Sunday, November 6, 2011

A study of man

“My god,” the doctor said, stunned at the lab results.

“What is it, what’s wrong with my babies?!”

“No, it isn’t like that. It isn’t something that’s wrong, per say.”

“What are you saying? Damn it, I don’t understand!”

“Mrs. Kelsey, your twins are… anthro kids. They’ll be uncovering bones in your backyard by the time they’re walking.”

“Wha… What?”

“Anthro kids. They’re going to be really into anthropology.”

“Is this a medical condition? What am I supposed to do?”

“Well, I’d buy the season tickets to the museum if I were you. You’re going to be there a lot.”

Wilhelmina turns her gaze away, unable to find joy in the news.

“Here, take this card; it’s a support group. Hopefully, you’ll make some friends who can help guide you through this new world.”

She leaves the clinic, unable to speak. She knows she should call their father, but she can’t muster it. After twenty-five silent minutes weeping in the front seat of her car, she remembers a place where she can go; a place where she finds comfort.

The drive seems to pass in slow motion, while the colors and shapes move passed her with blinding speed. She can’t decipher any of the signs anymore; she’s driving on pure blind intuition. Where she’s going, she’s been before, and she trusts her movements to get her there one more time. There is safety there, but she knows that when she leaves, she’ll feel conflicted and empty. Five minutes later, she’s parked in front of it, staring down the garish nativity scene peeking out from just behind the sign. The Creation Museum: the one place where anthropology doesn’t exist.

She walks through the hall where a video of Satan planting evidence against God plays on a loop, and the process of humans being formed of dirt is thoroughly buried under rhetoric and flashing lights.

“No child of mine, she thinks.”

At the very back, she finds a chapel. The priests there are perfectly styled and clean, but a sinister undercurrent immediately envelops her. She takes a seat and waits for the sermon to be over. An older man begins to rub his hand against her thigh, and she winces.

“I know what you need,” he whispers into her ear.

“Yes,” she says, with a silent tear running down her face. “Give me what I need.”

An hour later, she’s back in the parking lot, this time crying her eyes out. She finally calls him.

“Zach. I can hardly breathe right now. The doctor said… it was a miscarriage. I’m so sorry.”

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