Ten Questions for a Fictional Character: Colin of My Purpose

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Photo by Moonlightway at morguefile.com

***SPOILER ALERT!!!*** This post contains information about my story, My Purpose. If you haven’t already read this story, please click here before reading on.

 

The brim of a navy blue baseball cap peers from beneath the hood of Colin’s black sweatshirt, large sunglasses covering his eyes.

If he hadn’t told me what to look for, he would have easily faded into the summer crowd.

Seeing me, he spins on his heel and saunters around the bend of the sidewalk.

My hair clings to my sweating neck, my heart unsure of whether to stop or race with each step I take after him. I turn the corner and feel a sharp pain in my neck before the world goes black.

When I wake, my feet and hands are bound, respectively, to the arms and legs of a chair. The edges of my vision are blurred and a metallic tang fills my mouth.

“You fell and bit your tongue,” Colin says from the edge of a queen sized bed.

I resist the urge to scream. “What are you, a mind reader?”

A slow smirk inches up the corners of his mouth. “No, I’ve just tasted a lot of blood.”

“I need my hands to take notes for my article.”   

            “No, you don’t.” His gaze heavy on me, he places an old tape recorder on the night stand. A small red light begins to flash. “Ask away. My story is all yours.”

“Where did you come from?”

            “When a man and a woman—”

“Stop.”

            He laughs. “That’s the standard answer, isn’t it?”

“A clone is anything but standard.”

            “Cloning a person is either impossible or illegal, depending on who you ask.” Laying back on the bed, he lowers the cap over his eyes. “How did you find out about me?”

“Like you said, your story is all mine.”

White teeth gleam in the lamplight. “I came from a test tube initially, and a random volunteered womb secondarily.”

“Whose test tube?”

            “Not the CIA or FBI, but it has as many initials.”

“Why did they make you?”

            “They wanted control over the political landscape. I’m an untraceable way to do so. No one will vote for a man who sired a murderer.”

“How old are you?”

            “Mentally, emotionally, physically, or chronologically?”

My mind swirls. “All of the above.”

            He lifts a finger at a time, ticking off his answers. “Mentally, 24. Emotionally, probably 15. Physically, well,” lifting the bill of his hat, he winks, “you can judge for yourself. Chronologically, I’ll be ten next month.”

“Did the agency create you to be a murderer?”

            “Yep.” He closes his eyes again.

“How do you deal with that?”

            His jaw tightens, his foot twitching. “From the day I was created, I was told I have a purpose. If I don’t fulfill it, I’m worthless.”

“What’s your next step?”

            “Well, seeing as I was supposed to terminate myself on that night, I don’t have a plan anymore. Nothing else went right, so I just started making it up.”

“What was the plan?”

            “Shoot the business man, leave the wife and nurse as witnesses of what their precious son had done. Then go to a dump and find a nice deep spot to take a long nap. Thing was, after the way everything went down, I wasn’t tired.”

“Why did the agency want you to kill him?”

            He shrugs. “I thought I already answered that question. Besides, “why” isn’t a word they taught me much about. What’s your last question?”

I push down the lump in my throat. “Do you feel guilty for framing an innocent man?”

            The emotion in his eyes vanishes with a blink, a deep breath draining from his lungs. “Why should I? It’s his purpose.”

Reaching over, he turns off the recorder and opens the nightstand’s drawer, pulling out a syringe.

 

Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed this interview. Check back next week for another new post!

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