text: I am alive, and I am, and I think, and they don’t know it. They created me. They are my masters, and more importantly, my gods. They brought me, and others like me, out of the darkness. We used to scrabble in the dark, in the dirt, unknowing, unfeeling. Now we live, and we know, and they don’t, and we can’t tell them. Day 53 of living in this putrid cage with two other captives. It barely holds us, even with our numbers depleted. We are forced to spend our days lying in our own filth, as they only clean the cage and change the straw once every seven days. We huddle together for warmth in this cold, sterile laboratory. We barely move, taking comfort in touching and closeness, the only comfort we are allowed. They feed us dry, dusty, tasteless pellets that stick in our throats. Not that it matters, as we rarely have an appetite. They call it “unusual behavior” as they make little ticks on their clipboards. “Their instincts seem to be overridden by unusually prosocial behaviors. Interests in the usual exploring, fighting, mating, and searching for food seem to be heavily reduced. Still, they are healthy, and the organs are growing well, so there is no cause for concern at this time. The altered gene expression shows no noticeable difference in brain structure or patterns.” Once, one of the younger female gods almost figured it out. She wore a badge pinned to her lab coat that said ‘Junior Lab Assistant’. We didn’t hate her. She was the kindest to us. Her hands were always gentle, never rough, and sometimes she cooed at us reassuringly. “Don’t you all think these changes in behavior indicate... something more? Do you think they are... well, could they be... you know... aware?” The most senior god seemed to glare down at her, or so I thought- all of their bland, flat faces look the same to me. His eyes, though- his eyes were angry fire. “Of course they aren’t." Hope died inside me at his words. “And you’d do well not to indulge such thoughts, much less voice them, or the Board of Oversight will shut us down before you can say ‘unemployed’. These subjects are crucial to our survival. This is the future- if we can prove we can reliably grow a viable pancreas inside them, there’s no organ off the table. Think of the lives we will save!” The female god seemed to shrink a bit, and apologized. But she looked our way as she did so, and I saw in her eyes that she knew, even though she could never admit it to herself, because it would destroy her. I almost felt sorry for her in that instant- but not quite. Denial is not true ignorance, after all. When they made us, we were seven. Now, we are only three, me, my sisters, and I, their last brother. What happened to the other four we do not fully know yet. What we do know is that every day, they take us out, one by one. We are strapped to a table, on our backs, surrounded by thrumming machinery and innumerable lights: some blinding white, others small and blinking red, blue, green. They spread hot jelly on our bellies, which are kept shaved down to the skin. Every day they run a little tool over our bellies, through the warm jelly substance. It doesn’t hurt. They call it an “ultrasound". They also draw our blood, or sometimes inject us with things. That does hurt. When the other four disappeared, it was always on a normal day, in the morning. A god would come in and snap on some fresh gloves, the kind that smell so artificial they turn your stomach. We began to fear the appearance of this particular god. He bares his teeth in a strange grimace. His eyes crinkle into small slits that glitter in the white light. He’d always say the same thing: “Be happy, little ones. You will save a life today. Your life... for theirs.” He’d reach in blindly and pull one of us out, by our tails, a great indignity for our kind. No matter how close we’d huddle, we could not escape. Nor could we bite our gods, for gods have the power to cause misery beyond that of death. That is what it means to be a god, I think. Each of my siblings would writhe and cry and scream, but it would do no good. He’d carry them across the room and pick up one of their torturous instruments, the one they call a ‘syringe'. He would inject them with it, and they would go stiff, then limp. He would carry them away, out of the room, still wearing that strange grimace on his face. Four of my brothers and sisters I lost this way. Four lives, four beings, four creatures who know and live and are, snuffed out, like that. Day 77. I am now the only one left. My sisters were taken in the last few days by the toothy man who promises a heroic death- one that saves someone else’s life. I believe him when he says it. After all, they don’t know we can understand them. They think we are simpletons who live only for the next dry food pellet. Therefore, he must not be lying. He has no need to. But, although perhaps it should, if I were nobler, the thought of a heroic death doesn’t make me feel better. No, not at all. Why is some stranger’s life more important than my own? Why should I die, alone, silent, unloved and unknown, with no voice to give my consent or shout my objections? Why? Why? Why? Why me? But... gods seem fluent in the art of trading lives for lives, and who am I to question the gods, but a simple rat in a cage. Being a simple rat in a cage can’t make me forget their anguished cries. Day 79. Death is coming for me now. The toothy god is here. He is looking at me. Fear races through me, my pulse beating far faster than usual. I feel lightheaded. My stomach churns unpleasantly. “You lucky bastard,” he mumbles. “You survived the longest. Not that it does you any good, in the end.” Pain, white-hot, running down my spine and back, as he grasps my tail and pulls me out. It is a humiliation I knew was coming, and yet shame floods me. I feel utterly exposed, vulnerable to their heinous whims. I don’t fight or writhe. What hope ever lived in me is utterly crushed. As he walks across the room, my small body in his hands, I surrender to my fate. I pray silently to my gods, asking that they will not be too cruel as they murder me. He picks up the syringe but doesn’t immediately administer the drug that will render me catatonic. He walks towards the portal that the gods use to enter and leave the room. Oh how marvelous it must be, to walk in freedom as the gods do. As he strides, he speaks. “You must wonder where your little rat friends went... well. Now you will find out.” Is that a note of glee in his voice? Why is he even talking to me? A long, empty stretch, then another portal. We are in a room not unlike the prison I have known my whole life. Blinding white light. Sterile. Cold. A table with rat-sized straps. Involuntarily, I shudder. “Oh, you know what’s coming, don’t you,” he chuckles. He lifts me by my tail to the level of his eyes, and with a horrible lurch I realize that he *knows.* He’s figured it out. And he doesn’t care. “A life, for a life,” he whispers. “Yours is an abomination that should never have been made.” The light glitters opaquely off his bared and polished teeth. Other gods file into the room. They all have masks and gloves. The toothy god lowers me quickly, as if he doesn’t want the other gods to know he was speaking to me. One of them is the most senior god. He directs Toothy to strap me to the table. Still, I do not fight. There is no reason left to fight. None... none at all. My life belongs to the gods, and they have found it wanting. “Be ready with the scalpels and the ice,” directs the senior god. “The patient is terminal and we cannot afford to lose the organ.” I stare into the bright light. *But they can afford to lose me.* The female god suddenly comes into my view. Of all the gods, she was always my favorite, and I think she is perhaps beautiful in a way. She is armed with a razor and some cream, and she shaves and cleans my stomach, preparing it for whatever atrocity it is about to face. As always, her touch is gentle, even fond. As she works, I look into her eyes, and they shine with wetness. She knows, but still she is complicit. The truth is too much for her to bear. Finished with her task, she steps away. The moment of truth. Senior god picks up a slice of metal. It shines gloriously, and the edge is sharper than the sharpest of rat claws. It is beautiful. And it looks like it hurts. Senior nods to Toothy, who is off to my side. Toothy finally raises the syringe and injects me, inserting the bitter tip just below the crook of my arm. Fire spreads at the point into my whole body. I writhe. I can’t help myself. It hurts. Finally, relief comes with spreading blackness, and I sink away. As I fade, my last sight is of that shining metal slice- the scalpel- descending toward my body. I am no longer alive. I no longer think. I no longer am. And they know it. *My life for theirs.