The Citizens of the Community have been rescued,
salvaged from the fire and rubble of the previous war. The turmoil
birthed a new generation, one that will stand up and accept that
they have been saved, and shall spend their life in gratitude.
This is the ideology of the Community.
-The Citizens' Purpose, page 83

~~~~~

I love how birds move, essentially that variety is such a deciding factor. Some birds are careful not to take more than they can manage, so they perform small strokes to keep themselves afloat, while others utilize the entirety of the space that they are given, gathering all of the air they can contain in between their feathers, flowing like a mountain stream.

My favorites, however, are the dove and sparrow. When I observe a dove's ambitions, they are filled with gentleness and poise, something that I find to be an imperative quality in a human's personality. With the sparrow, they speed by in a hurry, as if they have a special place that requires their presence.

I aspire to reach that level.

~~~~~

My feet tap nervously against the cold, linoleum floor as I eye the clock that will decide my future. Its ticking seems to last forever, never reaching the tiny black mark that I so desperately wish it would.

"And who can tell me what Director Primum decreed as his first law in office?"

I grow more and more nervous with each wrong answer my classmates spew out. Most of them are complete doofuses, opening their mouth in astonishment when I answer a question correctly when they couldn't even imagine forming coherent thoughts.

My hand jolts upwards, cutting off their "wasting time" game; I've always abhorred it tremendously. "We welcome you, all of you, to this new society of prosperity and happiness. There will be no fault. Thus, I have created this community to ensure the safety of the Citizens and the welfare of our beautiful land."

"Very good, Florence! Gold star for you."

The boys in the back just snicker at our teacher's childish reward system as she reaches to put a sticker next to my neatly written name that I had scribed when I first learned cursive. I kept the piece of paper as a reminder of my success.

In my opinion, there's nothing wrong with keeping a chart of students' achievements — as I always remind myself: organization is a main priority to be lucrative in school and in life. Mainly, it's disrespectful to act rudely towards someone, primarily your teacher, a figure that assists you in your learning experience, something that affects your whole life.

"Braniac."

"Slackers," I spit back at the boys, flipping my long, brown ponytail back to the front, where it settles on my shoulder, reflecting my quipping finish; they simply scowl angrily, like every time I put their jocular tendencies to rest.

Those two kids have been sitting behind me since as long as I can remember — they're practically inseparable, though I suppose they dragged me along with them. I'm actually surprised my face hasn't stuck to the glaring state that it's usually in whenever they're around. I pretend not to know their names, but everyone in the school realizes that's not quite true. By now, I practically know the contents of their medical records, as is a popular opinion formulated by an over-imaginative twelfth-grader.

"Okay, class, now who said—"

Ms. Darthe is cut off by the sharp blare of the electronic bell. Glancing at the clock, a smile grows on my face, realizing it's the last day of school before Evaluation break.

My friend, Pan, said not to be so excited for today, that it's pointless. He doesn't know what I have to prove, which, to be honest, is a fair point when I look in the perspective that I really don't have anything.

"Excited, Braniac?" a familiar voice whispers in my ear, sending chills up my spine that soon turn to the biting teeth of pique.

"Ugh, shut up, Pan." I pick up my binders, thank Ms. Darthe, and hurry out the door, my excited friend nipping at my heels with a broad grin sliding across his face.

"Looks like someone didn't get their Evaluation letter," Pan retorts coolly.

"Looks like someone didn't get a haircut."

Shooting me a malevolent glare, he brushes the black hair out of his eyes ("Technically, it's not black. It's dark brown when you look at it in the light, Florence, so you're wrong.")

I've been pestering him about getting the wild mane trimmed, but he's always complained that I was being "an evil hag". I'm merely concerned that it obstructs his vision, and that's why he earns failing grades in math. If he can't tell a four from a five, then he has a problem, but teachers will assume it's a computing error because of the relation of the two numbers.

"And who says I didn't get the letter? Besides, they haven't gone out yet. Now if you would allow me," I reply briskly, pushing him aside, "I'd like to get my books from my locker."

He chuckles, peering inside the contraption after I scan my palm on the device in the corner of the metal rectangle.

My locker is quite plain, considering some of the girls in my grade have miniature, plastic chandeliers and tiny shag rugs. Some have gone as far as to wallpaper the insides with flashy giftwrap. I was never into that kind of thing, but I completely respect the ideology; people can do as they please, as long as they're not hurting anybody and they leave me out of it.

"Ooh, you're reading Jeanette and Marcus again, I see. How very quaint."

Ever since the Evaluation Committee began their titillated hunt for Candidates, Pan has been attempting to sound "smarter" by using "big words" and "those weird phrases from old books and stuff".

"It's a very good read."

This partly is a lie, considering the romantic plot of Jeanette and Marcus had, in fact, gotten on my nerves. It was dramatized tremendously, to a point where I was anxiously begging for the tale to be wrapped up. The ending was a shocker, but I think, rather harshly, that both their families would've been relieved that the two were always sneaking around and not flagrantly flaunting their grand relationship in their faces, even if it did result in both of their deaths.

"The thing is," Pan starts, putting a finger on his lip questioningly and furrowing his brow, "I'd actually take you for something other than a nerd... You're always climbing trees when—"

"When you can't get two feet off the ground? I know."

Pan's athletic prowess (or lack thereof) is atrocious, yet, by some miracle, he has passed gym class for his whole time at school. He most likely set up some sort of arrangement with the teachers, though something about his personality tells me it was blackmail; how'd he even get that leverage?

