The Sameness

Chapter 1- Flying Notebooks and Purple Hair

The walls are grey, the skies are grey, my clothes are grey, and everything else in the neurotic town on 8901 is grey. I've grown so weary of the dull color, I think I've actually gotten sick of the sight of it.

Or maybe my wooziness is just because I have to go back soon. The Secondary Conformist Boarding Academy's massive brick walls and locked iron gates is the only thing worse then rotting away within the colorless and dreary walls of this town. It's the epitome of lifelessness.

I stare at myself in the slightly lopsided mirror, smoothing out the creases in my dull school uniform. Shaking, I bring my hands up to my straight dark hair, holding it in a messy pony tail. Then I drop it, and dismiss the idea as a silly fantasy. Wearing anything else other than a straight, neat braid down my back was a death wish.

And I can't die. I have a test today.

So, I lead my fingers into their familiar little dance, braid my hair accordingly, grab my school bag and race downstairs to bid my parents good bye.

But when I step into the messy kitchen, I am only greeted by the top of my mother's head as she buries her face in her hands. Her brownish hair is stringy and loose, strewn all over her face and lifelessly hanging over her somber eyes. This was unsettling, as women her age are only allowed to wear tight hair buns and I rarely see my mother adorned otherwise. On the other side of the room, my father is impatiently pacing and pouting in deep thought, the furrow of his brow outlined by beads of sweat dotting his bad scalp. They don't seem to notice me.

"Uh, hey guys," I say timidly, "um, I'm leaving now for SCBA. I just wanted to say bye."

My father stopped in his tracks, inhaling and exhaling deeply. No one spoke.

"Is...everything okay?" I probe. Yesterday was the first time I've been home in a month, but I spent most of it it sleeping instead of with my family. I've felt like complete crap the last several days.

My mother, who had been still as stone up until this point, finally raised her head the tiniest bit. She seemed to strain to do even the slightest movement.

"Your father...has been under a lot of stress lately," she mutters, her voice like a piece of paper ripping in two. She does not look up from the floor when she speaks.

"It's really hard for us all."

There is another long silence. Shakily, my mother stands up, still not breaking her gaze from the floor.

She maneuvers the messy kitchen to the doorway in which I am standing and tenderly grasps my shoulder, bending down as she explains in a hushed tone, "Your father...his office...some people have been accused of...some very, very bad things. You're father is just very anxious, Kaitley."

I cringe as she says my name, tempted to correct her to say "Kate". But I decide its not the time nor place.

"What type of things were they accused of?" I ask further. My mother bites her lip and tries to look away, but she knows she can't dodge my questions forever. I'm fourteen, I'm bound to discover it at some point.

My mom cleared her throat. "Well, Kaitley, I guess you're old enough; they've been accused of practicing Indivisualism."

She shudders as the "I" Word comes out of her mouth, and I feel her fingers, which were still clamped on my shoulders, shake a little.

Indivisualism was a very taboo topic to talk about. These people go against the government enforced policy of Conformism, which standardizes and regulates the aspects of our lives.

My father, who stopped pacing again, snapped, "Indivisualism is treason. They use violent methods to get across their messages of anti-sameism, and they don't understand the dangers that differences bring to us. When we start changing from those around us, we are no longer united for the common good. We'd fall apart. There would be chaos."