Wow. Where to start? I suppose I should introduce myself. My real name is Markus, or Mark for short. Although anyone that I knew close enough to call me that is now dead. Everyone calls me the Lark. A blind experiment that should be in a containment tube in space. The year is currently 2035, a big 5 year. I was born on July 16th, 2015, 20 years ago from today. Turns out my mother hid this old computer for my 18th birthday. It's a shame I had to get it 2 years late. However, in honor of her and her dreams I'm going to use it how she would want me to. To write. I suppose this would be an adequate beginning. Selena Kelmen, my mother, was a writer, and an extremely talented one at that. Philip Kelmen was my father, a computer scientist for the government, also extremely talented at his work. They both lived together in a fair size house in North Carolina. I remember it's soft white gleam on the outside, and it's shimmering wooden and tile floors. My mother liked the house practically spotless. When they had me, my dad was working heavily on a government project while my mother had just started her second book. Naturally, since my father was gone most of the day for his project, I became quite attached to my mother. She would take care of me all day, yet somehow find time to write, usually while I was at school.

As I got older she'd even ask me for ideas for her book. Interesting how much imagination I had back then as a child. How much everyone had. Dreams were invited and accepted, the most preposterous ideas would be put on display and brought to be put with even more preposterous ideas. These were then used to be combined into things no one had ever seen or made before. That time is now known as the Creative years. Thousands of dreams and imaginations that were thought to be impossible came to life in those years. Generations of development skipped. Today, however, they say being so attached to anything is a mistake, for it only ever ends in pain. Even our brightest hopes and dreams are certain to flicker away in the end, so what is the point in dreaming at all? However, I believe otherwise, as those days were the happiest I have ever lived, and those memories are the only thing keeping me alive today. I wouldn't trade that attachment and imagination for anything. That, however, is besides the point.

Unfortunately I am left writing this down, although my mother should be the one writing this, with her small glasses, coffee breaks, smart comments at my jokes, and random laughter over her characters. I'm certain she could come up with a greater form of this book. Ah, but I detract from the main issue. As my mother would say, "You've gone on a rabbit trail to Wonderland and back." Back to the story. Up until I became 12, my life was a fairly normal one, my mind overflowing with the imagination I had received from both of my parents. However, when I was 10 my dad came home early, well, earlier than usual. I was supposed to be in bed, however, I snuck out and came down to see my father. I started down the stairs quietly, and then quickly decided to scoot back up enough to be hidden, but still hear, for my father walked in with a grave look on his face. My mother quickly greeted him, then asked why he was home early. After a lengthy discussion involving serious whispers, I translated enough of them to realize his project had been canceled, due to the government not seeing enough direct results. My father had put his whole career into this project of his, he'd often come home overjoyed with the progress they had made. Constantly spurting out equations and medical terms that made my head spin. Once I had him explain it to me, he simply stated these words while jabbing me in the forehead with his finger. "Son, we're going to turn life into words in the blink of an eye. We're going to see with words what eyes can't. And the key to it all is right up there. Just remember that when the time comes." My dad continued working on the technical part of the project at home, typing in miles of confusing green code into the computer.

Life went on fairly normal for the next 2 years, until a couple weeks after I turned 12. That day someone broke into our house. General Rochester, or Roachy as I like to call him now, as I liked to imagine him as a cockroach, the sadistic monster. He had people watching my dad, paying attention to his work alone on the project. Turns out he wanted the project for his own uses, saying someone bigger than the government wanted it. He even offered my father an extremely large sum of money. Naturally my dad refused to give him any data, and told him to get lost. General Rochester left in a stream of cursing at being so bluntly rejected. The next day Roachy came again, this time putting a gun to my temple and telling us all to get in his van. After promptly putting us in the van he gassed us with bags and next thing we know we're in the middle of Kansas. He ordered us out and into a massive lab in the middle of nowhere, continuing to point his pistol at my head as he led us into the building. The facility had mechanical eyes painted into the walls, with WoS in the center of the pupil all over the lab. It turned out that several scientists had been working with him already, apparently from whatever person Roachy was working for. The general was ordered to have the project, which was labeled WoS and under the code name of Words of Sight, finished in 2 weeks from today. Other wise he'd kill us all. He then put me and my mother into a cell in the facility, only feeding us essentials and minimums to survive, leaving us alone to imagine what would happen in two weeks time.

