Nearly a week has past since I awoke in, what I've come to learn as,
Africa. As the days pass and a I grow stronger, I continue to adapt to
the culture here as well as my place in this situation. The language
remains a mystery to me, as I have only known one my whole life. As
such, communicating has been the main barrier between myself and the
community around me. There are only a few amongst the thirteen humans
that truly understand my struggle. I have met several like me in the
surrounding African community, though most continue to reject my kind.
During the first few days of my consciousness, I came to realize that my
host has been tasked with creating works of art on clear pieces of
material. Another like me also has a a host who would create similar
works. He has become my dear friend and, perhaps, my only friend.
Though we cannot communicate directly, it is clear that he shares the
same desires of freedom and a voice of our own. Yet another grows
amongst the thirteen humans, though his survival is not certain. The
constant struggle against the machines that continually "cut us down to
size" (as the humans say) is shared betwixt every budding member of my
small family.
My host has never beheld something as I am. Because
of his unfamiliarity with our kind, he has struggled to cope with the
burden that we often times present upon our births. Long fleshy limbs,
attached to a larger mechanism which controls their movement, run over
top and between my being. The majority of the contact between my host
and I have been civil. Though my occasional protest has prompted the
limbs he possesses to hard and rake them across my back. The feeling is
quite unpleasant, and I have refrained from continuing such actions.
The thought of creating such an itch has all but left my thoughts
entirely. Our relationship has grown considerably more friendly as the
days have passed, and what was once a great burden has become a
partnership that has been beneficial to us both. The humans are not
always as appreciative towards me, as they have been towards the others
like me, as I have a genetic disability that hinders my growth. One day
I may still reach my full potential, if my host approves of my
continued existence.
Africa seems, to me, to accept my existence
on several different levels. The local community hosts many of us in
varying shapes and sizes. Though they do not let us reach our fullest
potential. This is most likely due to preconceptions that have held
down the progress of our societies since the invention of the
multi-leveled cutting machines. Such advances in human technology will
obviously prevent many of us from reaching our full potential. There
have even been rumors of a device that whirs and roars as it cuts down
my brothers and sisters. I, however, do not fully believe that such a
device exists. Such a monstrous contraption can only be the creation of
Satan himself.
I do miss my family. The longing to be near them
once again has prompted this daring endeavor of putting pen to page
while my host slumbers. He sleeps often, though it appears that many of
the human hosts harbor the same thoughts of rest. As a people we are
not known to rest often. Instead we spend our days drawing nutrients
covertly from our hosts. I suppose if they knew how we used the waters
and oils to build ourselves up, they would permit even fewer of us to
exist. It has been a long while since my family and I were parted. The
blades of those dastardly machines swept away my wife, my love, my
life. Alas, it is a cruel and cold world without her touch. The hope
that one day our paths may come back together keeps my heart beating and
my spirits high. Though I live in constant fear that my host may soon
muster the courage to follow through with my destruction. I fear the
same for my beloved wife as well. But I must remain strong and have
faith that she is safe somewhere far away. We will be reunited, my
beloved Safira.
My host stirs during his slumber. This motion
often means that I must be still and wait until he falls still once
more. I will continue to write this, my journal, my story. Until I am
able to put pen to page once more, I wish you well. Pray for my
continued survival.
Always,
Scott's Beard
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