This is an edit. I added a bit, subtracted a bit, all thanks to your suggestions :]. I want to make it clear that the fantasy/sci-fi aspect will become clear later. It isn't immediately obvious, because the characters that bring that in haven't been introduced yet. But it will all become clear soon.
This is the beginning of a story I've been writing for the past two years. This is the third draft. I wanted to see what people who hadn't read the other drafts thought of this.... So... Here goes?
It's set in a dystpian future (Think 1984), and contains a lot of experiment victims, drama, evilness, rebellion, and mischief.
There are things you plan out purposefully, things that stay at the front of your brain, that you spend hours, days, years, even toiling over. There are also things that you plan accidentally, that linger on the very edge of your brain, that taunt you with vague familiarity. When you do those things, those accidentally planned things, the only thing on your mind is:
It was only a matter of time.
You don’t know how you know that it was only a matter of time. You never realized that you thought that at all. But somehow, you know it.
If what you accidentally plan demands an explanation, you would usually say, “It was impulse” or “I didn’t mean it” or “It was an accident”, but you know that it wasn’t. And you’re usually not the only one. You can tell by the faces of the people around you. They stare at you, maybe with a raised eyebrow, or with looks of utter abhor and shock. Part of you wants to retreat inside of yourself, and the other part wants to step up and do it again. The adrenalin fuels you, not your brain; not logic.
Especially when it’s something that you’re not supposed to do. Like slapping a relative, for example. Maybe even yelling wordlessly in the very middle of an important lecture that the other people in the room have been waiting to hear for years. Or telling the world something that you’re not supposed to know, but do anyway; something that would make people angry, or confused, or sad. All of those things, they’re just not done.
I know all of this. I’ve been taught that words can start rebellions and incite bad ideas in the minds of the world. Teacher has been implanting this information in ours brains ever since we went to him to learn. It was his favorite point to make.
Yet a seed, a dangerous, deadly seed nestled itself in the very back of my brain and prodded and poked me every single time those warnings were issued, and when I was on my own, it would grow, and snake, and twist itself into the cracks of my head, into the vulnerable parts, and reside there. It dug and slithered and whispered its name. Its horrible, terrible, dangerous, deadly name.
Part of me listened, the stupid, irrational, dangerous, impulsive part.
Rebel, that seed whispered.
Which is why I’m here, standing in the middle of a crowd of sitting, in a time where I should be cross-legged on the floor, my hands laid delicately in my lap, my eyes riveted on the stage.
Everyone is staring, and I’m rebelling.
I don’t even know why. I’ve spent my life doing what I was told. I’m not an Enemy. I’m just Claire. I’m good. I’m smart and I get good grades and I always sit and I always keep my mouth shut and I always make my bed.
Yet here I am.
Maybe I’m tired of all of the wars. Maybe it’s the speakers on the sides of the street that broadcast news daily. Maybe I’m sick of learning about Uncle, and reading boring books. Maybe I just want to live in a house with a mom and a dad, instead of in a concrete Dorm with a bunch of girls my age. Maybe it’s because I want to talk to someone about the weather and sit at a bench in the parks that we’re not allowed to enter and sip at a drink. Maybe I’m rebelling for all of these things, plus many more, like the people I see everyday who are so scared of everything and the girls an boys who have never even spoken to each other, just looked from a great distance.
But I haven’t thought about it that much.
I want to speak, to tell everyone in this room, staring at me with shock, not to be afraid anymore. To just let go and maybe do some rebelling of their own. I want to say, “Take my lead; continue after me once I’m dragged away.”
But I can’t.
The words don’t come. I’m silent. But my standing, it’s suicide. It speaks for more than I could ever hope to convey with letters, and it burns me. Lights my clothes on fire, scorches them from my body until I’m naked, right in front of the entire world. Eyes stare at me, brains are blank with confusion at something they’re never thought of before or seen. And then the tears start pouring down my face. Big, plump drops rolling down my cheeks, stuffing themselves into my mouth. I feel so pitiful. So, so pitiful.
The people at my feet move as if I’m dangerous, scuttling away on knees. Whimpers meet my ears from various points in the room, accompanied by short prayers and whispers to be saved. I just stare straight forward, entire body quivering with the thought of what will happen next. The Officials in the back of the room flit around like nervous beetles in their shiny black suits. They don’t know what they’re doing. They don’t know what to do with me. What am I doing?
Hands grab me, pulling my arms behind me and handcuffing me. The hands are rough, tugging at me, yanking me back. I’m pulled off my feet. They slide out from underneath me. I’m so weak. My tears run wild. What is wrong with me?