I slam my locker, stuffing my things into the white sack laced tightly on my back so that it folds itself against my sides, smiling at Pan's comment about tree climbing.

When I was in fifth grade, I developed a phase where I would venture outside in bike shorts and dirty up my knees with the rough texture of tree bark, smirking at Pan from below, with his hands seemingly stuck on his hips in frustration. Adhesive bandages were always on the top of the grocery list when my mother and I went out shopping, scrawled in my careless writing.

"I'd rather not fall off of things like—"

"Like whom?" I spit.

"No one, absolutely no one." Pan's eyes widen, realizing what he sparked in me.

They're dangerous, his words. Humans are unforgiving, and no matter how much they apologize for speaking certain things, the air pushed out in sounds from peoples' lips is much more than it presumes to be, much more than a passing eye can observe. It changes; certain noises echo inside certain people and never leave, because humans can never forget. There are no misconceptions when it comes to sentence building, for the pain of a single phrase exists somewhere in somebody. It's extremely dangerous, this word concept. That's why I don't say much.

Show him no mercy. Remember that time when he stepped on your favorite shoes in third grade and got them really muddy? Yeah, justify your actions with that.

With a bit of luck, I resist the urge to knee Pan in the shins, to watch him fall to the ground in pain for the first time for real. Most of his agony originates from completing, unsuccessfully, peculiar tasks as if his life depends on them.

"It wasn't their fault," I whisper. "They didn't choose to fall. But sometimes it's the closest thing to flying."

~~~~~

Trying my best to avoid submerging my school shoes — they're only one year old — in the bubbling mud lining the road and soaking into the grass, I make a point of stepping diagonally on the gravel path to the market.

The Community's caretakers had tried their very best to keep the grass growing sharply beside the sidewalk, but as I glance at it disdainfully, I realize they didn't perform quite as adequately as they were expected to.

The sign to the marketplace is stuck noticeably in the damp soil, the only evenly placed thing around here. Admittedly, the quite a few of the letters have faded to a lighter, softer shade of white, like a cream color.

"Hello, Florence!" Pan's mother, Mrs. Endo, calls out to me, waving me over to her booth freshly stocked with plump cabbages, carrots, corn, and other such vegetables that I have no taste for.

After her work hours at the Community headquarters, she makes her daily shift at the market to raise extra money to support her growing child. I've always admired her, how she sacrifices her free time to care for Pan.

"Hello, Mrs. Endo," I reply, smiling sweetly to uphold the "perfect child" persona she has engraved into her mind.

"Are you excited for tomorrow?" Mrs. Endo squeals.

She's always tried to connect with me by acting a bit younger than her age — more like twenty five years younger — but it only seems bizarre.

"Yes, ma'am."

Besides Mrs. Curtis, I use ma'am like it's essential to my survival, but on the rare occasion that I slip up, the adults don't make any big deal of it, yet I still feel the sharp urge to blast it out all day.

"Do you mind helping me unload the new supply of beets?" Mrs. Endo requests, ushering me over with a hand, wet with vegetable liquids.

Don't make me touch your dripping cabbages.

"Not at all," I respond, making my way into her booth from the side entrance's tiny latched door. I reach down into the shipment box for what look like red potatoes, grabbing a few beets at a time, attempting hysterically to shove more of them deeper into my hand to get the process over with quicker.

Mrs. Endo notices my struggle, laughing quietly as she assists me when a beet, darker than the rest of them, slips through my grasp and plops into the mud with a splash.

I give a weak smile, holding up the beets as I shrug. Externally, I look like a clumsy mess, but internally, it's like a zoo that I've only had the fortune of visiting once when I was three.

They feel so strange, yet they fit nicely in my clutch, aside from my imminent strife to contain them. Their texture is smooth, with the occasional bump and rough patch, varying from beet to beet.

"I'll get the rest. You enjoy your day," she finally says once most of the beets have been placed on her color-coded shelves fringing the walls of the tent.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Always so polite," Mrs. Endo comments as I sashay down the street, glancing around at the other booths.

My mother taught me to be polite to everyone I meet, but Mrs. Curtis, my guardian, taught me to enforce it ruthlessly wherever I go, no matter what — one of them isn't like the other. Obviously, Mrs. Curtis strictly believes in the Community's fundamental ideal of politeness to both strangers and to familiar Citizens, whereas my mother told me that being respectful is critical to forming connections, but if people are rude to me, I do not have to follow socially acceptable rules — courtesy is only a courtesy to those who deserve it.

Soon, the activity of scouting out the other booths in the market becomes time-consuming, taking my thoughts of tomorrow down in a pile of ashes.

~~~~~

Sunlight pours into my dull room, illuminating everything that seemed dreary and bleak, or relatively normal. However, that is how I like it, and seeing the dramatic shift unsettles me, or maybe it's just my perfectionist instincts kicking in.

I'm a neat freak. I don't think that's a problem. I believe that everything should have a place — and it does — and its place should not be disrupted. Is that such a strange thing? I've always thought it's normal, but it seems I don't have much human contact, one reason being the only other perfectionists I've encountered call it OCD, much to my displeasure — mental illnesses aren't a joke or some cute quirk; they're ghastly and life-threatening.

Books are my main source of friendship — sounds pathetic, I know, and yet it's true. Books never let me down like people do (especially at funerals, when they're literally letting other people down).

Loud knocks echo off my walls, and I push my messy hair from my pale morning visage as I slowly amble to the door to see the orderly, smiling face of Mrs. Curtis, who somehow annoys me greatly, even though she resembles me in countless ways.

