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Post by Boethiah on Sept 2, 2013 5:13:58 GMT -8
At the age of 10, you find something good in your life. At least, now-a-days you do. They called it The Patch. As you grew older, adults would say, life got a lot harder to live. So, they invented a patch to fix all the mistakes. But of course, at age 10, you don’t make that many mistakes, so all you get is the prototype.
I remember my tenth birthday as if it was yesterday. I woke up to a dark room. The walls were a vibrant sea blue, my favorite color, of course. But the windows did not bring in sunshine, no matter how late in the afternoon you got. It was always a dim grey or black thanks to the smog and pollution that ate the atmosphere. Of course, to a ten year old, things like that were just normal. Nobody told you to change things, and nobody really tried to change it. Life would be different then. And it was always known that being different or having different things was bad.
I feel like I need to explain. See, in the year 2335, or even a few hundred years before, humans invented something that would make a supposed ‘perfect child’. I’ve met some perfect children. In fact, everyone I know is a perfect child since it caught on so well. All were physically fit, mentally extraordinary, and socially acceptable. There were a few parents, however, that did not trust this way of being. And therefore, went to traditional route of just trying their best with their body’s natural selection of cells to create a child. This would be my case.
Unlike other children my age, I have a few disabilities. First and most obvious is that I can’t spell. Well, I can’t spell as well as they can. And usually, I make up words that probably don’t even exist, just to get my meaning across. My parents said nobody could tell the difference, but I always knew they could. Everyone can. They’re perfect.
Another part of me was that I got sick. A lot. Most of the time, it was just a common cold (I know, it’s so weird how they still can’t get a cure. Don’t ask me). Other times, I’ve gotten allergies to shellfish or milk. Then there are my eyebrows, which are a bit thicker than I like so I have to wax them down every so often. Everyone else doesn’t have to. They have perfect hair and perfect bodies. Perfect faces and perfect smiles. I had braces and I’m about 5 pounds overweight for my age and height. Being 5’4” and 135 isn’t the most fun thing is the world; I can assure you.
Right, back to my tenth birthday. At that time, I didn’t know how different I was. I was homeschooled, which meant that my tenth birthday was the day I first went to normal school with other kids. My parents were scared; I could see it in their eyes. There are lots of things you can tell by a person’s eyes. Mostly in my parent’s it was fear. Whether it was a fear of me or what other people would think of me, I would soon find out. Since the air was so poisonous that day, we had to go to the Underground. Every house has one. It’s a sort of tunnel going from the house to an underground station. You had your home door that was always locked with a special code so nobody else could bust in. I never really liked it. I still don’t.
My parents walked with me all the way to the train and even went with me on the train. Everyone on there stared at me. I didn’t know why. I waved to some and they just gave me a look as if they saw some kind of mutated animal before them. Me being naïve and unknowing of their prejudice, I just hid back behind my parents, trying not to be seen.
For a ten year old with no former outside contact, that incident on the Underground didn’t make me any more reassured about the whole ‘school’ thing. I didn’t know if the kids were going to be the same or not and then, it terrified me. My parents said, once off the train and to the school entrance, to make friends. I told them I would, but inside I sincerely doubted it. Then came the moment of truth. I held my breath and used the code my parents gave me for the school and opened the door and walked up the damp stone steps to another wooden door. Looking back, I saw my parents waving me off, giving me encouraging smiles. Though, they looked as frightened as I was. Then I tried to remember to be happy. It was my birthday after all.
When I opened the wooden door, it creaked. It felt different. Perhaps because it was different. I stepped onto a different marble floor with different concrete walls and different concrete ceiling. Different windows and different tables matched with different chairs. Surly, me being here and being different couldn’t have been that bad, right?
I looked at all the tables, looking for a place with my name on it. I couldn’t find it. Even after about five minutes of looking back and forth between each seat, I couldn’t see my seat. The teacher sat in the front of the room at the shiniest chrome desk I had ever seen. At the time, I was short for my age. I was only about 3’10”. Still, I could look just over the desk. The teacher was reading, and I was always told to not be a bother, so instead, I rang the bell on her desk ever so gently, just to get her attention. At first, her face seemed warm and nurturing, like my mother’s. She didn’t have the same shape or look as my mother, but the glow seemed all the more familiar. “Yes?” she asked in a soft tone.
