Our Hideous Progeny

by C.E. McGill

‘I should not have to be decent,’ I hissed. ‘I should not have to be nice – God knows, you have not one ounce of compassion or propriety in your bones, and yet you’ve made it this far! I should not have to wait and grovel and plead and crush and cut away at myself until I’m small enough to fit at the margins, in the footnotes! You make all the world a game, where you decide the victor and you decide the rules, then pat yourself on the back for winning every single time! Yes, you are clever, Mr Clarke. Yes, you are talented. Every man is Shakespeare when he’s the only one in London with a pen. You simply cannot bear the notion that, were I to have a turn of it, I would be as good as you!’

‘So that’s it? We create more and more creatures, bring them into this world only to suffer, then kill them quietly when they’re of no more use to us?’ ‘That’s the way of all animals, is it not?’

What I understood was this: I cared for the Creature, yes. I loved it, as one might very well love a child – or a symphony, or a masterpiece, or a beloved pet raised from infancy, or anything else perfect and beautiful that one has helped shepherd into the world. What I despised was the notion that it was a replacement – some inferior substitute to that which I ought to have brought forth by natural means, through agony and blood.

If I had any sense, I knew, I would. But I have never been a sensible soul. I have only, ever, always, been angry.