alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon.
creations, copies, memories
of a madman, a doctor i once loved.

the youngest, the slyest, the cleverest,
he was nothing more than a
proof of concept—
never meant to be his own person—
never meant to feel, to live, to know.
loved and hated in turn by myself and my lover.

mechanical, malevolent, merciless—
the truest reflection of the doctor’s soul.
i loved them all the same,
but beta, perhaps, a little less.

from his birth on, we decayed.
charming banter one moment,
cutting barbs the next,
to know the best and worst parts of each other,
once, it was a blessing.

the peacekeeper,
the fourth iteration.
he of the greatest faith,
he of gossamer nostalgia,
he who yearned for what we once were
he who begged the doctor for another chance.

the sweetest, kindest of them all,
the softest side of his maker,
the final incarnation of him
after a love shattered and lost.
after the original bond was too fractured,
epsilon, the closest imitation, takes his place.

‘the gods demanded their elimination, my love,’ the doctor says, stroking my face in a mockery of a loving caress, of an apology, ‘don’t despair so much. they were nothing but iterations of myself, in the end. they were only made to make you stay.’

Photo: Mithul Varshan on