“My name’s Elsa and I was jus’ wondering where my seat was, miss.”
“Call me Miss Mackles. And you must be the new girl isn’t that right, Elsa?”
I nodded.
“Follow me then, I’ll show you to your seat.” The apparent Miss Mackles got up from her seat. The first thing I noticed was her pale, blue-grey jumpsuit. Most adults had them. Actually, most everyone wore a jumpsuit, I noticed, as the kids filed in. I was the only one in a green sweater and blue jeans with black shoes. It made me feel like I didn’t fit in. I knew this would happen.
Another thing about my new teacher was that she had a perfect build. Blonde pixie cut is what showed off her rounded ears and bright blue eyes that shined like the walls of my bedroom. But at first, I didn’t feel so unnatural. I didn’t feel that alone in the world. I had never met a blonde before. So, I felt a bit happy to know that there was some difference in people. Unfortunately, I was still more different in the important ways.
I walked with my new teacher to the back of the room, opposite all the tables and chairs I has been searching through before. Mackles turned to me, gesturing to a small desk with a plastic chair with broken leg. “This, dear, is your seat.” It was in the back corner of the room, not even by a window, but facing a wall. Then, I was too young to understand why. I just felt like I did something wrong. Whenever I got in trouble, my mother or father would send me to a corner. I thought I was in trouble. For all intents and purposes, I was.
With a reluctant nod, I sat in my seat and Miss Mackles returned to her desk as all the other children filed in. At a time when I felt like I shouldn’t be alone, I was. All the kids in my class wore bright blue or red jumpsuits. In some cases, yellow as well. But they were accepted. Just not me. Right now, I just wanted to cry. Curl up in a blanket of pillows and drown myself in my own tears. But I couldn’t; I had to learn things. Not for myself, but for my parents.
The one benefit of sitting in the corner of the class was that nobody played attention to me and what I did. Most of the time, I would draw or write little stories that buzzed in my head. Even if I was smart, kids still hated me. And Miss Mackles became more and more mean to me throughout the day. I didn’t pay attention the entire class. There wasn’t any use to it, I found. Even at ten years old, I knew that I couldn’t have done anything wrong, nor done anything right.
Once that was all over, I was the first out the door, despite being in the back of the class. Not only was it to try to show everyone that I wasn’t the loser, it was because any minute, I would break down into shambles. I raced through the doors and out the metal one into the Underground, sitting in the little nook where the wall of the station and the stairs were. Right then, I cried. More than when I stubbed my toes or skinned my knees. And all the other kids pointed and laughed at me. Called me a ‘freak’ and ‘unnatural’, even if I was the most natural person in that station. But of course, ten year old me never understood that.
It seemed to take forever in my world for my parents to get there. I just felt a pair of arms grab me and I didn’t struggle. They were comforting and I heard my father’s voice soothing me, trying to calm me down. My mother’s heels clicked alongside. They’re normal, I thought then. They don’t get looked at funny all the time. That was me, in hysterics, clenching my father’s jumpsuit as we boarded the train.
Quite honestly, I thought we were going home, a place I knew I was at least a bit happy. But no, this was my tenth birthday, after all. And even if it was a horrendous day I was having, I still had to get my Patch, or prototype. At the time, however, I didn’t even know what at Patch was. How foolish was I? That’s why when I looked up from the wet stain I left on my father’s clothing from my tears, I was scared. At first, I thought they were going to hurt me. Get rid of me like everyone else said to. Instead, I was greeted by a nurse who took me, and me alone from the sterling white waiting room and my father’s warm embrace to the steel grey room that reminded me then of my teacher’s desk table.
