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 watch my sister walk into the surgical facility, I contemplate everything we have lost in the last week to save her life. It cost me two hands and a leg. And my mother, well, her forest green eyes are now in some rich kid's head. It's still a little disturbing to see her with two red orbs in her eye sockets, instead of the shade that always reminded me of the first days of spring. My mother already sold her heart last year when we were way behind on the rent. He claims he can't even feel the plastic. At least if he avoids mirrors he can pretend he's not a fake. My hands, however, we all agreed, were our greatest sacrifice. Even without it, my fingers moved across the table, attempting to play Prokofiev's Eighth Sonata with my now clumsy silicone fingers. Even without the piano I could tell that I couldn't reach the speed of the rising and falling notes. If anyone looked closely they would have noticed how fake my hands were, but at least they gave an illusion of reality as they were covered in a thin layer of silicone to simulate my skin. My leg, however, does nothing of the sort. Under my skin, an array of synthetic neural sensors connects to the base of my spine. Large metal plates begin to appear around the bottom of the waist, attempting to cover the ball joint underneath. A large metal tube extends, replaces my thigh then at the knee a huge cylindrical connection allows me to move. On my feet I have one of the already prepared shoes. We asked for a simple design so I could easily find a similar left pair for my actual foot. But the falseness of my foot is visible everywhere and... middle of paper... no. I need to get out of here. Please let me out. I try to cry. I don't deserve it. I work hard, I go to school, I don't get in trouble. All I've ever wanted for my family is the chance to have a career. Everything I worked for won't matter anymore. All because I'm a Fake, and Fakes are never worth anything. And now I never will.***** A month later there is a fifteen year old boy on stage. He mentally retraces the first lines of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, before placing his hands on the keys. They land and start playing. But it's the wrong music. His fingers move with such skill and speed that the boy closes his eyes and lets them go. At first he doesn't notice the different melody. This song had been in his hands since he received them. But until that moment he had not been able to name what his hands had played, Prokofiev's Eighth Sonata..