She was also empty.
The designation was . The doctors called her Reika . She was twelve years old.
Reika’s skin was perfect. Porcelain smooth, untouched by the acne or awkwardness of other sixth graders. Her hair fell in a dark, heavy sheet to her shoulders. Her eyes, when she bothered to open them, were the color of rain on asphalt. She was, by every clinical metric, a marvel of pediatric gene therapy. Mdg 115 Reika 12
She became a ghost in a perfect body.
She tried to fake it. For her mother. For the doctors who checked in every three months, beaming at their miracle. She learned to smile at the correct times. To narrow her eyes in mock concentration. To sigh with a theatrical weariness that made her friends—her simulated friends—laugh. She was also empty
At school, the teachers praised her. “Reika-chan is so calm now.” “Reika-chan never disrupts class.” “Such a mature young lady.”
She tried to remember what it felt like to be scared of the dark. Nothing. To be excited for her father to come home from work. A blank wall. To be furious at her little brother for touching her things. A dry, soundless desert. She was twelve years old
But Reika remembered.