Inside that dreaded room was what I soon learned that an operating table with large machines draping over it like cold curtains were not things to be excited about. Not that they ever were to me. But this made sure that they weren’t. The nurse, I don’t think, could tell at first if I was perfect or natural, because she treated me perfectly normally. Something I seemed to be lacking in abundance that day. I was still scared though and I didn’t know what to do.
Guided onto the table, I was told to lie down on the sterile surface. My parents weren’t there and I was scared. Were they going to peace me? 10 year old me wasn’t sure. She told me to relax as she put a mask over my face. Before the image blurred out, I saw more figures, like shadows, entering the room. Then it went black.
I awoke hours later, head searing in pain. I didn’t know what had happened and it hurt too much to think about it. But there I was, lying on a white bed under green sheets, staring in a whole new different room. It was tiled and empty and as I looked around, there were a few I.V. tubes connected to my arms. Whatever had happened, I guess it was a serious treatment. That’s when I noticed it. I tried touching my left eye and all I felt was a piece of material covering it. Horrified, I searched for a way to call someone. Anyone. Thankfully, a nurse – the one from before – came into my room with a clipboard, presumably coming to check on how I was. “What happened to me?” I asked.
“You got your Patch in, sweetie. Don’t worry. You’ll be able to go home in a day or so. Not very long. Don’t want you to contaminate anything, now. I’ll send your parents in since you’re awake.” That didn’t leave me to ask any questions and next thing I new, I was alone again. But not for long. My parents rushed into the room, my father first, and they sat on the edge of my bed, one on either side. The looks they gave me made me feel as if I was some sort of foreign alien to them. A creature; a freak. The thing that everyone else in my class hours before saw me as.
They peppered me with hugs and kisses, telling me it’d be okay and it wasn’t a real Patch. Slowly trying to think about what the Patch was, I did recall that briefly, I had heard about it on the news. A procedure not going correctly; a child trying to take out theirs, but going blind. By now, as most children were, I was aware of what would happen if I ever tried to take it off. That’s why it was given at age ten. They were able to not pick and prod at things they were told not to if their life was on the line. In some cases, as I said before, some were impatient or bad with managing it and it became infected, or worse, it tore out their eye. Not the entire eye, however, just the cornea, mostly, or their iris went with it at times. Disgusting. That’s why I was going to be good about it, I internally promised myself. I was going to be the best child with that Patch prototype.
Years past and I grew up, not touching or trying to mess with anything that even had part of the Patch included on it. Technology is wonderful to help with this. I was able to be clean and healthy without ever having to wash the Patch. At times, every six months or so, I’d have to get it cleaned, just to keep my eye from getting infection. Other than that, the pain wore off in the first few weeks of having it in. After that, I seemed to blend in more. I couldn’t see out of one eye clearly, yes, but it was the price to pay if I was to be assimilated into societal norms.
At the age of 17, I think I’m ready to take on whatever life throws at me. To face fear dead in the eyes and stare it down until it falls to the ground from exhaustion. I think this every morning before getting up. But then, I get up. I look out my window and the world is a grey color. But lighter grey, which meant I could walk through the doors of my house to the outside world and not die.
Today is probably going to be the worst day of my life, I figure, tossing out of my sheets and standing up on the cold floor. I fell asleep reading again. It’s a habit I have, and an awfully bad one to break out of. But it was my favorite book, so I can’t be blamed too much. The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. Greatest book I have ever read. Considered one of the best American novels for its’ time. Given, it’s ancient; it’s still a good read. Most people, if not all, have electronic books that they buy in stores. Like most things around my house (myself included), it’s a traditional thing that my parents awe so much. I never got it, but I like the book, so no harm no foul.
Still half awake, I brought myself to my bathroom, a chrome and steel covered room, like everything else, with one tube against a flat wall. The part to the flat side had a keypad and selection menu. It’s the only reason I ever look somewhat presentable when going out of the house. At 6 A.M., I pick out a normal grey-green jumpsuit and have my hair styled in a ponytail. Hitting enter, I close my eyes, feeling small metallic arms pulling off my pajama top and panties, douse me with water, blow me dry, and then put on my clothes and put my hair up.
