Primal Nature

by Monique Singleton

  ‘

  What if we accept that the impossible is only improbable

  until someone proves that it exists.

  The world is a big place.

  Who is to say that what I dream,

  what I write, isn’t out there somewhere?

  For everyone who believes in dreams.

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this book to Richard Butler.

  At no cost, which is very much appreciated by this new author,

  he did a thorough read-through of my first draft finding countless typo’s and silly mistakes.

  Richard was not only my editor, he was also my teacher.

  Because of him, my books are the best they can be.

  And thank you to all the rest of you who helped make this possible.

  You know who you are.

  Published by Monique Singleton

  Copyright © 2018 Monique Singleton

  All rights reserved.

  Version 3.0

  Visit my website at:

  http://www.moniquesingleton.com

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  https://www.amazon.com/Monique-Singleton/e/B06Y44KGP9/ref=dbs_p_ebk_rwt_abau

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  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is written in UK English. That means that some of the spelling can differ if you are used to USA English. The content of the book is rated 18+ due to the violence and explicit scenes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locals and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictions manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve tried to kill me.

  Hundreds, maybe even thousands. And not only in the course of the two global wars that so characterise the past two eras.

  When will you get it through your thick heads that you cannot succeed. I’m here for as long as I want to be. You do not decide my fate. That prerogative is mine, and mine alone. I’m here to stay, I’m here for eternity.

  But still you try and every time you fail.

  You can’t kill me.

  But man, it hurts.

  Every time you shoot me, cut me, try to blow me up, whatever, it hurts. Causing the pain and anger within me to build exponentially. Clouding my judgement, clouding my reserves and morals, with the expected result—I kill you.

  I am no stranger to pain. In the two-hundred and fifty-eight years I have lived up till now, pain has been the one constant factor.

  That and death—yours, not mine.

  I started off human, or at least had no reason to think otherwise. I was born, grew older, got sick and better again, nothing unusual or even remotely interesting. All the human traits.

  Until it stopped. All of it.

  I stopped growing old. I never got sick again. And life definitely got a lot more interesting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’m cynical.

  Eternity does that to you.

  I’ve seen so much evil in humans that it eclipses any goodness that might lie dormant.

  As you will have guessed, I’m not a fan. But that’s mutual. You don’t like me. Not after you really get to know me.

  It’s not that you think I’m malicious, or inherently evil or anything superficial like that. Just different, and that terrifies you. That—and jealousy—colours any relationship between you and me.

  Why? Well it’s too simple to exile all myth and folklore to the realms of fantasy.

  True, the majority of them are ninety-nine percent fantasy. But somewhere, deep down, there is the origin. The reason for the myth—a small wafer of truth.

  And that’s the really scary part.

  The enormous technological advancements that characterise the last few hundred years lulled you into a sense of control. You think you can rationalise everything.

  Well you can’t. There are still things in this world that defy reason—that your scientists or politicians can’t explain. There are still things that you can’t control.

  And that terrifies you.

  I’m not human anymore.

  That implies that I once was. For the first forty-odd years, my life was quite normal by your standards, nothing really strange or out of the ordinary. I still don’t have a definite reason why I am what I am. There was no poisonous spider, or mythical animal bite, no radiation from a meteoroid as the catalyst or anything dramatic like that. Nothing that I can label “The Reason.”

  In my early forties my scars and wrinkles stared to fade. I welcomed this and thought I’d started some kind of second youth due to better eating habits. Who wouldn’t? At that age you begin to understand that nobody—not even you—has eternal youth and that you start to look remarkably like your parents did twenty-five years earlier. How’s that for a nightmare? Wrinkles? Sagging figure? Cosmetic surgery comes to mind. Well anyway. I didn’t need surgery. I was becoming younger, or at the very least—not ageing.

  Everyone around me of course was growing older. My husband started off younger than me. I buried him looking like his granddaughter.

  People stalked me for an explanation. How did I do it?

  Surprise quickly made way for resentment. I could at least share my secret. Let other people benefit from my “fountain of youth”. I wanted to, but how could I if I didn’t know myself?

  I tried to find out. One of the perks of longevity is that you have ample time to learn. I studied biology, chemistry, anything that could help me understand what was going on. But the answers eluded me.

  It’s funny how friends and family turn to enemies because you have something they covet. Especially something so elementary as longevity. But be careful what you wish for. Immortality is not the eternal dream that it is portrayed to be, it’s more of an eternal nightmare.

  The resentment and jealousy finally drove me away from everything and everyone I knew. That, and the fact that I was the subject of countless medical experiments and tests. Everyone wanted to know what stopped me from ageing. Everyone wanted a piece of me.

