I’m a cripple. Always have been. I was born with one of the latest cerebro-spinal disorders, unpleasant off-shoot of muddled genetic manipulation in vitro. My father was one of the leading scientists in the field at the time. He was also a drunk.
My name is Dr. Pario Souder. I’ve been tied to a chair my whole life. My voice is fake, an interpretation through a voice box reader strapped around my neck. My motion is powered by the faint movements of my right hand, the only spinal thread they could preserve as my body warped itself through my early development.
I am the inventor of the Book of All. I wrote it, and I seeded it. Nobody would have expected as much, least of all me. At the time, it was only a way to keep myself sane, to shut out the memories that weren’t mine, but it grew. Now it invades my dreams, and my dreams have become nightmares. I see my stillborn twin brother reaching up to me from his grave. I see hideous cripples lining the streets with their begging bowls empty. I see my body splayed out in a wash of grey liquid, Randell dead beside me.
I created it. I rely upon it. And now, I have to live with it.
Image from here.
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