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Filed under Art, Writing

The ‘Social Experiment — Part 3

A Change of Pace (Warning: Explicit Content)

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About the Author: Jordan Simon (Creative Writing, Class of 2019) is at home in the realm of ink and paper. He typically writes short stories of varying genres, though his most preferred is horror. Capable in poetry and comfortable with anything relating to fiction, he is a well-rounded writer with a bit of a soft-spot for the dramatic. He hopes to use his degree to further himself in the journalism field, where he hopes to write articles and art pieces for a newspaper or magazine one day.


AEGIS_Project EEV — Part 3: A Change of Pace
by Jordan Simon


Day 6

It’s been a couple of days now and our plans are moving forward. Between my plans for Eve’s new living arrangements, excessive bruising in my abdominal region, and yesterday’s shopping, I haven’t had much of an opportunity to write.

Although Eve was initially intent on fighting our most recent decision, I managed to inspire a change of heart–though the critical hit to my wallet remains tender, what with yesterday’s shopping.

I complain about “excessive spending,” but Eve is hardly materialistic. I shelled out just $86 to buy her a new wardrobe’s-worth of cheap clothes. I didn’t have to go anywhere either, as we did it, online. I hardly have room to complain She seemed content just with the idea of wearing something, not completely drowning in color. Plus, I can hardly fault her for the cost when it was my idea. Nevertheless, within the private confines of my personal journal, I will allow myself the right to silently gripe over it all.

She’s promised to do her best to be patient with this new “mystery” guy. I believe her. Eve is not the type to make promises, lightly. Nevertheless, I find that something continues to worry me…

“Ivernn.” Pierce’s voice suddenly sounded from the tiny intercom on Simon’s desk, breaking him out from his thoughts. “I want you in my office. Now. We have much to discuss.”

Pen left paper and Simon rose, twitching discomfort as he left his seat. His notebook was dumped into the top-left cabinet and secured with a classic master lock. Though he couldn’t prove it, he suspected that Pierce was hardly hesitant when it came to perusing through their things. It was just the type of self-entitled nonsense he could see her trying to justify. After all, she’d fought long and hard to keep him from taking the weekend off, despite two dislocated fingers his creaking ribs, both suffered while doing his job. Rolling his eyes at that thought, he shuffled out of the room, wincing every-so-often with a particularly reckless step and making his way to answer her summons.


Growing up, I’d never really understood why things were the way they were. For my entire life, I’d lived in a Spartan room, 816 square feet of white -uninterrupted, save for the persistent splashes of aged red that the cleaners never could clean. I wondered, constantly, why everyone, even the Good Doctor -he prefers to be called that-, looked and smelled so strangely. I never understood why it was so easy, almost natural, to hurt others. Over time, I just began to chalk it all up to simply existing amongst the long list of differences between us.

As I got older and I started to understand my slice of the world beyond the simple range of eat and sleep’, I began making my own opinions of what this life held in store for me. It wasn’t until I became ‘old enough,’ as the Good Doctor said, that I was told the truth. I’m not normal; in fact, I’d even go so far as to say that I am essentially the poster girl for all things abnormal. After all, normal people don’t have claws and fangs, or flashy, red eyes; normal people don’t have to worry about accidentally killing other normal people with an ill-focused hug.

I guess, in a way, I’d always known. Though there’s something to be said about the difference between strongly suspecting something and having it confirmed by an expert on the subject. The Good Doctor is many things, but a liar isn’t one of them. I know that I can trust him. I suppose that’s why I like him so much, instead of merely tolerating him…which is a surprise in its own, as I’m hardly tolerant, to begin with.

The Good Doctor is different though. He doesn’t just treat me like a statistic like the Mean Director and the other White Coats do. His feelings are a lot more tender, I think. Despite that, he remains afraid of me. I can hardly blame him, though, all things considered. The fact that he comes to visit anyways is sign enough that he’s worth caring about. Because of that, I do my best to remain extra-careful when interacting with him. To avoid hurting him…like the other day. Hey, I never said I was good at it.

Now, however, a new factor is being thrown into the mix. Some mystery person is being allowed into my space. Part of me fears I’ll accidentally hurt this newcomer…

Part of me thinks I’ll intentionally do it.

Either way, the Good Doctor made me promise, he even went so far as to bribe me with new coverings, so this is clearly important to him. For his sake, if nothing else…

I’ll try to exercise a bit of patience.


Copyright © Jordan Simon (2017) All rights reserved.

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