I’m rather pudgy for my age. Not too fat, but still not normal. Not perfect. My parents say that it’s alright for me not to look like all the other girls in my high school, but I feel like they’re just trying to baby me, as they have been since I was popped out of my mother. My hair is usually messy and brown, but for school, it was a lighter, hazel-ish tone and blue prescription contacts were put into my eyes, thanks to my imperfect vision. It said on my school records I had blue eyes. My parents put it there so I didn’t have to be stuck out as a natural. People like me didn’t get a higher education, and my parents wanted different. So I was made into perfection. It’s not like it helped, I was always still picked out from children in my grade school as being the freak. But as long as the records showed a perfect school with perfect records, I could stay.
Stepping out of the tube, I went to my shoe drawer under my unmatched wooden bed. I grabbed my pair of uniformed black boots that was required to wear. I also snagged a pair of socks to wear under them because without, I’d always get blisters on my heels. It was a pain to pop them and a pain just to walk around with them constantly rubbing against the back of my boots. I had to fit my shoes into a size 7 when I was size 8. Nothing for me was ever right, it seems. I never get a break on anything or anyone. It was just the way things were.
All ready, I take my bag from off the end of my bed and take one more look out the window. If I wore a mask, I should be fine. The Gas isn’t too strong today, so it should be all right.
Having my parents not get up before 9 AM is a bonus in my bonusless life. That way, they wouldn’t nag me to not go outside or to not do anything strange and to not be myself even though they insist that they love me anyway. Parents, or at least mine, seem to be like that. Say one thing and claim the opposite. It’s strange in a caring kind of way. But if they just wanted a perfect child, wouldn’t they have just given birth to one?
Wasn’t my choice to be me, I just kind of came out this way. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s theirs.
Walking as slowly as possible, I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchenette where my mask was; still hung on the edge of the wooden table chair closest to my door. I grab it and put it on, the bright white blaring against my olive skin. It itched, having not been washed all week, but it would be fine. At least I wouldn’t die. Oh the minuscule pain I put up with to stay alive.
I walk out the door, looking up into the sky once the door was closed. Grey. Seemed to be the color of most everything. Maybe there was a theme going on this entire time that I never even knew about. There was a partial bit of light coming in through the smog that filled the city. It was a major problem, but as I was told by everyone (including my ever so loving parents), it was the way things were. People were too lazy to filter out the city, or I assumed, they couldn’t effectively build enough, so maybe somewhere out there, there was a person like me breathing normal air. Of course, there are not many people like me. Not many left their houses or whatever they live in.
The sidewalk was worn down and nobody took the time to fix it. Honestly, the only new things were the buildings. Shining chrome and steel against the grey fog. My house was too made of steel, but it had a wooden interior to make it look more inviting, as my parents put it. At this point, not much was inviting to me. It was just a home with just my parents and just my bed. I guess that’s the mindset you’re supposed to have at 17.
I keep telling myself I’m 17, but I’m really not. Today is probably the worst day of my life. I’m 18 now…that means I get out the prototype.
I know what you’re thinking. Elsa! That’s a great thing! Right? Wrong. It’s the worst thing imaginable! That just means I have to grow up and confine to more social normalities. It’s going to practically peace me if I don’t do it first!
I just…I don’t know. Anyway, I walked about 3 miles and end up at the school. There’s a decontamination chamber right when you walk in the first door from the outside, just so you don’t get any gas into the building and practically peace everyone there. So for about two minutes I stood, waiting to be decontaminated completely and once it was done, a pleasant ding was sounded to let me know it was safe to walk into the building. I walk inside and maybe about half my class is already there. There was something different about this room that I couldn’t quite place. Something wrong. But maybe it was just me.
I head to the back of the room, per norm, and I sit down. I finally got the privilege to actually look at the teacher and other student’s backs when class is in session about three years ago. It was a major deal, but I finally got it. One step closer to perfect.