The middle-aged woman stepped in for my parents after their death, but truth be told, I'm rather sick of her, mannerisms and all. Sometimes I wonder if, under that serene, let-me-bake-you-a-cake grin, there lies a volatile creature clawing to escape, but I try not to ponder this much. The first time I had done so, I almost drowned in my tears after having a horrifying existential crisis just by thinking about the sight.

"Good morning, dear!"

And there it is. Oh yeah — the pep. I almost forgot about the pep...

"Ah, yes, Saturday already, is it?" I pretend to know what day it is, and sometimes I do, but other times, I have to stop and ask myself the year, as if time flew by in my sleep.

"You're out of school, so I made you some nutritious fruit cake!" With a broad smile, Mrs. Curtis shoves a heavily powdered plate into my stomach, and I attempt to reorient myself, at least before she starts talking a mile a minute about how excited she is for me.

Ever since Mrs. Curtis moved in, she flushed out the cabinets stocked with gelatin, processed snacks, etc. — the good stuff — and instead replaced the shelving space with fruits, vegetables, and tasteless granola bars that make your stomach strike back against you five minutes after consumption ("They have lots of fiber and protein! A growing girl such as you needs that kind of nutrition.") While it's true I will most likely battle someone for their granola bars, Mrs. Curtis' favorite kind tastes, if there is a taste at all, like dirt mixed with the toenails of my arch-nemesis that has not been named and discovered yet (probably because I hate most everyone).

"Wait, but it's—" I stop, eyes wide as I remember the event that shall transpire today, the one that I have been so anxiously anticipating for the last nine months, while my other classmates are more involved with a film they're been gushing over.

"It's not even a book," I had told them, but they'd just giggled as if I were speaking a foreign language.

What does that even mean? The Community is the only place. Nothing is foreign. Except me, of course. I had only learned that word from the textbooks to which I so futilely cleave.

As a child, I'd had many issues with how I felt about myself. I had a relatively happy life, and I still do, if you don't count my parents' tragic death, and yet I felt so out of place. I suppose I am foreign. If it's any consolation to me, all of the foreign places were bombed and ruined and are now called dead cities; I don't think that helps though. The closest thing I have to an outsider is Pan, who moved here from Japan with three of my other friends, River, Fallon, and Rowan, though the three were originally born in Bangladesh.

A few years later, I concluded that this alien presence is where my great infatuation with books came from — the brave, selfless characters will never let me down, and I'm somehow sure of this; perhaps it's like loving a dog though.

You're so sure they love you and that they could never harm you, because they don't know how to communicate in ways that you will understand, because, of course, they're fanciful and incapable of communicating at all.

Books provide great comfort and that was all I needed to proceed.

Vivid memories flood back, reeking of nights where I would lie awake, just thinking. Thinking about school, thinking about friends, thinking about family, thinking about how hopeless my live was, or how hopeless it could have become. I couldn't fix anything for myself, turn my life around for the better — I couldn't even change it remotely. I'm terribly afraid of everything. I could only dream to have this life more shattered than it already is, but I'm okay now. I'm sure of it. It's not much, but it's sustainable, even though it tires me.

School wore me out, taking every bit of energy I possessed and turning it to conform to the Community's expectations of a perfect child — a hard-working student with top marks, a helpful kid that assists in house work, and an obedient Citizen that would never question betraying their government, always volunteering themselves to benefit the growth of a society that purged them of their free will.

And that's all it was: a purge. By enforcing the ideals thrown together at a simple board meeting, the Community gradually extracted each and every fragment of privilege to be devoid of suspicion from the Citizens who desperately hungered for the government's new design for their quality of life.

Obviously, the outcome is a façade of well-being and jubilance with a wretched undertone that is masked by the smiling faces of Citizens with no recollection of having their souls snatched from them with a promise for another chance, a fresh start, something they would've willingly given under a separate set of circumstances; something about humans creates the wariness of decisions when met with force.

They divided us, tore us apart to match the aspirations of a growing community that relied on sections to thrive. The Provinces seemed like a good idea, until the trouble of trading arose — the merchants of the Incipiens Province struggled to accommodate the sumptuous schedules of the electrical workers of the Lumen Province.

After the heated debate about a new and improved Province plan (thick with screaming and projectile spit blooming on co-workers' faces), the perverse idea of formulating a stricter regulation on trading appeared; the government was to oversee the entire operation and transport the goods (with help from those eager Citizens I detest).

Following the proclamation of the contemporary advance, the Community spewed out a profligacy of laws to further block the Citizens from the freedom they were endowed. That's mostly where the future went south, when their tree of life suddenly crumbled and its apples turned to rot in the most unpleasant manner, taking the whole patch of earth with them. And the worst part about the whole scheme is that the Citizens had no idea.

If this is the setting the Community is trying to fabricate, they're doing a pretty screwy job of it. Where are the smiling people? All around, of course, but that's only because they're so busy being unaware of the death and destruction whizzing by their heads and being wrapped up in their own lives to realize the tables turning and crushing them gradually under the weight. The smiles are fake, only present because the Community shoved them on with a messy glob of superglue. If the people truly had a grasp on the grafting arrangements of their government, their grins would melt into frowns like dripping wax from a flaming candle slowly losing its light.