  I was sick of it and so I left. Besides, everyone I really loved, every family member or friend, was already dead, even the ones that were born long after me. I had said so many goodbyes, there was nothing left.

  They still needed answers, so I was brought back.

  There are just so many needles, debasement and tests someone can take before they snap. With me there was one too many. But instead of becoming abusive or just plain giving up, I changed. Changed in ways that defied science and belief. That was the start of my exile. That was when they started hunting me with a vengeance. It heralded my promotion from an anomaly to a major threat. In the end the whole weight of the government and military fuelled the hunt.

  But even then, in those dark times, there were ways to disappear if you really wanted to.

  I needed to.

  Not just to evade them. More than anything else I needed to find out and come to terms with what I was.

  It would be nice to say that I went to a sanctuary in Tibet or somewhere exotic
like that, where enlightened masters showed me my new path in life and my place in the universe.

  But that’s not how it went.

  We’ll pick up the story about that later. I want to finish what I see as the “management summary” first.

  I’ve experienced things that would make you sick. Killed and healed. Loved and lost, as the clichés so eloquently say.

  I have seen governments and nations come and go. Lived through both global wars in the twenty-first and twenty-second century. Come out the other side, sometimes even with a sense of direction and purpose.

  In your human years, I would now be two-hundred fifty-eight. Quite a life span. Me? I’m only just beginning.

  So, why am I writing this epistle? Why come out of hiding now? Well, by the time this manuscript becomes public in any way, if it ever does, I will be long gone. Back to my old ways of making myself invisible.

  There have been many theories about what I am. Some extremely far-fetched, some have merit. None completely fit—save one. One reason. One explanation that sticks in my head. That just might offer the answers that I want, that I need. But I need to be sure. I need to put everything that has happened to me in perspective. Review the timeline as it were. That will help me determine whether I accept the theory as my basis. As my destiny. For that, I need to tell my story. I need to share what happened. I need to explain.

  I’ve given up on acceptance. I have no illusion that I will be one of you. Don’t even want to be.

  So, ok. Let’s backtrack, go down memory lane. Go back to where it more or less really started.

  Round about my ninety-third birthday, I was in quite a fix. I had been the focus of medical interest and experiments for more than thirty years. Understandable. I looked the consummate thirty-four-year-old. I was in excellent health and had a body to die for. Dr Karpatski, my old MD, had been genuinely worried for me, he wanted to make sure that I was all right. He could never have imagined the pain and torture that his good intentions would cause. He and the initial scientists wanted the best: for me, and for others who could benefit from the “talents” I had.

  That was the noble goal. The other ones we will encounter further on. Be patient.

  I had been in and out of medical institutions, poked at, scanned, tested and put through the mangle. I finally managed to disappear for a few years, started a new life and was subsequently kidnapped and transported to a secure facility somewhere in the Americas. There the tests continued. That I was there against my will didn’t seem to bother anyone. It was for the greater good, so I was designated a volunteer.

  The first year the circumstances were reasonable. I had a “suite” of rooms and some form of privacy, however controlled. The doctors—and I use that term loosely—still wanted my cooperation.

  But as time passed, the results remained slim. Somewhere down the line they decided that it was my fault and subsequently tried to force me to cooperate. Problem was, I wasn’t sabotaging the tests. I actually hoped they would find what they were looking for so that I could finally leave.

  How’s that for naivety?

  I didn’t know, couldn’t answer the questions. No matter how often I tried to make them understand, it didn’t sink in. It was unacceptable, because that would mean that they had failed and that was not an option. There was too much at stake.

  The initial group that “recruited” me still had illusions of saving mankind. Curing diseases like AIDS, Cancer and LKX-clones—quite enviable goals.

  Changes in staff brought changes in incentive. Budgetary issues necessitated new partners—not so noble ones. Partners, more interested in the monetary successes that could be achieved. Eternal Youth is of course the ultimate product.

  The military came later on. After the cosmetic companies gave up. After the revolution had started.

  I see it all in my mind, clear as day. I relive what happened over and over again. And now I’ll share it with you. It’s not pretty.

  You have been warned.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The walls of the cell were closing in on her again, sickly grey, damp and covered in mould. The small window at the top right of the far wall was dirty, filled with fly shit and grime so thick it barely let in the light. Not that the speck of clouded sky did much to relieve her dark mood anyway.