I sit down and still can’t shake the feeling like there’s something wrong with the picture in front of me. But there isn’t anything wrong. That is, until class starts. A boy, like a really, really hot guy walks into the room. Hair a strawberry blonde, I notice his eyes glance at me as he’s talking to a teacher. It’s freaky, but okay at the same time, so I just put my head down a bit to avoid his gaze. Eventually, him and Miss, now Mrs. Mackles, stop talking and he takes a seat in the back of the room, a few spaces down from mine. Did he choose to sit here? Or is he just confused. Mrs. Mackles didn’t seem to correct him like the other new students who sat in the wrong place at times, and just continued on teaching.
If I’m honest, I couldn’t pay attention. Most, if not all, of it was on this new guy. He was lean, but a tad muscular in his arms and legs. Oh god his legs. They were probably the best legs I have ever seen. But every time he’d look over to me, I’d look away. Did he know I was staring? Probably. I’m not the stealthiest person in the world. For example, when I was 5, I tried taking a cookie off the cookie tray (while still hot, but I don’t know that), and I burned my hand and screamed and then I didn’t get any cookies because my burn was healing. That should explain it well enough, hopefully.
So class goes on and on and we’re learning about the Great End. It was some kind of nuclear holocaust type thing that put us in this city. Apparently, we’re the only ones left in humanity. Great. So I’m probably the only me. When Mackles talked about how dreadful life used to be, the boy scoffed, and chuckled a bit to himself. He was probably going to die right then.
“Something funny, Mr. Chinta?” Mrs. Mackles asked, clearly irritated and probably going to explode on him.
“Yeah, actually, there is.” Oh god his voice. Deep, but not too deep. Smooth and collected. I thought I was going to melt. “This all is. It’s all a joke. Believe it or not, we ar-“ His wonderful voice was cut off by a slamming of text books against her chrome desk. The room was quiet and I was afraid to breathe. So I just stayed completely silent. Not daring to break it. Eventually, Mrs. Mackles broke it with a frustrated sigh and continued on with her lesson. But now Chinta was mysterious. Had he known what it’s like outside the city? I was enticed immediately. Since she never really turned around, that gave me time to fish out my holo notepad. It levitated, which was the nice part. I wrote down something quickly, What was that about?, and slid it across the floor until it hit his foot. I then straighten back up, hoping for the teacher not to notice. Out of all my years in school, she was never really fond of note passing. Though we were in back, so she probably didn’t care all that much.
It only took about two to three excruciating minutes of waiting for me to suddenly feel a tap on my foot. Oh god he responded. I pick up the note, looking straight ahead and it had his response.
She’s lying to everyone here.
How do you know that?
You’re the natural, right? (Oh how classy.)
Maybe. Why does it matter?
Because I’m one too.
When he wrote that I thought I was going to cry. He was messing with me. No way could he be a natural! He was too…too perfect! But I had to keep my cool, so I wrote down my response, always looking up to see if the teacher would notice.
How come I’ve never seen you before, then?
I’m from the outside. We should stop talking. Come see me after class.
Wait! What’s your name?
Aaron Chinta.
For the rest of class, I kept reading over the conversation and taking notes. Part about class. Part about Aaron. I had never met an Aaron before, but the name was nice. Of course, I had never met another Elsa either, so this was going to be interesting. My worry is what he wants to talk about? What if he’s part of a cult? What did I just get myself into?
A few more painful hours go by of questioning my knowledge and getting humiliated. But ever since the conversation, I couldn’t keep my gaze from going back to Aaron every now and then. Class ended and I collected my things and put it into my bag, making my way to Aaron. “You wanted to talk?” I ask, a bit hesitant about doing so.
“Yes, I did.” There was that voice again. “I need you to come with me tonight. I’ll pick you up. We need to talk about outside the city.” I immediately put my hand over his mouth until the teacher had left. Once everyone was gone, I let him breathe again. “Are you nuts?! You can’t just go and talk about the Outside like that!”
“Says who?” He crossed his arms and gives me this questioning glare. “Says everyone,” I retort.
“You’re just afraid.”
“No I’m not!”
