, a name, he said, that was my own. My one right was a name (laugh hesitantly) 芒聙娄 a name that would, one day be my downfall.

The light is not so bright these days, for I have become immune to it, I suppose. My first few years were the same; I spent all my time in the labs with tubes and wires punctured into my body, pulping and pulsating, collecting and renewing blood. The faceless white people crowded in and around me day and night, talking in mutters, scribbling notes of my general state. None of them ask how I was, whether they were hurting me, if I wanted anything. I wasn芒聙聶t real; reality was a nightmarish state of play for me. Though it is only now that I can say so, for at the time it was all I knew. My time there was unpleasant, crude and芒聙娄 it is better to forget.

Elsie McDonald was the wife of Michael McDonald, the brother-in-law of the famous scientist of the 芒聙聵Odium Chip芒聙聶, Harrison Benge, and successful Prime minister of The Republic of Great Britannia. She had a failing lung caused by a mucus type of cancer, and without a transplant, would die. It seemed impossible that a scientist of his nature and intelligence could fail his wife at a healthy life, so he 芒聙聹borrowed芒聙聺 money from the state and designed a machine that was so out of this world that his colleagues thought he芒聙聶d gone mad with grief. He made a perfect replica of his wife, a clone, me.
But unfortunately for Elsie McDonald it was too late, her lung cancer outwitted the famous scientist, and she died a few months before I was finished. The death of his wife ripped Michael apart; he became insane no-longer human芒聙娄 a walking, talking image of his former-self. Like a clone, you might say. How ironic.

That was when it all started. The victory of his success was quenched without a proper celebration and the clone was left alone, useless and unwanted. Grief can transform the kindest heart, the happiest soul and can turn them into a monster, and so that even they are no longer the person they once were, but evil and heartless.