  The room was Spartan, fifteen by fifteen feet, grey walls, one solid metal door, a table and a chair—not for her, naturally. The ever-present stench of her stale dried blood and sweat hung in the air. In an attempt to get her to cooperate they had left her on her tortured feet for more than forty-eight hours. They wanted to force her to answer the questions she had no answers to.

  “Big nose” as she called the eldest doctor, the one who had been here from the start more than three or four years ago, had been ranting and raving again, spittle flowing from his mouth and his face bright red. One of these days she fully expected the veins pulsating in his prominent nose to explode. That or he would have a heart attack. She was laying bets on which would hit him first. His nose was winning, the strained skin looking ready to erupt. It was business as usual.

  The doctor, a small thin man of about fifty-five with a big chip on his shoulder, did not impress her in the least. His demeanour was that of someone who desperately needed recognition but wasn’t really getting any, despite all his intellect and effort.

  ‘It’s you; you’re doing this’ he spat, ‘you refuse to let us do our work. Do you have any idea the trouble you are getting me and the staff here into?’ Pacing the small interrogation room, she could feel the agitation he exuded in the air around him. She didn’t react. It wouldn’t have done any good, not that she could be bothered anyway.

  The fatigue was showing on her face and in the slight tremors in her legs and torso. All she wanted to do was lie down and forget everything for a few hours. Big-nose had other ideas. He had a deadline.

  ‘We need results.’ His agitation coloured his face an even darker shade of red. ‘You have no idea of what will happen to us, or to you for that matter, if we don’t come up with something, anything.’ His breath came in frantic bursts. Saliva landed on her face again. He stood so close that she was forced to inhale his stale smelling breath and body-odour, as he tormented her with his relentless questions. Looking up at him, her eyes showed the contempt.

  ‘Whatever.’ She replied.

  He hit her. Slapped her across the face. She didn’t flinch. The increased anger caused him to shake with pure rage and utter helplessness.

  ‘You think we’re tough?’ Could his nose get any brighter? ‘Well this is a picnic to what will happen when the military takes over, and they will.’

  ‘They will break you’ he added smugly, contorting his face into what was supposed to be a grin. Moving around the table he lowered himself into the chair and smirked at her.

  The past months had been bad. All the tests that were performed ended up useless. Time and again blood and tissue was extracted, and once it left her body, it died quite spectacularly. The nucleus of the cells imploded, the DNA liquefied into a brown mush and there was nothing they could learn from the samples anymore. It frustrated the hell out of the scientists.

  Initially they suspected malfunction of the equipment. Then they suspected each other of sabotage. Security checks were intensified. The scientists were interrogated, which was a short reprieve for her. Finally, they ruled out sabotage or malfunction. That left her. But how as was she doing it. Was it a conscious act? How could she control her body, her cells, like that? Even after they had left her body.

  She was tortured, physically and mentally. Nothing seemed too depraved for them. Placed in a cage not even fit for a small dog, she felt degraded, less than human, less even than a lab rat. They kept her there for five days. Not letting her out, not even for toilet breaks, she lay in her own excrement. Cramped beyond compare, with no way to avoid the stink, the filth and the inevitable bugs that were attracted to the waste, she felt humiliated… debased. When they finally let
her out, all she could do was crawl out of the muck, her seized-up muscles wouldn’t work. Finally, free of the constraints, she just lay there while they hosed her down, too cramped and depressed to even try to resist.

  But still they didn’t get any answers. Refusing to give up, they took samples again, and again, and again. Anaesthetic was discarded. she healed anyway, so what did it matter. Any wounds and scars were gone within twelve hours. Biopsies were taken from all major organs, except the brain and hart as they didn’t want to inadvertently kill her. If she did not willingly comply, they strapped her down to the table. The only tests that showed results were the ones documenting her increasing strength and healing capabilities. The more they cut the quicker she healed. And subsequently the more frustrated they became—yelling at her and subjecting her to further abuse.

  The door opened. The youngest doctor Hardy—the nice one—entered the dim room, unintentionally hurting her eyes with the sharp light that followed him into the dim cubicle. He looked pale. Frightened.

  ‘He’s here, doctor Collins’ he said. ‘He’s waiting for you in your office.’ He fidgeted uncomfortably waiting for Big-Nose to reply. ‘Doctor Collins?’ Sheepishly.

  ‘Yes, yes, I heard you.’ Collins zoned back from wherever he had been. Standing up he looked at her with a mixture of disgust and pity. ‘You brought this upon yourself’ he whispered.

  She continued to stare at the small window as the two men left the room. She didn’t sit. They were watching her, she knew that, any deviation to the current situation would bring repercussions—painful ones. She didn’t need more pain. So, she just stayed upright where she was and waited.