Perfection Ch1

Try as I might, I could not overcome the intense feeling I had in the pit of my stomach; it wrapped around my insides and clenched like an iron fist, threatening to break me entirely. There was nothing I would love to do more than turn and run far away, so far away no one would ever find me, and the memory of me would fade like a photograph left in the bottom of a trunk in the back of an attic. If I did run, my name would never be spoken of in this town again, for the shame of a runner was worse than the news of a suicide; something that had become nearly non-existent. I sat next to Jillian, the deathly-looking blonde haired girl who tried to run away last year; her family disowned her the moment the patrol had brought her back to their doorstep. She worked constantly just to stay alive without the support of her parents. You could see wariness in her. Her blue eyes were dull, and glazed over, and her hair was limp and greasy. Her body lacked any type of nutrition at all, while her nails were cracked and broken with dirt caked under them. I felt nauseated from the smell that rose off her.

The stench was foul; it smelled strongly of cleaners and sweat. You think they would have cleaned her up before putting her in here with the rest of us. Then again this would all be fixed after the procedure; she would come out looking clean and perfect, although she was nothing of the sort. They tell us the coming of age was nothing to be tampered with, you could not run, you could not hide, and it was destiny, fate even. If fate had brought me here today, to this dark and dismal underground hiding place that smelled of human body odors and wet soil, that was dimly lit, and hardly fit for any human living conditions; I was seriously doubting what fate was determined by anyone but your higher superiors. For those who are becoming, there is no fate, there is just this: You are tucked away from the already become, and the yet to be, tucked away in this disgusting little hole, which we will now call our home. At least, until they come for us, and unfortunately, they will.

Perfection. That was the one word that everyone used to describe the people who have become. Your parents would come fetch you after you spent the night in the hospital that can only be described aesthetic. It was clean down to its core, with ever-emotionless nurses walking in and out of the always brightly-lit and white rooms, their shoes squeaking. You see, they don't just alter your face in this procedure; they take away all feeling whatsoever. They just rip out any soul you have and turn you into an emotionless shell. After you change, you can never feel the pain of love, or cry tears of joy. Actually, you won't cry at all. You won't smile, you won't frown. You will just have the most disturbing, deadpan expression. You walk around carrying out the job you are assigned to and then, when you become too old for them, too old for perfection, you retire. Within a week, you die peacefully, or so I've heard. No one has ever actually witnessed the death of a loved one or anyone for that matter - the government, who we call them say it is too traumatic for our delicate brains. The bodies of our deceased were burned in big furnaces and life went on like nothing had happened. There was no funeral. There were no tears. There was no emotion. And there were no dreams.

Meanwhile, while you wait for this so-called perfection, you work in this cavern, scraping and clawing for crystals, the main source of money nowadays, since all the currency from previous years before us is gone from the debt the presidents from our previous years have left us with. We are covered in dirt from head to toe in a matter of days, and soon all of us look -and smell- like Jillian; after a while, you get used to the stench. There is no way to keep track of time here, and some have desperately tried marking the walls, clawing until they have no nails and the tips of their fingers bleed. But, without fail, every morning they wake up and the deep scratches have disappeared, and all they have in memory are blood-caked fingertips and potential infection. Then they lose track all over again. Many people have stopped trying; others just opted to never try. They want to break us; they want us to know that our only option is the procedure. The only option...

So here we are worn down and worked to the bone, literally. These people, the ones that run our lives, the ones we are supposed to trust, they broke us beyond our own repair... There is no freedom here; they want us to know that. They want us to realize that our life is their life. We wake up, have a breakfast consisting of some stale, over-toasted bread and then head off for work. Work hours are 15 hours long, not a minute less. Any word of rebellion and everyone works another three hours. We may talk freely, but most are too scared to even talk at all. There are punishments for those who have a loose tongue. Last week -well I think it was last week- a small red-haired boy - or at least what looked like red hair -you never knew whether someones hair was actually the color it seemed or if it was the soft, reddish clay, the oily dribble from the ceiling or the jet black dirt from the ground on which we slept every night, he was punished for speaking up against the overseer. They grabbed him by the hair and drug him off into a far off cavern and whatever they did made him never speak again. I closed my eyes trying to think of happy things, like spring time and the flowers that grew in the field in the woods outside my parents house.

