Sometimes a story is bound to end with a sad ending. That's what my mother told me on the eve of my brother's funeral. Yet another lost to hunger. The nights had become rough, the soldiers came every night, taking more of our frail children. Nobody knew where they went, or why they had to go. All we knew of that they had to, and we weren't allowed to ask questions. They never returned, which was typical of the government, taking what they needed to keep us weak and pliable.
The days had begun to blur as they kept the lights off in our dim, poorly constructed, mock forest. Many had figured it was to make us go crazy, others thought they were worried we would find a way out. But I thought it was something different, maybe it was because of the juveniles, who formed a line each morning and walked the outlines of our box for any clues to escape. To find the world in the stories that were told to us by our olds. The ones who had been outside before they rounded all of us up and put us in the box. Today was the same, we woke up, ate our food, took our pills and worked. Nobody had an assigned job but everyone had something to do to prevent going crazy. I, personally, liked to clean the pelts, it soothed me to smell the scent of the handmade flower soap as I scrubbed, reminding me of when flowers used to bloom naturally.
But something strange happened at noon, the soldiers came as usual, but they didn't want children, they wanted the olds, we all wanted to fight them but we knew we would lose. Many exchanged worried glances, if they took the olds, our society would fall apart. I scrubbed for hours, anxiously looking around for any of the olds, hoping they had missed one. But of course, they didn't, they were always thorough. What surprised most of us was what happened at midnight, the olds returned, but subdued. They mumbled about work, their hands, once strong but now frail, working on the looms they long abandoned. They were a part of the machine again. Their hands weaved back and forth robotically, unlike how they used to thread with care, humming a tune we all knew by heart.
Night fell and morning came, the soldiers took more children as they always did and our routine was back, I scrubbed till my hands turned pink and my nostrils stung from the scent I used to love that had now turned sour. Almost as sour as the sound of quiet that now lingered, no one spoke anymore since the olds changed. My mother didn't even dare to do her dancing anymore, it seemed as everyone except me was different, replaced by strange copies that didn't quite seem right. That night, I did something I never did, as I thought it was so foolish. I walked the perimeter, tracing my hands along the ways. But my fingers caught on a panel, the bolts had rusted and popped open, revealing a cotton like filling in the walls. I covered the area with bushes excitedly, I settled inside, lighting a small fire for light. I began to dig, my hands stinger and were full of tiny cuts but the time morning rose again, but I made lots of progress. The once flat wall now had a hole beneath the paneling. But my work was interrupted by my frantic mother, screaming my name which rang in my ears after silence for so long. I slithered out, making sure no one could see me, loosing the few scraps of clothes I had. I didn't dare speak, even as I tried to calm my mother down, knowing they would take her if she didn't stop her screaming. My hand rubbed her back steadily, trying to calm her down with my mere presence.
I knew it was too late when they came stomping in, their bright red uniforms easy to spot among the dark green faux forest. I looked on in horror as they dragged her away, leaving me alone, I broke down, running toward the olds huts, seeking comfort. My brain ignoring that they had changed, only yearning for their comforting hand on my back, telling me everything would be okay. What I found was so much different that I thought I would. Each and every one of the olds lay limp in their beds, their chest flat and their face pale. I listened for a heartbeat on each and every one of them, praying they would wake up, without them, it would just be kids, and how would we be capable of running our society. That night, I decided to cause a fit, and be taken away like my mother had. I sat down in the middle of our village, screaming from the top of my lungs. The sound screechy and scratchy from days of my voice going unused. Nobody came. I screamed again and again, trying to draw attention to myself, but all that responded was the quick glances of the other children. After hours, my body fell limp from exhaustion, my body laying against the cold dirt, limp. In the morning, I awoke in the same spot, lungs burning in pain. I stayed there for as long as the other kids would let me, when I realized no one would come to my aid, I stood up, dizzy and hungry. I made my way over to the food platform, begging for my food and my daily pills. They immediately dispensed and I took them, my mind numbing almost immediately, my feet led me to my washing bin, where I sat down, lathering the soap and water, my fingers still aching, I scrubbed, ignoring the red that began to come from my fingertips. I was completely numb to the pain now.