“So I’ll pick you up at 9 then?” That tricky little…I sigh and give him my address. He seemed surprise how close to the edge of the city it was. I told him it was cheap housing and the only kind they’d give to parents with a kid like me. So with shrugs, we left the room, him on the train and me outside. I ran home this time because the pollution was a bit heavier than this morning. I didn’t die, though, so I should be all right. For now, at least. “Dad! Mom! I’m home!” No answer. They aren’t dead, right? Well, the house doesn’t smell like a dead person or blood, so I’ll just go with no on that. As I put my bag down and hang my mask up again, I see a note on the table.
Elsa dear,
Happy birthday! Sorry your father and I didn’t get up in time to make you breakfast like we usually do on your special day, but we were tired from work last night, so we went to bed and didn’t get up in time. Either way, we won’t be home tonight to take you to get your permanent Patch in, so we trust you enough to get it yourself. You are 18 after all and so, should have the responsibilities every other adult has. That means getting your Patch.
Now don’t whine. Your father and I both had to get ours when we were your age. It doesn’t hurt, I promise. You’re strong. And yes, your vision will go unaffected, so don’t make up that excuse.
Might be home in time for gifts and such, but if we aren’t home by 8, it we’ll be staying late again. We’ll try to call, but we might not get a chance to. Have gifts and cake if we aren’t home in time. Make sure you study and do your homework. We love you very much dear. Hope school went well!
All of our love,
M&D
Again? They’re doing this again?! Just leaving me here like I’m rubbish? And on my birthday too. Oh well. I don’t need them. I just do presents and cake now. Not like I’ll be eating much else for the rest of the night. Looking in the fridge, there was a normal sized, white frosted cake with the words Happy Birthday Elsa written in blue cursive. At least they made me a cake this time. I pull it out, taking a butter knife and cut a slice for myself. It’s vanilla. At least they remembered my favorite flavor.
I serve myself on a paper plate and get a fork, taking them and sitting at the table. As I eat, I think about Aaron’s deal. This could be worth it. And I wouldn’t have to get the Patch, too. So win-win, right? I hope so. I look over near where the letter was. It was my ticket to get my Patch. Who said I needed it, anyway? Who said I even needed the Prototype? Not me. Not any person I’ve ever talked to. And it seemed like Aaron didn’t think it was necessary either. So what’s the point?
I finish my cake slice and open one of the three presents. Another John Green book. Already have it, however. But the thought was what counted, I guess. It was one of his later ones. Dancing with Myself. It was okay, but still couldn’t beat TFiOS. I put it on the table and opened another. It was another holo note recorder. Already have one, but this one’s a more recent model. Guess some things never change, perfect or not. Everyone’s got to have the most recent model.
Then I get to the third gift. It was about the size of the book, but not even close to being as thick. So I opened it. It was just a blank frame. Black inside and chrome outside. That’s when I noticed a switch on the side of it. So I placed it down and switched it on. Before my eyes, a video began playing, just like a holo note, but it moved and was 3D. I couldn’t help but smile. It was me as a kid, all of us playing together, being happy like we were before. I couldn’t tell if I was crying or not, but I felt like there were some kind of hot and wet streak making its’ way down my cheek. I miss this. Happiness. It was something I was so deprived of now, it was hard to remember the last time I was happy.
Now I’m having second thoughts about Aaron coming and going with him. Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t going to be safe and I’d be away from my parents. This could end badly. Extremely badly. I sigh and put my frame in my bag. If I was going anywhere I wanted to be with them. Having them watching over me. Babying me without being there.
It wasn’t before long when I heard a knock at the metal door that lead to the Underground. Aaron. Sighing, I take my bag and open the door. He was dressed differently. Instead of the jumpsuit, he was wearing a black vest, white work-shirt and black pants with matching boots. His vest had some kind of emblem on it. Like a sun with a snake biting into it, wrapping itself around it as if it were prey. “You ready?” He was eyeing my bag. “Ready.” And before I knew it, I was walking along the Underground with a guy I barely knew, questioning my sanity the more and more we walked farther and father into the tunnel.
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