Never Grow Old

Part 3-Moods

I stand up, the paper in my hand, finished after yesterday’s excitement settled down. My voice, strong in the lies that our government tells us, rings across the classroom as all eyes turn towards me.

After a century of this, the people from the greater countries noticed, but they learned from the wars and made peace with the secluded people, marrying their men and women and having their lives lengthened through their children.

Our great country, Arcadian, arose from the ancestors of the ancient greater country’s children, endowing us with the longer life and special talents of the secluded people along with the greater country’s technological abilities and ease of life.

Along with their affinity for peace and intelligence, Arcadinese do not age in physical appearance nor prowess past their 27th birthday .It can be considered because of this ability that many of the lower countries, most notably our neighbors to the east,  Manesta, have tried to take ascertain and learn the secrets of the wishing well or the waters of life called by others, the essence of which all Arcadinese continue to procure the gifts of the earth, considered our most jealously guarded resource.

Through our ancestry, we are blessed with the decision to lay our lives to the eternal rest and give ourselves up to the greater beyond and our creator. There have been known cases of Arcadinese dying from accidents at very young ages; however this is the exception rather than the rule. Most of our people live beyond the 150 mark, and rarely some deign to live to 200 years.

The Manestans, too, have adopted their lower country ancestry and are naturally aggressive, creating tribal wars for land, dying of earlier ages than other people through the sacrifices of their babies, and coming of age rituals which have a high fatality rate.

It is through our constant vigilance in preserving our ways of life that we will continue to endure and flourish, to emerge as the masthead and the light for the rest of the fragile and bestial world.

My throat feels dry when the last words erupt from my mouth, and I ask to be excused to the bathroom. As my reflection stares at me, two sets of hands grip the faucet and its doppelganger, drawing water into two mouths.

A piece of hair falls into my face, and I leave it, my mind far away.

The air is dense here, the leaves of the forest stifling any fresh breeze that might have whipped through, allowing me to take a deep breath. Instead my lungs are heavy, trying to gulp in any air that I can.

I begin to feel claustrophobic, and my hands hurt. The simple ropes bind my wrists tight, leaving my hands dark red from lack of good blood supply.

Too many walk around me, their shadows menacing and leaving me with a feeling of fear and awe. There- a blip in the sea of turmoil; I feel this person’s mood is different, less threatening than the others. Maybe I could get them to loosen the ropes? I had to try before I lost all feeling in my hands.

Not looking up, “Please sir, my hands, I can’t feel them.” I croak my throat dry from lack of water. I feel their mood change, into caution and, is that, a hint of curiosity?

A good decision, I think, at least they’re not trying to hit me like some of the others.

I smell the aroma from their skin, the saltiness of their sweat, the crispness of leaves, and the sharp aroma of dirt from the forest. Not an unpleasant smell, I realize.

My eyes stay downcast as they come into view. Their shoes are worn, but well taken care of, the shoelaces not frayed and the material still fresh. They are large shoes, much too large to belong to a female.