I remember a girl, years ago, from our Dorm, with blonde hair and a strong nose that refused to read Uncle’s books and do Uncle’s work. She sat in Lessons with her hands dead in her lap and smiled straight forward. She didn’t say anything. She just sat. And when Teacher called the Officials, fear burning in his eyes, they just marched in and pulled her like a rag doll from her desk, and she let them drag her out. But she said something to the girl next to her that stuck to me like glue.
She said, “Please don’t give up, just because of me.”
I didn’t know what that meant at the time, and I don’t know what it means now.
But I suddenly find the words spilling from my lips, burning my tongue and my chin like acid, tumbling down onto the tiled floor and spreading out through the entire room, touching the soles of boots, and the bottoms of legs.
“Don’t give up,” I choke out. “Please don’t give up.” In that second, my eyes fill the sight of widening eyes and I wonder if they remember the girl with the strong nose and sweet smile.
And then, with a yank that almost feels like it tugs my arms out of their sockets, I’m pulled out of the door.
I’m a sack of meat. An animal. I’m dragged and pulled and yanked. There are three of them. Two to murder my spirit. One to watch them do it.
Except I won’t let them. I won’t give in that easy.
I keep up the fight, flailing my legs around, trying to catch them with the tips of my boots. And I do, a few times, but mostly they figure out how to dodge the blows. But I guess I get too wild for them, because something hits the back of my head, and the darkness closes in on me like a pack of hungry wolves.
I wake up in an interrogation room, tied to a chair by my wrists and ankles. One of the Officials from my capture sits across from me, lips twitching horribly.
His hair is greasy and short. He’s balding, skinny as a stick. But he still acts like he’s a big shot.
The lights are terrible; bright fluorescents splutter and shake, making a buzzing sound. Flies and moths flock to the glow. The Official’s face is ighlighted, then cast in shadow.
He wants me to confess that I hate Uncle; that I’ve been plotting to kill him. Highlight.
I promise that I only dislike the system.
He assures me that I want murder on my head. Shadow.
With a sigh, I swear that I wouldn’t have the guts.
Raising an eyebrow, the Official tells me that I shouldn’t lie, especially in a situation like this. Highlight.
I insist that I’m not lying.
Everything goes black again.
Shadow.
Cold water pours down my back. I’m in a tiny room with rubber floors and a drain in the center, right below my feet. My mouth opens under the downpour and I drink, relishing the way the water feels on my tongue. Too much crawls down my throat, and I cough, bending at the waist.
Abruptly, the ice shuts off, and I’m left shivering. A woman throws open the door of the tiny space and tosses me a towel, which I take and wrap around my dignity. The fabric is hideously scratchy.
She beckons me out and waits impatiently while I dry off.
I want to ask her some questions, but I doubt she would answer. My head is pounding. Spots linger on the sides of my vision.
The woman passes me a gray, sack-like thing, which she informs me, is my clothes from now on.
I slide it over my head. Just like the towel, it scratches at my skin. Except it reeks of sweat and dirt.
She calls over her shoulder.
The Official comes in and grabs my arm, his smile twisted.
Once again, I can’t see.
Wind blows at my hair.
I open my eyes and find myself surrounded by gray. I’m staring at the ceiling. Where is the wind coming from?
I cough loudly, rolling over on my side, and curling up in a ball. The crown of my head feels warm.
A voice floats down on top of me, filled with concern and apprehension.
“Are you okay?”
A boy with a husky whisper.
I roll onto my stomach and stare at him, making out small features in the dark. It must have been his breath blowing on my hair.
“Not really,” I reply.
He reaches his hand through the bars. We’re in cells. Suddenly everything makes sense. I’m in prison. I’m actually in prison. My lungs tighten considerably. How could I possibly be in prison? It’s not possible. This place is the source of our nightmares. It’s where those people that are most feared are sent, to hide from the safe forever. Everything is spinning. I throw my arm over my face, and try to breathe evenly in my constricted chest. It hurts. Everything hurts.
“My name is Xavier,” the boy whispers. He pauses, and continues in an understanding tone, “The pain wears off, I promise. It goes with the shock.”
“Thank you.” I try to say it strong, but it comes out in a choke. “I’m Claire.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Over the next few years, I learn a few things about Xavier.
1. He doesn’t resent the fact that he’s in jail. He resents that he can't see the sun.
2. The reason he’s here is because he punched an Official in the gut when he tried to take away Xavier’s friend, who hadn’t done a thing.
3. Being imprisoned only makes him hate Uncle more.
And basically, those are the same about me, and about the rest of the people here. If we could only have liberty, and if we could only go outside, look around, and see the world, then maybe, just maybe we wouldn’t be so “dangerous”.
If there’s anything being here has taught me, it’s that people need to at least feel like they’re free. And when they feel that way, there are a lot less problems as compared to when people feel imprisoned, even if they’re not.
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