That's all that will be left of the Citizens: an ember, a tiny fragment of heat buried deep among black ash, something only rekindled after hours of digging down deep inside themselves. They won't do it. They'll never do it, because they are obstructed by the Community's rhapsodic visage of shielding their faults with their few pleasures. Their artificial modesty keeps the system intact, for the Citizens have been taught to never ask for anything extra, outstep their boundaries under any circumstances.

This is the price the people have to pay after the miserly combat lasting many years. They were taught to fold their wrapping paper for reuse after reaping a scarce gift during holidays. They were taught to reserve the food they were given, eat all of the contents upon their paper and plastic plates. They were taught never to trust other people, for everyone was desperate for correspondence, their food to match their restless stomach. They were taught to bring out their natural instinct. They were taught to kill.

"Florence, honey? You seem a little pale."

My thoughts snap from the daydreaming and thinking area, where I spend most of my time — time that should be spent on fundamental qualities of life, not fantasizing about a different realm where the Community is virtually nonexistent, or at least far from my worries. Yet I fall again into a haze.

I could be wandering the lively streets of Paris, a dead city lost in the unforgiving war sixty-eight years prior, munching on the exotic food I had been told briefly about in elementary school as a precursor to the Community's vast history.

I had begged my second grade instructor to continue his spiel on other countries on a different chunk of land — Europe, he called it? — but he ruthlessly declined, leaving a seven year-old Florence weeping on the floor as my tears drove deep into the material of the ancient map resting haphazardly upon the white carpet. I would've listened until the light faded from the sky, until my mother had waited for three hours or more, tapping her foot anxiously and checking her watch every ten seconds, shooting me disgruntled glares as she shifts her purse on her shoulder. I would've listened until my ears bled ("That's improbable, Florence," my teacher informed me, always such a downer and an intellectual spirit) but he restricted my access to a life beyond that of the hover-parent government style of the Community.

I only received shadows, glimpses of the unknown areas of Europe, Asia, South America, Australia, and Africa — which are addressed by other names currently — yet, somehow, it was enough for an impassioned kid.

As a child, my mind was my best friend. It allowed me to explore worlds unknown, worlds forbidden by the extensive watchfulness of the education system. I suppose there was something oddly adventurous about the landscapes no one knew about, the places only manifested inside me, but not adventurous in a terrifying way; adventurous in the form of safety and uncovering my true self.

The outside gate opened only to me when I asked it to, when I pleaded to escape the routine dullness of the Community and its Citizens. It showed me how to be free, that even the confines of the prison cell that holds me can be all right once I peel back the outer layer of discontentment. It showed me how to do well in school, yet hold a special portion of my brain dedicated to whatever I choose. It showed me that extroversion is seemingly unimportant, that introversion is not a flaw and does not need to be overthrown. But thank goodness school taught me how to graph non-linear structures, right?

Home life is a distraction, something unnecessary, but at least it accepts my capricious nature with welcome arms, dries my tears and tells them that they're useless, that they stain my face with an unwanted, caustic essence. Even the residents of the environment don't affect me the way I used to affect myself — I've become numb to the judgmental stares I acquire when I walk down the street, especially the ones I obtain when merely relaxing in the living room.

Mrs. Curtis may disapprove of the way I look, often dressing in faded fabric, with frayed hems adorning my attire nicely, and she definitely disapproves of the way I speak, with miniscule sentences when I'm bored and extravagant sentences when I'm even more bored, but what she doesn't understand is that I don't need her consent to let go of the real world.

But I have to say something to calm peoples' nerves. I have to acknowledge the fact that the truth isn't meaningless, that I still am encouraged relentlessly to go outside, graduate from school (and maybe even college, if I'm lucky), get a well–paying job to support my growing needs, and perhaps marry someone that makes the corpulent trip worth it.

After all of this is finished and over with, when the journey draws to an end, when my drifting thoughts are all but withered, falling away in bits like crisp, autumn leaves plummeting from trees that occupy loads more strength than myself, I am sure of the palpability of retaining my memories, however locked up tight inside me from years of being ignored, pushed to the side in peevishness. No one can take my thoughts from me.

Mrs. Curtis will always be there, waiting, much like she is at this precise moment, and she will always be expecting a response from the wayward child standing in the doorway (metaphorically and literally), so, as much as I resist, I must oblige.

"I'm a morning troll," I lip. "I look pale as the soft, winter snow. It's quite disgusting, as you can see. I've started to form a disliking to the slippery mess. Too cold... Yes, it bites. Truly. I could honestly do without it."

To be completely truthful, I had not apprehended that, after all of the defiance and mystical foreshadowing that alluded to a well–planned takedown on my part, I would utter such an unformed statement in front of the perky woman. To think I could do such a thing; it is my responsibility to frighten the lady so incredibly that she simply places my breakfast outside my door in the morning and hopes with all her might that I don't burst through the door and catch her in the act.

Mrs. Curtis stares at me in confusion and, with a raised eyebrow, swiftly turns and dashes down the creaking stares. I shrug and close the door to enjoy my fruitcake.

Aha, it's working better than I thought.

I soon realize the coincidence that was the source of most of her confusion — her apron displayed a cartoon snowman with a white and yellow cake somehow resting on his stick arms, with block letters surrounding his face, reading "Snow Angel Food Cake".

I sigh, tracing the wood grains of the door, covered partially by paint rolling off in flakes around the edges and shallow divots. My fingers catch in a tiny hole brought to life by the texture of the tree used to create the wooden slab dividing me from the middle–aged woman running fearfully for her life.

Try not to trip down the stairs.

