Fifty-eight:
Piper Powell
I had scientists for parents. Scientists that I believed were my parents, I should say. I was raised by a man and a woman whose job was to understand it and help others do so. To create things that would make it easier for us to live in it. They poked and prodded into things that maybe should have been left alone. Sometimes, curiosity is good. Other times, curiosity gets you killed. For years, I believed that the people I called my parents were dead. That I had been there the night of their horrifying death. But now I knew the truth.
My aunt was my real mother, and the woman that had raised me had done so under false pretenses. Did she really love me? Did my “father”? Or was I just an experiment to them? I needed answers. I could only do so much digg
