{Part 2} Untitled Short Story

I'm guessing you mean this sentence, "She hoped it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience for me to wait for them to return?" I was undecided whether or not to use a question mark for that kind of imbedded dialogue. So, I think I'll change it to a period. ^_^ Thanks.

Well, here goes part two. I think the story as a whole turned out decently for being thought of and written in twenty-four hours. Though I secretely wish my sister had written it, because then it would have turned out much better.

p.s. In all the story is nearly four full pages with regular margins in a word doc.
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One day after Mrs. Clemine was replaced, the whole school had half the day off so our teachers could attend a Mental Health and Positive Attitude seminar. But I wasn’t out and about rejoicing in my temporary freedom like most of the kids. Instead, I sat at home in my tiny little room, in the tiny little apartment Mom had worked so hard to provide for the two of us. Homework could not hold my attention, so I slipped into the kitchen looking for something to eat. Mom had made stroganoff for lunch, but it sounded distasteful to me just then. Even though I knew she wouldn’t be home until dinnertime, I opted for a muffin instead.

“I hate muffins,” I said aloud. Surely, any adult would criticize me for practicing telling lies when it is so important to ones future to practice telling the truth. Of course, they had not done what I had done. I had the strangest feeling I could risk it, even though I didn’t want to. Perhaps it was simply the possibility that I could—and get away with it—that made me crave it. Me and the muffin made our way to the couch and I sat down, untouched muffin in hand. The majority of the student body secretly held to the belief that our teachers wanted us out of school today so we could witness the possible passing of a bill that would affect every one of our lives. While I didn’t want to be part of the System, no one knew how much the Supreme Court’s decision really would affect me if it passed.

I still felt slightly euphoric with what I had said moments before. As much as this troubled me I felt myself losing grasp of the grievance. There was no reason why I should act this way, but I felt myself invariably drawn to. This way I could get back at the people who value honesty so much they no longer trust my truthfulness. After all, I’ve done exactly what everyone wants so far: I haven’t been sent to the Principal’s office, gotten detention, or any other sort of demerits. Why have they no reason to believe my words?

That’s exactly what I thought earlier in the day. In preparation for future work we had all been associated with the Registers. The technology has been upgraded numerous times, and each time the machine has come out small and cleaner until it reached the school standard size which vaguely resembled a tissue box. Our teacher instructed us on how to hook up the machine and then told us to either say something true or contradictory, and then view the reading. A group of my friends all decided we would say something contradictory and aim for a certain emotion on the monitor.

My turn came and I said something contradictory to how I felt, looking for the red light and reading. Instead, it showed the same line it had present when I wasn’t saying anything: eerily similar to a heartbeat of a man in great distress. The presiding teacher began swiftly disconnecting me from the Register and said detachedly, “That’s interesting, I never knew that about you,” then immediately began instructing the next kid. I started to say perhaps I wasn’t hooked up right, or “Sir, something is wrong with your expensive machine,” but instead I walked over to my friends feeling a strange mixture fear and exhilaration.
“Hey, what’s up? Why didn’t you show red like we said we were gonna? Chickened out, huh?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.

On the way home I tried to clear my head, but it didn’t work. I was in the same state when I arrived home. My chest was constricting, and a single thought kept pounding through my head again and again. “But it wasn’t true . . . it wasn’t, why didn’t someone tell me I was wrong?” Bitterness, my dear friend, began to take hold of me. Bitterness as strong as the kind which ravaged me whenever I thought of my father and how he left; when any memory or thing reminded me of him. I clenched my jaw and distracted myself from crying by walking back into the kitchen for a napkin. I still hadn’t touched the muffin.

“I hate you,” I whispered under my breath. “Darn you, psychiatrists and busybodies. You never knew what I felt!” I was talking out loud now. “Were you so pre-occupied when you asked how I felt about my dad leaving? Or was I so good at acting, or did you care so little that you believed what wasn’t true?” Fiery, angry tears fell now. “It wasn’t true . . . and as long as you tell me I’m right that’s what I’ll be, and you’ll never have to know.”

I won’t,” I took a breath, put on a serene composure and continued, “ever make that mistake again. Because you will only ever here what you want to hear.” I flicked on the television and stared blankly at the news headline declaring the Supreme Court’s daring decision necessitating the use of personal Registers. “I hate you,” I said, still gazing, and took a bite of the muffin.

~

By now the doctors should be back. However, either something has delayed them they find it amusing to shirk their duties. I have quite recovered from my emotional outburst nearly two weeks ago, and I’ve learned a lot since then. A lot about what I am. To some extent the Movement seems to be working. Society is weeding out the “bad” from the “good” with all these laws. Be sure your sin will find you out—they are. I have realized this, and I don’t want to get in trouble with the Movement. I want to remain out of their files—a free mind. This has become impossible, since everyone is on file; I merely want to stay in the Approved section. And so far so good. I am learning to control every aspect of my composure, and when they get what they want to hear, they will never know how false it is. Because their own creation will blind them.

I have my reasons for this: I want my freedom. The freedom to make mistakes . . . This is my reason and everyone has one for either opposing or supporting the Movement. Small, fragile families with toddlers pushed for Registers among banking officials to protect their budding investments. Filthy, old misers pushed for their use among the agriculture industry and the volunteers in their community to ensure their free food was nutritious and un-poisoned. Animal Rights advocates made sure they were found in pet stores for the use of both customer and supplier.

Yet, among all the apparent improvement, selfish motives pushed the use of this technology supposed to force out the good in people. Perhaps they were all afraid, and believed if others behaved more purely, than it would be easier for themselves. Despite their efforts to “create a better society,” they have only created an environment which holds evil intentions for me.

Stirred from my internal reverie, momentarily, I saw that the doctors had returned and the nurse had called my number. White paper covered the check-up table where they beckoned me sit. “This will only take a minute,” the doctor said, taking my personal Register from my hand. “Are you right or left handed? “Right,” I responded. Stealthily, the nurse gave me a shot for the pain as the doctor began installing my death sentence. I couldn’t help but wish she had forgotten . . . and let me feel the pain—however miniscule it would be with all their high-tech equipment. Let me feel it, because I know I will cause more pain to people than these few minutes could ever cause me. I heard the doctor say, “All done, now that was painless, huh?” and I looked up at him for the first time. He resembled my father. How fitting.

I slipped down from the table, feeling chilled. But warmth would do me no good; the cold is inside me. We heat our homes in the winter to keep from getting cold, thus breaking down our immune systems. And in doing so we create an environment where pathogenic bacteria can flourish. Within our rush to exclude it, we create a home for our evils.

The nurse outside offered me a glass of water and a muffin. I took the water and said, “No thank you, I hate muffins.” She smiled politely, and retreated. I went on my way, the Register still continuing its deathly dance.