"I'm sorry," I whisper into my wall. "I get like this in the mornings, Mom — or around Mrs. Curtis, even if I am a morning person. By the way, why did you stick me with her? I mean, the old cat lady from down the street, Mrs. Adelma, would be a fine pick. She's got lots of cats, with the variety ranging from color to ear shape, but...I guess you don't want an eighty–four year old lady who's losing her wits in the house looking after your daughter. A girl can try though, right? You never even allowed cats in the house anyway."

One eventful day in third grade, I was walking home from school — minding my own business as I kicked pinecones off of the sidewalk and onto the street where I would be able to observe a rushing vehicle plow through it mercilessly — when I came across a black and white cat scooting in front of my feet. It soon began to rub against my leg affectionately, its soft ears brushing softly against my prepubescent leg hair.

Scooping it up in my frail arms and paying no mind to the animal's anxious thrashing, I darted towards my house located in the grassy suburbs of the Incipiens Province, where I would await the judgement of my mother. As you can imagine, she turned down the request to keep the cat, however adorable — even she could admit that; with its patches of color, it was almost impossible to refuse the concept, or at least that was my thought.

When my father returned home, he was no doubt astonished at the sight of my mother struggling to contain the cat inside the bath tub as I lobbed a clump of bubbles at its head, a wide smile flashing on my face. He was slightly more compassionate, confessing his liking to the creature writhing inside the ceramic trap of the bath tub, water lapping at its fur, but, in fear of my mother's wrath, he, too, denied the cat's passage into our family. I didn't even get the chance to name it!

"I could've named it after you, you know. You'd get to enjoy a power struggle in asserting dominance over the cat. Would've been fun. You could've had a grand battle and all. There can only be one Lilian in this household. Hopefully, you'd just change its name, not actually duel to the death. I'm positive Mrs. Adelma would come after you with a broom if you did that."

When I was ten, I adopted a style that seemed to calm me, where I would pretend my parents were listening to me from their resting place, where I had previously desired. At least then I could be with them.

Mrs. Curtis had knocked on my door frantically, thinking there was someone inside my room, trying to kidnap her precious 'baby'. It shouldn't have to be her duty to protect me with the same ferocity she's been exercising, but it's unlikely she'll cease her spastic ways.

Gosh, Florence, can you stop being so childish? They can't hear you.

"Come on, you can't blame me, Mom," I continue, giggling slightly to cover the doubtful thoughts prancing inside my mindset. "Well farewell, O kind maiden of the heavenly realm. It's time for me to get ready."

If you cannot master the elegant and old–fashioned speech of the Middle Ages, you simply cannot win at life.

A slight smile flashes on my face, until I remember that they're gone — my parents will never come back — and I just slide down to the ground, pressing against the door for support, watching the glare from the window ruin the color of everything as my jovial moment fades.

Getting myself together and standing up, meanwhile taking a deep breath, I fling open the door to my bedroom and make my way to the washroom, stretching profusely in the process.

Flicking on the electricity, the form of the room places itself into my presence. The walls are grotesque, with deep yellow paint chipping off around the edges of my kindergarten drawings framed above the sink.

After showing them to my parents, ignoring the queasy expressions on their faces, I shoved them into a musty box in the attic, never to be seen again. That is, until Mrs. Curtis came looting through old possessions in every corner she could find.

Sifting through the box I had kept hidden for many years, forgotten and stowed away cautiously, she pulled out a few of the kindergarten art masterpieces and nailed them to the bathroom walls so that they could "watch over us benevolently everyday".

Peeling the dingy clothes from my body, careful to keep them away from my skin to ensure less dirtiness, I step into the bath. I wince as I smack my foot on the lip of the shining, white structure. "Why does this happen to me? I'm just trying to take a bath!" I shriek to no one in particular, perhaps the water gods that have my fate in their ginormous — probably hairy — hands, who can make the biased decision to have me slam my face into the tub or traverse safely into the water.

I scrub the dirt off my feet with a crusty, yellow sponge, being careful to not break it in half, as Mrs. Curtis likes to keep everything in good condition and not waste our materials that were "so kindly given to us by the pleasant place we call home". I had at first thought she meant the house, but I then realized her speech as similar to those who are fanatics about our government style, who can't get enough of it.

Those people always scared me, with their bright faces, usually holding supportive signs to display their great appreciation of whatever it is that the Community has issued. They're like a mob of those inferior creatures at school that are always raving about boys — in other words, it's best to avoid them, or else you'll be sucked into their frivolous squealing games.

I feel that I'm always talking about books, but wait! Here's yet another connection to them, but the only time I pair two human beings is if they're fictional, and that's the complete truth. Any other matching is seen by me as worthless — and I'm the one with fake people as best friends, so I don't exactly see why I'm so confident in this.

Drawing my feet out of the bath slowly, I wrap a blue towel around myself before my betraying eyes can fall accidentally onto the mirror, where I would most likely scream at myself.

I walk — more like trip — to the door, twisting the knob furiously, and, in the process, I slam my back on the doorframe. Feeling around the walls, I make my way back to my room with limited injuries.

Mrs. Curtis loves to reprimand me for being so disoriented, placing a medium-sized book on my head whenever she gets the chance so that I can learn correct posture. The amount of times I cock my head defeats her nefarious plans, however; the books all come tumbling to the ground beside me, leaving the lady to pick them up wearily.

My bed, formerly adorned with covers strewn about in every place, is now perfectly made, wrinkles abolished strictly — Mrs. Curtis has made her daily visit to my room to tidy up my "pig sty of a place".

