The Greatest Sacrifice: A Narrative

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His Eighth Sonata
You would think that having four jobs in the family would be able to support the three of us, but apparently not. As I see my sister enter the surgical facility, I contemplate all that we have lost this last week to save her life. It cost me my two hands and a leg. And my mom, well, her forest green eyes are now in some rich guys head. It's still a little unsettling seeing her with two red spheres in her eye sockets, instead of the shade that always reminded me of the first days of spring. My mom already sold her heart last year when we were far behind on rent. She claims she couldn’t even feel the plastic. At least if she avoids mirrors she can pretend not to be a Fake.
My hands however, we all agreed were our biggest sacrifice. Even without them, my fingers twitched on the table, attempting to play Prokofiev's Eighth Sonata with my now clumsy silicon fingers. Even without the piano I could tell that I could not achieve the speed of the increasing and decreasing notes. If anyone looked closely they could notice how fake my hands were, but at least they gave some illusion of reality as they were covered in a thin layer of silicone to simulate my skin. My leg, however, does no such thing. Under my skin, a collection of synthetic neural sensors connect at the base of my spine. The large metallic platelets start to appear around my lower waist, attempting to cover the ball joint underneath. A large metal tube extends, replacing my thigh then at my knee an enormous cylindrical connection allows me to move. At my foot I instead have one of the pre-designed shoes. We asked for a simple design so that could we could easily find a similar left pair for my real foot. But the fakeness of my foot is visible everywhere an...

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... no. I need to get out of here. Please let me out. I try to cry. I don't deserve this. I work hard, I go to school, I don't get into trouble. All I have ever wanted for my family is a chance to move up. All I have worked for will no longer matter. All because I'm a Fake, and Fakes never amount to anything. And now I never will.
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A month later a boy of fifteen is on stage. He goes over the first few lines of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in his head, before he places his grafted hands on the keys. They land and start to play. But it's the wrong music. His fingers move with such an aptitude and speed that the boy closes his eyes and lets them go on. At first he doesn't notice the different tune. This song had been in his hands since he got them. But up until that very moment he had not been capable of naming what his hands had been playing, Prokofiev's Eighth Sonata.

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