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Monday, May 3, 2010

We are Rickson

I am Rickson, and so is everybody else in this room.

It’s no coincidence that we all share the same name, since all of us are identical in every sense of the word. Never in my life did I expect to witness something so strange, fascinating and terrifying at the same time. It’s the same as trying to see your reflection in a mirror, except this mirror is hell bent on showing only whatever it wants for its amusement and your misery.

The reason I’m here is another thing I have to share with everyone. I was “recovered” by authorities, armies and intelligence agencies captained by the world’s leading universities and science institutes. The truth is that I was kidnapped, for the lack of a better word. I had a fairly pleasant life, traveling around the world and figuring things out only as they came long; then my freedom was taken from me. The worst thing is that, without it, I am forced to face the fact that my memory dates to only five years back. Trying to project my mind beyond that barrier does not cause headaches, hypertension or nausea. Nothing. There’s only darkness where the traces of a life already lived were meant to be.

Every white coat that has talked to us in this god damned jail tries to figure us out. Are we clones or are we duplicates? I thought both were the same thing, but then came the day I accidentally eavesdropped on a conversation two men –possibly scientists- were having. If my memory doesn’t fail, a clone refers only to the physical replica of a persona, since an artificial reproduction of his or her personality would be improbable; a duplicate is so much more. More complicated, more terrifying and impossible.

According to the hypotheses, we the twenty five Ricksons could belong to a fantastic “multiverse”, or worse yet; it’s possible we could have the ability to reproduce ourselves like the cells in our body do, through a process known as mitosis. This would mean that, in the space of no more than one night, I could wake up to see a room full with fifty of us, or worse yet, I could wake up to see a disgusting embryotic mass pulsing from my body, fighting to get out. If that was the case, my mind would never take it.

The truth is that knowing my origin does not entice me or interest me in the least. My brothers –if they can be called that- agree, but we have nowhere to go, nowhere to run to and no rights to defend ourselves with. We’re Guinea pigs. We want to live.

Being here is a torture that chokes us. It us to ask ourselves questions we’d rather bury. We are the slaves of men who owe us nothing, the answers to riddles only madmen dare confront.

We are Rickson, lacking any other choice.

1 comment:

  1. Interesting stuff. Given your Mexican background you should have a wealth of family stories concerning immigration experience, border crossing, cultural assimilation, etc. Use Oscar Hijuellos as an example. Just one gringo's take.

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