On it lies an old-looking white dress, buttons lining the frontal flaps. I wonder if it's my mother's. She left a stuffed box of her possessions to me in the occurrence of her death, but when she finally died, I shoved it in the attic to forget the terrible memories, but I clearly instructed Mrs. Curtis to never open it — those things don't have the same connotations with her as they do with me, and I especially didn't request the pristine form of it to be viewed by Mrs. Curtis' prying eyes.

Hopefully, the dress isn't hers, either. Mrs. Curtis's fashion sense is terribly bland and austere, much like herself. We both have a hard time venturing out in public with each other — Mrs. Curtis looks as though she just stepped out of the pre-Community days, while I look like I just stepped out of a trash can, or at least that's what she tells me every day.

I sigh, disdainfully sliding the fabric over my damp head, mindful to avoid my dripping hair. Every time I recklessly put on a shirt after a shower, my back is soaked and splattered within five minutes flat.

I brush my stringy hair endlessly, until some of the moisture escapes, sliding a pin to keep my light brown locks in place. I retrieve a huge, blue bow from a box located inside my dresser, a stash that Mrs. Curtis was sure I would utilize excessively one day — today is not that day; tomorrow isn't so beautiful, either.

"Florence!" Mrs. Curtis scolds. "Get ready quickly, and get your head out of your pants!" That's the thing about her — she's extremely polite (most of the time), so she uses terms that only old people are accustomed to. Maybe I'm just being rude and stereotypical about these matters. I'm clearly not in a good mood, and that's reflecting on my state of mind.

I'm not wearing any pants. I'm sure you knew that though — you were, in fact, the one who snooped in my private belongings to procure the raggedy peasant dress I'm wearing at the current moment.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ma'am?" Mrs. Curtis grins at the new word choice. "Why, you've never said before."

Well you definitely wouldn't appreciate what I could've said.

I'm only using it to get a free pass out of the house, including an escape from her tormenting smile and her archaic phrases, as well as a no questions asked policy. For once, I am dressed the way Mrs. Curtis wishes me to.

"I'm feeling kind of different today. Rain check?"

"I thought you were terribly excited for the Evaluation." The old lady currently occupying my house like a soldier furrows her brow in genuine confusion. "Besides, attendance is mandatory."

Sometimes, I get so worked up about something, then the day of the event comes around, and my stomach automatically turns sour, and I refuse to leave the couch, however faded and shapeless it is.

I huff, throwing the yellow sponge on the rickety, old table, made out of the finest wood my family could purchase at that time. I hadn't even noticed bringing it downstairs with me. I often clutch things in my hands without knowing.

"I guess I just need to nap—" I slowly drag my feet towards the living room, daring Mrs. Curtis to come and stop me. Perhaps her stiff hair will flutter in her rush to bring me back.

"Oh no you don't!" Mrs. Curtis drags me back from my brief journey to the couch by my collar and looks me straight in my hideous, brown eyes once she's turned me around. "Now you listen here, Florence Mayfield. You will go to the square, and you will be a good girl for the sake of the Community, for they have done wondrous things not only for you, but also for everyone in this society. Do you understand me?"

"Hypocrisy!" I shout, falling back onto the sofa in a haze. "I heard you didn't go one year, Mrs. Curtis, and why was that? Were you scared?" I taunt her, staring devilishly into her fearful eyes. "I suppose that's not so different from me..." I tilt upwards for a moment, pausing before I briskly scoot out the door, rage and power filling my dreadful little heart, brimming with so much hate that I cannot pinpoint the source of. Sometimes it happens like this — I feel so powerful that I start labeling things with preposterous names, though it often dulls the intensity. "Thanks for the mom frock."

I won't be scared from now on. I won't be afraid.

~~~~~

I kick rocks along the gravel road, which seems to be my current favorite activity, as life is particularly boring in a sense, even through all the drama that goes on during school. I try to block it out, but it could be healthy for me, to create human connections.

I sound like a mad scientist — possibly inhuman — experimenting on people. Oh jeez, snap out of it before you die.

Pebbles fit the sides of the path neatly, marking the banks of the wet sand being squashed under my feet. The wind flows through my uncombed hair, weaving through the huge tangles that appear in my fibrous, brown hair.

Some people say they would die for the quality of my hair, specifically the hair dressers when I get my annual haircut with Mrs. Curtis, but I never believed that the birds' nest of my head could be worth anything; I considered it a form of flattery that I wouldn't have, but as always, I thanked them for the thoughtful comment.

As the trees sway back and forth, and I lose my previous trail of thought, I start to wonder about the events that will happen if I'm a good selection for a Candidate, if I match the criteria for a future leader of the Community. Will there be intellectual tests, or maybe a life threatening survival examination?

Pondering this idea, I slam into a pole accidentally.

Ugh, I'll surely get a bruise for this... Why am I so absently mindless? I bet if I stopped living in the fantasy world, I could actually have friends to keep me busy, so that, well, I won't run into poles. Oh wait. That's not going to happen.

I rub my aching forehead, and I continue on. Thoughts try to push their way into my mindset, but I ignore them, which seems to be taking up most of my capacity, just trying to deflect them like I'm some kind of mind ninja.

What the heck is a mind ninja?

A medium-sized jeep in black whizzes by, spraying mud onto the trees, bushes, the trail, and pretty much everywhere, but thankfully, none of the icky, brown substance lands on me.

"Hey, Braniac!" the arrogant, disruptive boys from school yell as they zoom away, waving their arms as if to say "missed out on the party as usual"; I wonder what that suggestion means, because at first, I don't see anyone else, but I then spot two laughing girls who look like the kind of people I'd resent for being so careless.

There's war going on around them. Lives are being lost by the dozen. Resources are scarce for those who cannot access them readily, much like most of the Citizens of the Caligo Province. Just because the war isn't occurring in the Community's grounds doesn't mean its Citizens aren't in grave danger; a portion of them chose to serve their government to continue the flourishing legacy of their home, but at a great cost.

Their children may starve without the financial support of an extra parent at home. The Community promised us a new future, but they refuse to assist those who assist them. Their assurances are protean — no one knows what to trust.

"Yeah, why don't you ever hang out with people? We'd love to have you, darling," one of them with beach blonde hair cackles, winking as the last trace of them diminishes beyond the captivity of my view.

The only part those people would love about me is my antipathy towards them. They'd simply chortle when I sit alone at a table during their parties (I'd stay away from the alcohol that would no doubt be readily present) and scowl at everyone.

They're going mostly for the free cookies, aren't they?

I imagine the cocky teenagers hoarding the refreshment and dessert table, stuffing their faces with treats and choking on their lemonade because of their hasty pacing, and a small smile plays on my face as I stare at my ragged shoes.

By the way, weren't they good a minute ago?

I do a double take when I realize those jerks ruined my only pair of dress flats, and that the mud had in fact landed on me. A lot.

Most of the shoe is covered with the liquid form of dirt, but some parts of the material were left unscathed, though small dots decorate it.

Curse you and all of your descendants!

