Typo

Chapter 1: Train

Before you begin I think it is important to say that Elliot is a girl. Elliot can be a girl's name. I hope you enjoy my story :)

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Chapter 1: Train

~E L L I O T~

“Open up!” I lift my head from my pillow and glance towards the door. My sister sits up next to me to stare at it in confusion. I can barely make out the door in our dark hut, but I know where it is by memory. When I glance towards the one window, I can see that it is still dark outside. Someone is furiously banging their fist on the door in the dead of night.

“Open this door now Typos or you will be held accountable.” The way he spits the word Typo– a slang for my people– makes me push myself off the bed. I realize in my dazed state that they must be doing their monthly rounds, although they usually don’t do it in the middle of the night. I can see the wood starting to split as the banging becomes more persistent.

A raid of Correctors come to Norton, the town we live in, every month to take a census and make notes of any pregnancies, deaths, marriages, etc. It only takes a few hours for the Correctors to go to every house to ask how many people live there and any other updates on family affairs. They usually come during the day but who am I to question them?

“Mum.” I whisper, shaking my mothers shoulder. She has always been a heavy sleeper. My little brother sits up beside her to help me wake her. His bright red hair is sticking up in all directions. He sends a worried glance over my shoulder at the door. “Mum.” I shake her shoulder more urgently as the man behind the door begins to shout about the consequences of resistance. I’ve heard them plenty of times. When she finally wakes up she blinks up at me for a moment. Her facial expression changes when she realizes someone is knocking at our door. The man begins to recite our rights as she quickly stands and tightens her robe around her waste. Her blonde hair is thrown into an elastic band before she throws open the door. 

A stocky man stands in our threshold with his fist raised to continue his assault to our door. He holds a clip board in his hand and a gun is slung over his shoulder. The sight isn’t as shocking as one would like to believe. He is dressed in the typical Corrector’s uniform– a black t-shirt paired with black jeans, a symbol on their left shoulder signifying their rank. Four white, horizontal lines are embroidered into the fabric of his shirt. This means he is a lieutenant.

There are two other men standing behind him, hidden in the shadows of our unlit porch. They all have guns, which is a bit unnerving but not completely unusual. I send a glance towards my siblings who are cowering in their beds. My twin sister scampers across the hut to sit next to my brother in his and my mother’s shared bed. I give them a small– hopefully reassuring– smile before moving to stand behind my mother. I can see someone’s lights come on across the road. I’m confused to see another group of men standing on our neighbors porch. The Correctors usually come in smaller groups. 

“This is house seventeen, correct?” He gets right to the point.

“Correct.” My mother replies. She tightens her robe again. 

“May I speak to the man of the household?” The lieutenant says harshly. He stares at my mother and I in disgust. Using the darkness as my shield, I glare at him over my mother’s shoulder. 

“There is none.” My mother says quietly, making sure her eyes are cast down– a sign of respect. In assumption that he can’t see me properly, I observe him quietly behind my mother. 

The lieutenant sighs in frustration, clicking a pen in his hand and extending the clip board in front of him. “How many Typos reside here?”