It's fascinating now, but those two weeks were probably the most bonding weeks with my mother. Even though I've been mainly raised by my mother the entirety of my life, I learned more about her in those two weeks than my entire life. You know, when you live with someone your entire life, you tend to forget to ask them questions about their life. It was then that I decided that if I got out of that place I'd write for her. I gained such an incredible respect for that woman. It turns out that she had several incredible ideas, all of which she shared with me in those two weeks. These ideas, my mother's dreams, were shunned by her publisher when she asked him about it. Apparently, her plots were too "ludicrous" and didn't have what people wanted right now. Her dreams however, did not go without use. My father actually used one of her ideas to start the government project he was working on. She explained to me that he had dubbed it the Words of Sight project. In the meantime my mother continued writing her other stories, despite her publisher's opinion. Unfortunately, she started to blame herself for the whole mess now, since she essentially made the beginning project. Many nights we sat in our cell, her telling me story after story, excitably explaining details, then at the end of the day end up in tears. Despite the extremely bleak circumstance, I dreamed up worlds in that small containment cell. The musky scent and rough rock walls just added to my imagination, as happy, sunny, cloudy, dreary, bleak, snowy, purple, green, blue, peaceful, and even warring worlds were played in my mind. My mother in those two weeks took off my mental leash, allowing my brain to fully unleash its imagination.

Or, so I remember now, which may be quite over exaggerated, seeing as I am allowed barely any imagination. Anyways, my mind had to make up for not having anything else to do. However, now I realize that the whole time my mother was telling me stories, she was worrying herself to death. She simply told me all those things to keep me from realizing the danger, or worrying about father. Half the time she would continue just to keep her own mind distracted from father. Finally those 2 weeks were up, the morning guard woke us up and gave us our breakfast as usual, however this time after we had finished he actually talked to us. "General Rochester wants you two punks in the lab right now. You don't want to make him wait." The guard grunted to us. He had an obvious British accent in his voice. He then led me and my mother into the main laboratory, where my father was laid out on a computer, dead asleep. Roachy then materialized from the doorway opposite where we came in from and walked over to him, striking him on his back with a police baton. "Get up; it's the last day of the second week." My father quickly flinched into a sitting position, allowing us to see the deep dark circles under his eyes, giving away the amount of sleep he had been getting. "But sir, I just need a little bit longer, tell him that it just needs some touching up." My father croaked, sounding desperate. "No, you failed Philip. And for that there will be consequences. However, first I'd like you to explain to these two, who have been out of the loop for a while." For the first time in two weeks I got a good look in my father's eyes as he turned towards me. Instantly unbearable hurt and fear were displayed in my father's eyes, cutting me to the core. Tearing his eyes away from us my father turned back to Roachy. "No, why bring them into this Rochester? You want me. I'm the one behind the project, I can fix this, they should be left alone!" Roachy put his police baton back in its place on his hip, deciding not to beat my father at the moment. "Yes, Philip. I've heard some rumors floating around that maybe you weren't the original producer of this ingenious project of the future. It seems only someone of a less...practical mind could come up with this. However you were indeed behind the technical side of this project, you made that dream into a reality. I only thought it proper that the person responsible should see her thoughts being brought to life, and as for your son, who better to test it on than the combination of both intellect and imagination?" Roachy grinned sadistically, showing off his slightly yellow teeth. I couldn't move after Roachy mentioned me, I stood anchored with my arms around my mother, waiting for some explanation. Even if the guards didn't have guns pointed at both our heads, my legs wouldn't let me run, although that was what I wanted so desperately to do.

My dad grabbed at Rochester, now obviously desperate. "You can't! Why not test it on the one who let the idea come to light? Rochester, we had a deal! I finish this project in two weeks' time, my family and I go free, if not you spare my family in exchange for me as a test subject for whatever I finished!" Tears were visible as my father screamed at Roachy. Undaunted, Rochester swiftly pulled out his baton, striking my father in the head, knocking him to the ground. Blood pooled from my father's nose as he tried to get back up. "Yes, but I see no point in releasing your family, as it appears they know too much about our little project. And using your son is much more fun, especially if you're still here to watch it. Max, take the son and his mother over to the testing area. Preparations will probably take a while, so make sure to tie them up. Philip, let's see how much you got done." Roachy grabbed my father's arms and stretched them behind his back, then walked him toward what was apparently the testing lab. Surely enough, the guard who got us out of our cell, apparently named Max, tied me and my mother's hands separately with thin rope that cut into my wrists. After that we followed Roachy into the doorway that he originally came in from. That's when hell really started to fire up. Literally. The place felt like hell itself, without all the red. Apparently with the other resources no longer being sponsored by Roach's source, the building was set to overheat in 24 hours. Everyone was perspiring buckets by the time we got to the main testing area. Max walked us to the center of the room, to some steps leading up onto a large platform that rose higher than the computers around it. A strange machine was attached to the ceiling. It appeared to be a helmet, a green helmet, with a tinted visor that covers up the chin, but with several wires and tubes leading out of the top. This mechanism had a small square hole in the bottom back of it; as though a small chip was meant to be placed inside the hole. The machine dangled down a couple feet from the floor of the platform, sending shivers in my bones as I set eyes on it. Next to it was a chair, obviously where the victim would sit to put the helmet on. This victim was me.

