Monday, September 24, 2012
Welcome to my newest story. This is going to be something of an experiment for me, as I'm going to write this as it needs to be written every week, and not work it as I would my other projects. It'll be interesting, if nothing else.
That said, this is always a first draft, and if I missed something in editing, don't beat me up too bad. Remember: you get what you pay for.
When faced with adversity, one has the choice of two paths: you can give up and accept what comes next, or you can face it, struggle, fight, and come out stronger in the end.
My choice was simple, for I didn’t find myself where I was without some struggle. As such, I would continue to fight—and perceiver.
It wasn’t easy.
I had no memory of what happened after leaving the lab. I remembered driving, then bight lights, then—nothing. Not until I opened my eyes and found myself lying in bed, seeing a drab ceiling, and realizing I was in a hospital.
My body was numb because I was being kept on a pain killer. Though I had difficulty concentrating, I knew this meant I’d been in an accident, and that I’d been hurt badly.
I found out soon enough just how bad.
Two days after I awoke, two people from the company came to see me, accompanied by a doctor. The doctor was there to give me the bad news: I’d suffered a skull fracture and internal injuries, which would eventually heal. However, the front of my car was crushed by a semi that had blown a red light—the bright lights I remembered—and my legs had been so badly damaged that the only way to save my life was to amputate them both at mid-thigh.
I took the news with as much calm as the pain killers I was on allowed. I nodded, and closed my eyes for a second, thinking about what had brought me to this point—
Then the doctor left, and the questioning from the company execs began.
They asked why I was authorizing clandestine experiments in the lab. Why I had Martha working alone. Why I didn’t instantly report the accident, per operational protocols I myself authorized.
Most of all, they wanted to know who the woman was who’d been in my car at the time of accident.
I asked about her; I was told she was injured, but the company had no record of her, that she was unwilling to speak to anyone until I spoke. Video recordings showed I’d left the building with Martha apparently unable to walk, but . . . there was no indication she’d been in my car at the time of the accident, just this other woman.
I told the execs who the other woman was. I told them about the breakthrough I’d “discovered”, that I’d decided to keep it quiet until I could confirm that prior experiments were viable, and I described what had happened, how I’d panicked, and why I’d had Martha in the car with me when—well, when the accident occurred.
I placed the blame for everything upon me. They seemed to accept that, and left so I could rest.
For several days I was alone. No one else from the company came to see me. I was attended to by nurses and doctors. I spent the time thinking, but not about my condition. No, I had no control over what happened to my body, so I focused my attention upon other things.
Five days after my meeting with the company execs, I had a real visitor: Martha. She was in a wheelchair, still recuperating, but once we were alone she was able to stand and pull a chair closer to my bed so she could sit and hold my hand.
She was beautiful—but then, I had an eye for beauty. Of course, I’d never intended this new body for her; this was suppose to be Craig’s new form, but given the accident in the lab, and that it was Martha who was affected . . . knowing it was her put a real smile on my face.
Martha had become a lovely woman, a young Latina with dark hair and eyes, smooth skin the shade of cinnamon butter, and a beautiful smile emanating from her wide, full lips.
She asked how I was, but I was more interesting in how she was feeling. Martha said the body was taking some getting used to. It wasn’t so much she was a little taller, but that everything was so much rounder. I knew she was meant: when I saw this body, with its original owner, I was drawn to the curvaceous form, the large breasts, the wide hip, her rotund behind, those strong, shapely legs . . .
I’d first imagined Craig having to live his life as this person, feeling the eyes of so many people looking at him like that, wondering who want him, who desired him—who would treat him and he once treated me.
I was wrong, though. This was the body of a woman, a goddess who would know how to treat it, how to love it, how to bring pleasure to herself, and to another. On Craig it would have been wasted, because he would have hated it forever. But in Martha’s hands—I saw her love in her new eyes. Despite what happened to her, she didn’t hate, she wasn’t upset.
What I saw in her eyes was love. And the need to help me.
In time I left the hospital, and recuperated at home. The company kept me, and even kept Martha, though they knew if she were to remain as she was, she would need a new identity. I knew I had her original DNA in my house—hair, mostly—and it would have been a simple process to comb her apartment to find DNA samples that could return her to her old self.
There was a problem, however: the original research had, how should we say? It had vanished. Or it seemed it was incomplete. It didn’t matter: the company could replicate most of the research that had created the mixture that changed Martha down to her DNA, but in all likelihood, it might take them years, or decades, to recreated everything.
They suspected I’d done something with the information. Their suspicions were true, and I did nothing to hide the fact. However, I saw no reason to be a complete bitch about everything. Information would come to light slowly, but the company would have the whole process in time. A process that would make them incredibly wealthy—as it would anyone who own a share of the patent.
But there were other things I wanted as well.
I found my position secured at the company; in fact, after a couple of years I was made the head of European Division. Martha was given a new identity: Celesta Urquía. She moved to Switzerland with me and did a little of everything for me: assistant, researcher, confidant. And she knew her way around a lab like no one’s business.
I was also given the ability to walk once more.
Growing new legs was impossible. Creating new legs with bio-nano-technology was something the company was starting, and I knew I could help there. After all, if the process I’d invented could change someone’s DNA, and alter them completely, then it was a very simple thing to change the process so transplanted items—be it organic, mechanical, or bio-mechanical—could be fitted on and within a body without fear of rejection.
So my new legs are constructed. They were grafted and bonded to my thighs. I spent six months teaching myself to walk once more. When everything was over, I was the one with the legs everyone wanted to see—
Olivia, she of the nano-grown silver prosthetic legs. Legs that I was proud of owning. Legs that, after a year and a half in a wheelchair, once more made me whole.
Life is now so different. Craig is away from me for good: before leaving for the new position, I visited him in his office, and told him that if I ever saw him, for any reason, I’d rupture his testicles with one well-placed kick. He left the company not long after.
The old Olivia died a few months after I began rehabilitation. She’d never regained consciousness. I saw to it the medical bills were covered, and that “her” family received a settlement from insurance. They’d lost a daughter; I couldn’t replace her, but I could try to ease their grief.
Celesta and I spend our days and evenings together, relaxing, in peace. She is so unlike the other Martha, just as I am so unlike the original Olivia. She loves touching my legs, the replacements that let me be normal. She is no longer my sub, however—
When I was still without legs, and Celestra was taking care of me, I told her I couldn’t be her mistress any more. I desired her help, and I loved her being with me, but I couldn’t see our relationship continuing as one of submissive and dominant. To my surprise, she agreed. She’d found another level within our relationship, and though she knew she would never be anything but a submissive, that she wanted to be something else with me . . . more of a lover, or even a . . . companion. If that were possible.
I told her it was very possible.
I replaced someone so I could experience love with another person. I did, but never in the way I expected. In turn, she replaced another whose life I extinguished, because I wanted revenge for what was really nothing more than a slight.
In turn, I suffered my own loss, and my own replacements.
There are some who would say I’m insane, that murdering two people is not the same as loosing your legs. They’re right about the later; as for the former . . . I don’t know. I really don’t. If I am mad, how would I ever know? The insane are not privy to their exact mental state, and if my lovely Celestra thought I were crazy, would she stay with me?
I think not.
We make each other happy, and I know I couldn’t live without her. Her love sustains me, and I sustain her. We are perfect for each other.
I’ve taken her love, and used it to banish that obsession I once felt.
I’m better. I’m happy.
And only the future will ever change me again.
I think "The End" says it all. If you have any comments, leave one below.
Next Week: Halloween is coming!