Flinging my blanket to the floor, I awoke abruptly as a deafening siren blared through my neighborhood. Frantically, I raced towards the window with the hope to unearth the location of the disaster. My eyes weaved throughout the winding streets carefully investigating the city's landscape. However, instead of the disastrous chaos I expected to see, the streets remained eerily desolate. As the siren bellowed into what seemed to be a peaceful night, I noticed a faraway distant glow emerging into the murky sky.
Bang! My body jolted with shock as my bedroom door collided with a dresser. Peering over my shoulder, I recognized the lanky figure standing in the doorway. With a quick click, fluorescent light swiftly illuminated my room revealing my best, and oldest, friend.
"Alfie?" I paused, turning towards him in bewilderment."What the hell is going on?"
For a minute, he just stood there, averting eye contact and desperately trying to string together a coherent explanation for tonight's disturbances. It was unusual for Alfie to be so agitated. Instead of his signature goofy smile, I noticed distress etched on his face. Instead of the familiar melody of his laugh, there was a shakiness to his breath.
"Well, there's been an explosion of some sorts in the factory section," he uttered, fighting back a stream of tears and desperately trying to stay strong.
"An explosion? Are any of the workers seriously hurt?" I questioned in disbelief. It was uncommon for any type of disaster to occur in Imperium. Let alone sound the siren of death.
Alfie's gaze met mine as he recalled, "Well, as soon as the explosion happened, my parents and I rushed over to help the injured. But, when we arrived, there was just huge debris scattered all over the ground and the factory was practically engulfed in flames. Obviously, we wanted to keep scouring the ruins, you know, for survivors. But, the government's guardsmen came and forced us out. As we were leaving, the sirens came. A feeble sign of hope. So, I ran halfway across the city to see you. To tell you," he suddenly paused. It's almost as if he knew his next few words would eventually shatter the little hope I had left.
"People are saying there are no survivors."
"No survivors? No...no that's not right. I mean, there has to be at least a couple of survivors," I replied, fondling with the charm of my necklace.
Alfie's tentative eyes watched me pace around the small room and he continued with hesitation, "Ya Ling, I saw it with my own eyes. The plant is destroyed. There are no survivors."
There. Are. No. Survivors. Each word echoed within the fragile walls of my mind and as if I had no control over my body, I collapsed onto the floor. Rushing forward, a panic-stricken Alfie engulfed my trembling body into a warm embrace. As the reality flooded my mind, I felt the distinct feeling of being absolutely alone. The distinct feeling of pure misery.
____________________________________
September 25, 3031
"Ya Ling? Are you even listening to me?" an exasperated voice shouts, yanking my anxious mind from a distant memory back to reality. Shifting my focus towards the irritated adult, I notice the pointed look painted on her face.
"Mrs. Pictor, I'm truly sorry. I've just been a bit distracted lately," I apologize.
Today marks the anniversary of my parent's death, and despite it being two years, I still had difficulty coming to terms with the fact that they are actually gone. Every so often, the memory of their death hides far within the depths of my mind. And, just for those few moments, I'm happy. Successfully orchestrating a secret society alongside Alfie. Exploring the magical world beyond the city with Reb. Liberated from the overwhelming pain of my parent's death. But, just as I begin to find a shred of happiness in this world of misery, I'm reminded of my parent's death. And that once hidden memory, finds itself chained to the spotlight.
"Honey, listen. I know it's the anniversary of your parent's death and I really do sympathize with you. But for the sake of this family, you've got to get your act together for the cameras. It's Press Day!" Mrs. Pictor exclaims while weaving a yellow ribbon into my curls.
Press Day, apparently, is one the most important days for those part of Imperium's elitist class. On this remarkable day, the richest and whitest of Imperium clothe themselves in the finest attire, flaunting their wealth to the millions of cameras that supposedly capture their every move for the sake of us, the working class folk. It's basically a "brag-tus update" to remind anyone who's not wealthy, powerful, or a politician that they're neither wealthy, powerful, nor a politician.
However, the actual day itself is pretty enjoyable. You know, if you're not a recently orphaned teenager with deep-rooted hate for the government. Wait. It's not that I absolutely hate the government because I'm an orphaned teenager. No. I hate the government because of the systemic racism that remains prevalent within our society at the hands of corrupt politicians and the government that protects them.
"Wow!" Mrs. Pictor says from behind me. "Finally, after three hours of tedious work, I've successfully transformed you from an Imperium reject to an Imperium elitist!"
Mrs. Pictor's words replay in my mind as I stare into the mirror at a girl I barely recognize. A stranger. Her posture resembles that of an Imperium elitist, stoic and void of emotion; however her confidence seems to waver as Mrs. Pictor's boney fingers brush across her shoulders. Her ebony hair is molded into perfectly placed curls that fall right above her collarbone covering several faded blemishes staining her neck. She exhibits a faint smile of what appears to be joy, but the nightmares shrouded behind her eyes relay a different story. Her dress's fabric works to veil her frail body from the public eye, concealing years of malnourishment and starvation; while the luminous color enkindles a childish essence. That girl standing in the mirror is an Imperium puppet, and I hate her.
"Ya Ling, please pay attention to me!" Mrs. Pictor says snapping her fingers in front of my face. "The moment I saw this dress, I just knew it would be perfect for you! The color. The fit. What do you think?"
To be entirely honest, by some powerful sorcery or whatever, I actually manage to look presentable in this awful mustard colored dress; Mrs. Pictor practically forces me to wear. But, it isn't me. Like every Press Day before, I've been reduced to a simple side character in the government's tear-jerker of a narrative. "Lonely orphan girl gets saved from a life of despair by well-known political family, the Pictors." Award-winning, am I right?
"Well, while the dress itself is perfect, I had to admit the color isn't exactly me. Maybe we could try a shade of blue," I respond tentatively, gauging her reaction in the mirror. Mrs. Pictor does not react kindly to any form of disagreement.
I watch her jaw tense as she exhales intensely. Her hostile gaze pierces through the mirror and a sickly sweet smile creeps across her face.
"If you want to ignore the countless hours I've spent scouring the stores to find the one dress I thought you would love, then yes, you can try something in a shade of blue. It's not like this dress was extremely expensive anyways."
Not to be mythical or anything, but I swear that despite her philanthropic status and alleged kindhearted personality, Mrs. Pictor is actually a monstrous witch in disguise. Besides her freakishly misshapen nose and coincidental chin wart, I'm convinced she uses her witchy powers under the guise of emotional manipulation -her favorite form of magic- to personally ruin people's lives, or to be specific, mine.
"You know what, I changed my mind. The yellow actually does look good," I mutter simultaneously appeasing Mrs. Pictor and my slight fear of her hidden rage.
"Great! Now listen, you can't forget to update the reporters on your luxurious life with us," she says with her famous patronizing stare. "Oh, and at least try to smile for the cameras this time, it's important for our public image."
"Of course, Mrs. Pictor," I respond as she disappears into the hallway.
It's natural for her to believe it's her right to control me as some minion who'll obey her every command. In her mind, I should be grateful for this lavish life she so graciously provided me with. After all, just a few months ago, I was nothing but a depressed and lonely girl with no foreseeable future. So, on Press Day, I'm obligated to fill the role of the happiest orphan to have ever walked this earth; ultimately thankful for my "terrific" and "charitable" government.
YOU ARE READING
The Rejects
General FictionThere's order to everything. Everything has a pattern, a set of rules that keeps it functioning. Without it, organisms die, governments fail, civilization collapses. There's a reason we're the only ones left. We had order, while the rest of the worl...