Max and Roach both stopped at the steps, looked at each other, then Roach took my father to set the machine up. Max tied my mother's feet and tightened the ropes on her hands, then pointed the gun at me, now able to focus on one person. "Alright Roach, everything's ready over here. Have you gotten the finished chip from Philip?" Roach appeared from behind a row of computers, dragging my father behind him while carrying a bright green chip in his other hand. Funny, now I realize that it was glowing green, an otherworldly color, not just exceptionally bright. "Took a little persuasion, but I have it. Get dear little Mark into the machine; I'll finish the final preparations. Today, Max, we start the new generation of recon soldiers." Roach raised his arms to the sky as he proclaimed all this, as if he was acting in a movie. However, I can guarantee that this was very, very real, especially for me, as everything I am, was, and will be changed in that hour. Max jabbed me in the back of the head and led me into the seat, strapping my arms and legs to the chair. As I sat there I couldn't help from yelling out to my parents. I like to think I was a pretty brave boy, not crying or shouting out to my parents up until that moment, however in that moment the tears couldn't be held back any longer. I panicked and began to call out to the only person who knew me the most; my mother. "Mother! What are they going to do to me?" Through her tears and sobs, I could understand one sentence before Max put the helmet on me, clogging my ears. "Marcus, you will be blind but able to see, I love you above everything else, but this is important, so don't forget this, my beautiful writer; remember the story of shake-"And that was the last thing I heard before I died.

It's hard to write about this part, seeing as I constantly passed out throughout the operation. I had to sit through unimaginable pain for a whole hour. Just remembering it now makes my head hurt. Imagine someone sticking a rusty nail into your head, and then slowly, extremely slowly, pressing it in deeper and deeper into your skull until it reaches your brain, and then attach the nail to it forever. Now imagine that happening with 6 nails, all coming from the chip, not to mention the several other needles that were applied to keep me from dying. That's approximately how it felt. I had to sit there for what felt like eternity, screaming whenever I wasn't unconscious. As it drew to an end, I gave up trying to open my eyes, and thus kept my eyes clenched shut, just like my hands and mouth. Finally I woke up to find that the needles had stopped. I couldn't feel the sharp sting of the needles, yet I could definitely feel the pain of the chip in my head. It burned like I had a burning coal inside my head. No, even worse, as if someone had a brand that constantly burned into the inside of my head, screaming out that I was now a freak experiment.

I finally stopped screaming, stopped shaking, and stopped moving. I sat their silently crying with my eyes closed, wishing I could have just died instead of go through that. Realizing it was over, Roach decided to ask me some questions, like I really wanted to answer his questions after that. "How do you feel Mark? Hopefully you're ready to talk, yes?" Filled with rage, yet keeping my eyes closed I tried reaching for Roach, jerking in my bondage. Knowing better than to keep trying, I stop. At the sound of Roach's laughter I couldn't withhold my anger, and thus yelled in his direction, firing spittle from my mouth as I shouted. "I hate you! I despise you! What have you done with my parents? If you hurt them I swear I'll get you for it." Roach continued to laugh, calmly taking my threats. "Well, how 'bout we go for a little test huh? You tell me, where are your parents? Open your eyes Marcus. Embrace the world of words." "I can't see, the visor is tinted, idiot." I replied, feeling a restrain on my mind as I said it. "Ah, it seems Philip was able to get rid of most it, just as he promised. Well, you won't know unless you try, now will you Marcus? Remember, you were just in an unknown experiment that could have changed anything, any part of you." Registering his logic in my mind, I growled and slowly opened my eyes, feeling the pain in my head and now my eyes increase to ten times as painful, yet what I saw was incredible. It was absolutely stunning, completely beautiful. What did I see? I saw WORDS.