~~~~~

After an hour of walking and worrying about my appearance, however nice it seems to Mrs. Curtis, though I encountered no one to even possibly judge me, I reach the city portion of the Community's smallest Province, Incipiens, where Citizens mill around on bicycles, others jogging with friends to reach the square in time, where they would, too, have the rest of their lives decided — the sixteen year-olds anyway.

Hurrying towards the crowd, I step into the path towards the Gathering Square, where my fate will either make me or break me. I hope for the former. However, destiny isn't always kind to people like me, people who have so much vigor, but will tear down the city if their success isn't directly acquired.

Pan runs towards me, a goofy smile slathered across his tan skin. He slows as he nears, wiggling his eyebrows rapidly, something that could always draw a laugh out of me, the most often occurrence when we were head-deep in schoolwork, an activity that is so dreadful to think about when its premise is disrupted. "How did you even escape the house?" Pan has never had very much faith in me, mainly because of my inexorable demeanor, with the other part being his own wayward demeanor — he never listens and always doubts me so that he can remain "the alpha of the pack".

"It's pretty simple, as Mrs. Curtis is a pretty simple woman."

Lies, lies, lies, lies.

It required a lot more than Mrs. Curtis' status as a simpleton to so mischievously sneak outside. It enforced sassing beyond compare, something that I wouldn't mind forgetting the techniques of.

"I wouldn't exactly say that."

Ever since Mrs. Curtis took charge and put an end to Pan's schemes (or so she thought — he still continues to prank the day away), he's been wary around her, pleading to walk to his house to be free of the pristine woman's arbitrary glances.

"Well I wouldn't be one to feel confident in your judgment," I retort, giving Pan a steady glare.

In third grade, he told me I would look good with a pink tutu and flashy tights, that it was somehow "school appropriate". I got into so much trouble with the principal, but he only laughed hysterically about it as I grimaced, furious. I'm quite baffled as to why I'm still friends with that weirdo. His judgment means nothing to me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He puts on a fake pouty face, performs a despaired huff, and blinks multiple times in a joking fashion, trying to make me feel bad about my choice of words.

"I'm not apologizing, you doofus. We have to make it to the Gathering Square in time."

He smirks, and we walk on.

"Pan, this is serious," I say, pushing my joking friend away. "This will decide our fate. I want to be special."

Pan has always been the jester type — the most atrocious school stereotype category — playing pranks on everyone he can — even teachers, which appalled me most of all; he seemed to save the most disobedient tricks for them and wound up in detention more than once a week; his mother was never pleased, but she learned to grow used to it.

But I keep using the word, fate, everywhere I go, utilizing it as an excuse to be worked up or avoid doing things, which definitely isn't my intention.

Wink.

"You already are special."

The dumpster and the trashcan aren't options. I've heard that one many times from you, yet it never gets funnier, because it never started out that way.

"To whom? This is society. There aren't jokes and I—"

Pan lifts his hands to his chest in an act gesturing for me to subdue my racing thoughts. "Calm down, Florence. I bet on the inside, you don't actually want to be chosen. The Evaluation changes people."

Don't tell me to calm down, Pan. I will eat all of your mother's cabbages, just you watch me.

The news reports hadn't mentioned anything about Rogue Citizens running amuck, mainly with the Community's promises that the Evaluation is completely safe and controlled in a secured environment. From what I've heard, the Candidates turned out completely fine, maybe even better off. After all, the Evaluation provides them with a higher social status and a place in the government if they should wish to enroll in its services.

Taking a deep breath, I stroll along to the Gathering Square to receive my very improbable hope, whether, as Pan said, it's what I actually desired.

The square looms above me, casting an eerie shadow on the bored Citizens that gathered here. None of them seem to be as excited as I am; they don't have much faith that they will be picked, that they will be important. In fact, neither do I. I'm here out of a special chance, or because it's mandatory, but the hope is somewhere else in this event.

