Set in a dystopian town formerly controlled by the ruthless goverment, there is utter chaos; buildings are burning, sun is blotted out by dust and smoke, and no one dares to go outside, with bullets and disease flying through the air. In the week before, there was still sun, with students and rebels gently protesting in the streets and the summer air being sweetened by the tea shops and bakerys in the town. Artists and poets and performers line the streets. Art, love, music, and food are everyw
“The stories my mother wrote are true”
The proctor stopped dead in his tracks, touching the sore spot on his nose for the tenth time that session. He looked back to me and shot a horrifying, angered glance in my direction.
“What are you talking about, little bug?” He snarls to me, sweat dripping around his face.
The voice that flew from behind the dancing lips was horse and if it had a smell, it would be of garlic and dried blood, like on the streets outside.
“I don’t give a dog’s baby maker that your grandmother or mother or whoever wrote what, when, where, why. My job is to nail it in your head that you are going to die a slow and mutilating death. And it’s all because you were stupid enough not to be cooperative with the General.”
He slowly creeps to me and sits on the table, right in front of me.
“I could lick you right here, right now if I wanted to, with no problem at all. But it’s against protocol. The boss wants you all fancy for the execution”
He spits on the floor; it’s a little clear lump of goo that peacefully sits on the tile right next to my chair and table, I look at it.
The Proctor grabs onto my shoulders with hard, burly hands and lifts me up a few units from the chair, tightly squeezing pain into my muscles. I shut my eyes tight. I wasn’t about to let out a scream; I haven’t even set foot in the execution parlor yet.
“Oh” I whispered slightly, cooing a little. “Is that true? Well, it doesn’t bother me to die”
My voice is a faint little hint of what is usually strong, as the pain keeps trickling. I stare at the proctors eyes, really blue and icy, accented by a bush of chocolate colored beard, like Julian’s, only lighter.
My head hangs down, like the night lamps outside that were broken or leaning from battles, with only a thread keeping the lantern intact. That was my life; lost and destroyed from battle, only one little thread of hope keeping me alive, but not for long. I knew that I could save this world, and give reason to what I thought had none but I had to stop breathing in order for it to happen.
I was going to die for justice; but would justice actually return after I am gone? What if Julian was here? Is it that he is not supposed to know of the execution till after? Pearly tears start to
I tried not to think of him, knowing tears would spring up. I promised I was not going to allow myself to feel anything. No misery, no remorse, no hatred, nothing was going to seep into my bones and ruin the moment.
But I knew what Julian was going think, how he was going to react. And in the grand scheme of it all, the thought of Julian’s grief was too much.
The shattering gray eyes were going to fill with saltwater and pour onto his nose then down into his coffee colored beard and become lost. His mouth would open and wild, sorrow stricken noise would erupt from him as he would fall straight onto the floor and stay there for hours, like a wounded animal. The messenger, whoever he or she was, would stand there in the cellar where Julian hid, and be completely helpless to the heartbroken creature in front of her.
My tears made me fall like the mountain around a river of saltwater, I silently start to cry.
I look down, not listening to the curses, not feeling the slaps and punches. I only thought of Julian, and the happy days and the love that bonded us like glue, even the sickening days were sweetened by Julian Knox.
After a long while, it all stopped; I was in my chair and the door was slammed shut.
I did it; I passed the test of not spilling any information. For a second, a felt a little giddy, thinking that the whole torture thing was going to be better than I knew it was going to be.
I would soon learn that I was so wrong.
I set my eyes back on the little scratches in the clean, metal table. They were long and winding, like little rivers, with my tears filling them up. I imagined those scratches taking imaginary things to different imaginary places, running to each corner of the little table.
I sighed a little; I would miss it all, and the bakery and the nights standing by a lake with Julian, dancing to the buried music that was still alive in our heads. I miss the world in my mind; the happy, calm one that was replaced by hate and anger and guns. Dust was the only thing that was still dancing after the battles.