Transformations
The clinic's corridors, immaculate and silent, seemed to absorb the slightest sound, like a sanctuary where time faded. Here, under the guidance of Dr. Moreau, three patients underwent such profound transformations that they were no longer sure if they were still themselves. Lucas, Marc, and Étienne had crossed the threshold of this place with different expectations, but all three were about to discover a truth far darker than the one they had been sold.
Lucas, his body still marked by the stigmata of his former fragility, threw himself with almost religious fervor into an intense weight training program. Every morning, his reflection in the training room mirror seemed foreign to him, but the more weights he lifted, the more he felt his former weakness disappear. Dr. Moreau provided him with a strict diet, mysterious injections supposed to optimize his performance, and, above all, encouraging words that seeped into him like a drug.
The muscle pain became a habit, a daily ritual he endured without flinching. He lived only for these sessions, where sweat trickled down his taut skin, where each contraction reminded him that he was becoming someone else. Yet, an insidious fear gripped him: if his body kept growing, why did his mind feel weaker and weaker? He could no longer imagine a day without the doctor's approval, without these products that shaped him. Was he still the one in charge, or was an external force controlling him?
Marc, however, took a different path. His transformation wasn't measured in bulging muscles, but in ink and steel. Dr. Moreau spoke to him about the power of tattoos, the strength one draws from consenting to pain, the control one regains by altering one's own inner self. He suggested designs inspired by ancestral symbols, complex drawings that would tell his story indelibly.
The first sessions were a mixture of anxiety and excitement. The fine needle traced hypnotic interlacings on his skin, a dull ache he learned to love. Then came the piercings, methodically placed with almost surgical precision. He felt reborn, transformed by these marks that made him unique... and yet, something was wrong. He wasn't the one choosing. Every pattern, every placement, everything was decided by the doctor, who saw in him a work in progress.
As the days passed, Marc understood that he didn't stand out: he was shaped according to a model, a vision that wasn't his own. Each new mark on his body resembled a signature he couldn't control. Was he freeing himself or, on the contrary, allowing himself to be captured?
For Étienne, Dr. Moreau had other ambitions. He saw in him a unique malleability, a potential to be exploited in a more subtle direction. He spoke to him of fluidity, of the ephemeral beauty of the in-between. Fascinated by these ideas, Étienne accepted the first hormonal treatments, the minor interventions that gradually modified his features.
His hair grew longer, silkier. His cheekbones became more defined. His body transformed into an ambiguous sculpture, on the borderline of genres. At first, he marveled at it. Every day, his reflection became more fascinating, a new form of expression, a living art. But over time, he felt a sense of unease settling in: Who was he becoming? How far was he willing to go?
Dr. Moreau provided him with outfits, jewelry, and accessories. He told him what to wear, how to stand, what posture to adopt. Étienne understood then that he wasn't transforming: he was being transformed. He hadn't made choices; they had been made for him.
Each of them, in their own evolution, had lost themselves. It wasn't just a vague feeling, but a tangible reality: they had become permanent residents of the clinic. Dr. Moreau repeated to them that their transformations required constant monitoring and a stable environment. But when they tried to leave, they realized they were no longer allowed to.
The luxury of the rooms concealed a chilling truth: they were locked from the outside. The windows, behind their delicate curtains, were sealed. Their daily lives were carefully orchestrated, every exit controlled, every exchange monitored. They were unfinished works, creations the doctor had no intention of abandoning.
One night, as they quietly gathered in the common room, they overheard a muffled conversation coming from Dr. Moreau's office. They froze, holding their breath. The words filtered through the door, terrifying in their banality: "sale."