I remember the tickle of the grass and the feel of the warm breeze. On that breeze, I can still smell to this day if I try real hard, the scent of lavender. I would take off my shoes, and lay in my sundress in that waist-high grass and forget the world. I would pretend that my parents still had their feelings, that they loved me. I would imagine a world where everyone felt and no one had those impassive expressions, where a smile was something heart-warming, something that wasn't imperfect or wrong. I would wonder for hours about why I wasn't perfect the way I was The biggest thing I wondered about was love. Why was it so imperfect? It felt so right. I loved my parents, even if they necessarily couldn't emotionally do the same. So I would pretend, I would dream. I would do anything to make myself feel like I was normal, most of the days I went outside to explore, to get away from the world and its expectations.

One day, when I was ten years old, I snuck into an old shackled house on the outskirts of town. No one was allowed here, no one cared to go here. There was no curiosity. But I, I was curious still. I walked through the house, touching things and examining every little thing. I walked into the run down kitchen were an old stove stood lonely and solemn. I walked through the living room where the furniture that seemed to once have had a flower pattern was worn and eaten away by mice. I ventured up the questionable stairs where I found three bedrooms all different from the other, containing different size clothing and toys. I found one stuffed bear, rough in shape but still intact that I claimed as my own and carried around with me through the rest of the house until I came upon the library. This was no ordinary library, though. It was grand, even in its disheveled state. The curtains, which once must have been colorful and thick were now moth-eaten and slumped, like they had given up they were a dull grey like everything else in this life. But the chair that sat in the middle of that room looked untouched by age and magical, even. It was a blue that can only be described as the color of midnight. The bookcases were full of books with faded covers or no covers at all, just waiting to be touched by a human again. Our libraries are full of cold hard facts and research. They felt sterile and lifeless. This library was comfortable, even if it was dusty and rotting away. I felt more at ease in this mess then I had ever felt in my whole life. The books themselves were full of not facts and boring research about human anatomy, but stories. Stories of people who loved, and envied, people just like me who were imperfect all their lives and were still able to function. They cried when they were happy and when they were sad. Smiles were something craved, frowns something that were heartbreaking. They sometimes they did evil things because of what they felt.

They visited gravesites where they buried their family and friends and they mourned. I longed to be able to see these places, these places of delicate matters. But among the most favorite of all these books that I found was one story of romance. The story title was far gone, and there were only bits and pieces of it there, but the story told about a girl. imperfect but one thing, her voice, living in a world where people pretended to be perfect. There was a prince that she so dearly loved, but she was afraid he would never accept her in that form. So, she drank a magic potion which gave her the appearance she believed would be acceptable and even though she thought she was doing what was going to make her happy, a lot of things happened that changed her mind. Then, when she was ready to fall apart the prince told her he had never looked to her face or her body, he had looked to her soul, which was perfectly imperfect. Looking at the prince made her realize he was right; she didn't need to change for anyone because in her own way, her imperfections made her who she was, and her being herself was the most perfect thing of all. Her and that prince lived Happily Ever After, or so the book said. I learned that love was the most powerful feeling of all that day, and I swore to myself I would never let any of my feelings be taken away from me, even if I had to die first.

I returned back to that house every day, craving more of the stories that contained words of imperfection and emotions. I sat in the blue chair in the middle of the library with that teddy bear for hours upon hours reading. I would read until the sun went down and I had to return home, then I would wake up at the first light and venture right back to my safe haven and read until the sun went down again. My life became entwined with those stories. I felt like I was living them. When I went home and slept, I dreamed them. Dreaming was something that was also precious to me. I knew when I was perfected they would take them away. I sometimes cried at the thought. I must have read every book in that library twice over before the day they took me. It was late. I had just finished re-reading my favorite story about the imperfect girl and her prince when I felt something was wrong. I walked through my field and the grass was so still, and the breeze was full of uncertainty. I didn't want to go home. I knew that if I didn't though, that I would be found anyway so, I pressed on and as my house came into sight; I saw that dreaded black car in my driveway, the car that takes you away. I thought about running, I really did. In the end, I knew they would get me. What I feared the most was that they would find me in the only place I would run to and take me away while they burned all my stories. I knew they would burn down my house. That terrified me more than the thought of losing my emotions. I made up my mind. I walked straight toward my house without looking back, knowing I was leaving behind my books, and my bear. I felt as if I was leaving a part of me behind, one that I could never really gain back. I cried that night, watching as the landscape changed and the sun came up. I knew that my house was missing me, I could feel it deep down in my heart, but I had saved it and that was all that mattered. I knew, someday, somehow I would return.

