Lastelle Aurora Tyerra
steladisappearing’s blog: August 8, 2613 12:23 p.m.
Topic: [Re: So who is Stela?] The Trials, pt. 2
Willie, Victoria, let me make this very clear to you, you cannot tell anyone else about this, it’s already risky enough as it is. The SCI Patrol is always checking these things to ensure that nobody is talking about The Trials. So, let’s just call this blog Boyfriend Problems, and nobody will think it’s significant enough to check.
My real name isn’t Stela; it’s Lastelle Aurora…something. Please save this somewhere, because even my name has begun to slip from my grasp.
I have already failed The Trials and they are terrible. I think – no, I know – that they are based on what you fear most. You have to take a survey beforehand and it asks stuff about you: what you like, what you fear, etc. If I were you, I’d put down things that I like as answers for both of the questions.
The Trials can last up to a week, depending on your fears. Oh, I almost forgot – the ENTIRE thing is in your head or computer generated; none of it is real. In my test I was bitten by a shark, but when I woke up in a plane while being transported to America, I had no blood on my and there was no puncture wound. At all.
Ever since a nuclear bomb hit America, it has been changing – a lot. It’s true that all of the radiation is gone, but the land, animals, and plants are all different. The land is deformed and it’s all sand, plains, brush, and dead forests. There are barely any plants, and those that are here are small, and they soon die because of the scorching sun. The animals look all wrong, deformed, like the land. Their hunting habits have changed, and now they hunt us.
A word of advice: pass The Trials, or your life is screwed.
I click send to both Willie and Victoria, hoping they heed my advice, knowing they wouldn’t want to be stuck in this godforsaken land.
I get out of my chair and push open the door. I then take the key out of my pocket and lock it up.
I go to the kitchen and get out beef jerky, eggs, and milk. I crack two eggs into a glass and pour in some milk, making sure all the egg yokes are split. I hold my nose and swallow the nasty concoction down, gagging at the retched taste. The only reason I eat it is because it’s protein. I munch on the jerky and a much more pleasant taste fills my mouth.
I walk over to my wardrobe, put my key in its hiding place, and strip. I pull on my ripped shorts and tank top, some of the only clothes I have. I put on my tennis shoes and strap a gun to each thigh.
In the bathroom, I brush my unruly red curls as much as I can and tie them in a knot at the nape of my neck, still making sure to cover my tattoo. I stride to the door, unlock it with another key, and open it.