"We have gathered here today to announce the special few who will be lucky enough to participate in the Evaluation," the Director announces, a forced smile on her aging face. "The Evaluation was made twenty-four years ago by our highly esteemed Director Cadent to find future leaders, worthy enough of delivering the Community through highs and lows."

She reaches into her white suit — contrasting with her bronzed skin — for a crisp, light envelope, as if her body hadn't formed it at all, like it was encased in a glass sheet.

"It seems we only have one from the Incipiens Province. Oh, a lovely young lady, I see."

My heart skips a beat, excited that she had narrowed down the possibilities to about half the population of the Province.

This could be me.

Pressing her red lips together, the Director opens the envelope with much care, making sure the pristine form doesn't crinkle — it seems she spent much effort keeping it perfect. As she opens her mouth, there comes a strong hope to be chosen, even if it means leaving Pan. Fear blooms in my stomach, and I clench my fists, preparing for the worst, yet desiring the best.

She opens her mouth to reveal the Candidate, but closes it after a few seconds of hesitation, folding the letter back into its envelope.

What's she doing? There has to be an Evaluation Candidate. It's required. She can't just revoke the tradition! Why am I so angry?

"But the sixteen year olds will have to check by the post office to reveal if they have received their Evaluation letter. Meanwhile, the adults and children can enjoy the beverages and snacks, including nutritious varieties, such as lemonade, granola bars, and peanuts, though we ask those with peanut allergies and aversions to please refer to the peanut-free snack table located across from the regular one. Don't worry, kids! It has the same snacks, excluding the nuts."

This is the first time one of the Directors has ever done something as outrageous as this, defying the standard procedure of the Gathering Square Evaluation announcement. Ever since Director Damon was elected, she's been calling for perverse tactics, throwing all of the administrators off-guard. I don't trust her decisions.

My stomach plummets, and I lower my shoulders, trudging from the Gathering Square with an expression laced with contempt, while the small kids dart to the snack table as their tired parents attempt weakly to hold them back by the collars of their shirts.

"I was hoping she would tell us right then," I tell Pan as he jogs up next to me, a sweet simper — more accurately, smirk — present on his lips.

To be completely honest, I wasn't just hoping, like I said to Pan. My insides were burning with smoldering butterflies planning their jailbreak. I was full blown relying on Director Damon telling us then — I couldn't wait any longer; after nine months, it's already been too long for my anticipation to be fully armed and ready for battle.

"You thought."

"Well I'm not a 'young lady', so at least I'm not it. You have a better chance now."

Pan's been insistent on that fact since as long as I can remember, but I find it amusing how much he tries to defend his case, slipping it in casually in everyday conversations, but his sense of casual, however, isn't so normal.

Following the mob of agitated teenagers, I finally reach the post office, where a winding line of kids awaits the contents of their P.O. Box.

"Want to cut the line?" Pan suggests, cocking his eyebrows.

His morals aren't what I would call compatible with mine. He assumes the form of an unruly Citizen that cannot be punished because of certain reasons (he's a Minor, and the government isn't aware of his shenanigans).

"You know I never do that."

"You're missing out on lots. Remember those many times when you missed lunch at school because you were waiting for an eternity, or when the snack bar ran out of ice cream sandwiches before you even made it to the half-way point? I remember you were craving those little bricks of ice like a potato craves other potatoes that day. You wouldn't take no for an answer. In fact, more than once, you went Rogue and tried to slap the ice cream guy."

At almost every event with rowdy children, this happens, but I don't inform him of that fact — it's more firepower to assist his maniacal schemes in overthrowing my stability.

"I wanted to keep my ethical mental records perfect."

Pan scoffs, brushing the hair out of his eyes nonchalantly. "'Ethical mental records'."

After ten minutes, the line progresses significantly, to the point where Pan and I are at the head of the line, and we enter quickly, brushing past the delaying children.

Pan simply trails behind me, anxiously peering over my shoulder as if it were him being chosen.

Taking slow steps, I approach my box, fingers crossed in apprehension. Scooting by a tall boy clad in a button down and loafers, a jubilant sight waits before me.

Tucked inside the small square of my post office cubby is a medium-sized, tan envelope resting on its side. It leans on the wall of the compartment, though it appears formal in my eyes, more so than it actually is — it was placed inside carelessly.

"Well would you look at that?" Pan exclaims.

My heart soars, if just for a moment, until I'm escorted to the stage a block away by an official waiting by the door, my face burning bright as a tomato as I imagine shaking Director Damon's hand, dense with her excessive use of lotion.

Pan follows like a puppy to its owner, skipping happily along the roads as the guard leads me towards the Gathering Square.

Practically tripping up the stairs on either end of the stage, my limbs shake as I draw nearer to the official-looking woman standing before me. The Director's formed lips tighten in her attempt to shape a smile.

"Congratulations," she whispers in my ear.

It was me.

The last thing I see before being escorted into the building is Pan's worried face, as he shakes his head, tears sliding down his cheeks, always so unexpected. "You don't want this," he mouths, but the doors have already slammed closed, and I am dragged down the hall, forgetting all that had happened.

But what does Pan know? He never supported my goals anyway, only laughed about them like they were too far-fetched and childish to comprehend. To be fair, his biggest dreams are to be crowned the prank king by our strict principal, Mr. Sevrin, someone who never tolerated his antics. Pan doesn't matter.

I am starting a new life.

~~~~~

A/N: you got a 1k word chapter then a 9.5k word chapter lmao ur already rekt

if you liked this, please vote, comment, share, etc. thanks, bowl cut supremes

~Dakota