A drop of water descending from the ceiling and landing on my nose brought me back to the dim cavern to my work. Attempting to help my sight, I scrape back my sweat plastered hair into a messy ponytail, tied by a piece of ribbon I had held onto since the first day I came here was I was just twelve years old. I struggled to tie the ribbon, feeling the weight of a few strands that refused to join the rest of my hair. I sighed warily to myself and felt the strong need for water. I feel along the length of my hair. It had grown a few inches since the last time I even took notice to it. I pulled it closer to my face to examine it and what I saw wasn't what I had hoped. It oozed with grime, like a wound would ooze while it was healing. I could see dry clay and could feel the dampness from the dirty water that would drip repeatedly from the stalagmites. I could barely remember the color it used to be. While I was examining my hair I failed to notice the faint light in the caverns growing brighter and brighter. I didn't completely understand until a government employee was standing over me shining his flashlight in my eyes and asking,

"You."

"Me?" I rasped, feeling the dehydration in every ounce of my body.

"Yes, you, state your full name"

I gulped down whatever saliva I could to get the knot that had formed in my throat to go away as I stood shakily to face whoever was asking my name and I said,

"Ville August Mills."

That' the last thing I remember before I collapsed, whether from dehydration or shock. That was where my story started. You see, I thought I was being picked for the procedure, but that was completely wrong. They drug me out of the hole into the blinding light above the surface. The light I had not seen in what I would be informed later was three years. As soon as my eyes adjusted, I realized that these were not normal government employees... These were whites. You see, our government is strictly set upon a color system of authority. It went Blue, for average town law enforcers, Red for the state enforcers, green for country enforcers. Then there were the whites. They ruled over everyone and everything you would ever know. They were like god, and they never went into the caverns for ANYTHING, except today, except me... I felt dirty next to them, vulnerable. I tried looking to one of them for some sort of reassurance, but their steely eyes would reveal nothing. There was no disgust, no happiness, no pain, and no love. They looked like my parents.

They didn't speak. Not a single word was uttered as they pushed me into the back of the government van that had transported them here to where I was. The back of the van was small, but extremely sterile. I felt dirtier than before sitting there smelly and covered in the cavern grime. I hugged my knees to my chest looking for some sense of security. I needed to feel until I hurt from feeling so much, because I was on my way to never feeling again. I cried for myself and the soon-to-be loss of my emotions. I remembered the promise I made to myself again and I wanted, no - I needed to get out of the van. I needed to go back to my safe house. The ride was long. I couldn't see out the windows because they were tinted midnight black. After a while of hopeless straining of my eyesight trying to see through that tint, my mind started to wander, and I found myself thinking of home.

My home was always silent, like all the others. There was no fighting or yelling, no laughter or crying, obviously. Just a solemn heavy silence. Always. I remember walking all around my house looking for some quiet way to entertain myself when I was just six. I had searched every room in that house for something to do, but I found nothing. I had never thought anything of the string that hung from the ceiling in the hallway until that day. I remember walking by it obliviously day in and day out, but something was different that day. I retrieved a step stool from the closet in the hallway and cautiously pulled the string revealing a gaping hole which sparked my curiosity and invited me in. I pulled the steps down and walked up into what I would later realize was my own attic.

The first thing I remember thinking was Wow, it's hot up here. I remember feeling as if the heat could stop time, but then I looked around and found that age had touched everything in that room. Nothing had been moved or even given a second thought there in a very long time. There was dust and cobwebs everywhere, covering the trunks and suitcases some open and some closed. There were papers scattered carelessly and the floorboards were dry rotted in some places. I was suddenly scared, in a way. I didn't know what else to do other than make my way across the challenging floor and search. I don't know how long I was up there, but I remember what I found, a long forgotten photograph. It was faded and delicate, but I knew the faces. It was my mother, my father, and I. But there was a difference. They were smiling and holding me in their arms. My mother's hair was wispy and free, my father's face was unshaven and rough. You could see emotion and feeling in their eyes and expressions. I almost fainted.

I knew then that at one point they had loved me. THEY loved ME.

After I found that picture my little flame of desire to never be changed exploded into a full on forest fire. I knew that they would never get me then. If only that was what was happening right now. In the van there were no windows, so I didn't even know where I was. It seemed like days had passed until we finally stopped. I was dirty, cold, and I was in deep need of a place to relive myself. They didn't open the doors. I sat there for a long time, just waiting and straining my ears to listen for even the slightest sound. There was nothing. It became hotter and hotter in the back of the van. I started to sweat and my mouth became so dry I felt like someone had stuffed a wad of cotton in it, but still, there was no one.