You weren't a person, or a soul, or anything of significance.

You were a toy. Handmade, hand picked.

A creation, something discovered, something dead.

Who knew the dead had hearts?

You stared up at the cold, hard ceiling, the tattered sofa beneath you cold and uncomfortable. With a muted sigh, you ignored the sound of slow stitching, and the man above you. He tugged hard on something, which you ignored, before cutting the string attached to your stomach once again. He stood up, and made his way to the computer, sitting in his normal chair. The cut would heal in time without a scar, like it had always done. You were a toy. His perfect creation. You once again found yourself questioning, seeking an answer to a question that couldn't be answered. Seeking something beyond the silence or pessimistic comments of your creator. How many times had he cut you open? How many times had you let him? Did it matter anymore? No. It didn't matter. You would let him cut you, again and again. You knew you would.

"Stein?" You asked quietly, still staring at the ceiling. You were met by silence, as you always were. You were never treated with anything more then contempt, and experiment gone wrong, perhaps. You didn't sigh, didn't make a sound. You just stared unblinking at the cold concrete above you, your mind processing things slowly. "Am I a person?" You asked, already knowing the answer. You had asked the question over and over again, each and every answer the same. Each word hurting more then the last. There was a sigh, and a puff of smoke as the typing let up for a moment. "No. You're not a person, you are a 'thing'." You nodded your head dully, already having known. "Stein." You asked again, pausing as the keys clicked again. There was no answer, but you hadn't expected one anyway. "Am I alive?" You asked, another regular question. There was another silence, before another pause, and another sigh. "No. You're already dead." You stayed silent, watching the spiders in the corner of the room. The keys clicked on, the never ending sound filling your mind.

"Stein?" You asked softly, one more time. This time, he paused properly, turning to look at you. "Yes?" It was your turn to hesitate. This was the last question. "What am I to you?" You didn't expect much, as normal, and today was no exception. There was a silence, before the keys started again. "You are whatever I want." You stared up at the unforgiving ceiling, your eyes dull and pained.

'Stein?' You called silently, your lifeless, unbeating heart faltering. In your mind, you got an answer. With a sad smile, you lifted a hand towards the ceiling.

'I love you.'