The Twenty Five Percent Rayanna

Happy Birthday

         I wake up to the sound of someone beating on my bedroom door; pulling myself out of the dream world, I just lay in my bed for a few moments, trying to wake up. I look around my bedroom; it's not large. Four steps will get you from wall to wall. One tiny window lets in the smallest amount of light. I nailed one of my bedsheets over the window to keep the bright light from waking me up. I got in big trouble for that one; my older brother chewed me out for over an hour.

        "Get out of bed, already!" A male voice shouts. It's my brother, Wolfe. He is a good guy; he gave up his childhood to take care of me. Dad died when Wolfe was nine and I was five, and mom died a few years before that. Dad looked a lot like Wolfe, but he was easygoing. He was always laughing and cracking jokes. He had this big gut-busting laugh. I don't remember mom, at all. Wolfe says I look just like her, even have her same curiosity. I guess that's why he's so hard on me, angry at mom for being chosen in the lottery and leaving us. It wasn't her fault, just a fact of life.

         "I'm up already, chill," I shout. I stretch and then sit up.

        "Come get your breakfast, you know today is a big day," Wolfe says. I hear him move away from my door.

       I get up and walk over to the handmade calendar hanging on the wall. The top is a beautiful river scene, with blue water, and green plants with colorful flowers blooming. Wolfe drew the picture; it proves that he has a fantastic imagination because the only river I have ever seen is toxic and brown. Of course, he keeps his artistic talent hidden because it "won't put food in our bellies" as he puts it.

        Underneath the pretty picture are boxes drawn in black marker and numbers written in pencil to mark the dates. I run my finger across the boxes marking off the last couple of days; I forgot again, and check today's date. Double-checking, I re-count the last couple of days. Today is the eighteenth, my birthday. My heart drops in my chest. I know that seems like an odd reaction to a person's birthday. Who hates the day they become an adult? But that's because this day also happens to be the day of the lottery.

Today is the Lottery, the day of death for at least fifty people. I heard that a long time ago, winning the lottery meant winning money. But not anymore. Now it just means death, and now that I am twenty-one, I am forced to take part in the lotto as well. I will have to stand in line and press a button on a box, held by one of the Ghemin soldiers. Every year, everyone from twenty-one to thirty-five has to do this. There are many people who are in this age range and all of them have to press the button. The "winners" are escorted into the Genetix Lab, never to be seen, or heard from, again. Meanwhile, the "Losers" get to go back home, free to live their life for another year.

        Because of this, most people around here marry young; if they survive their first lotto. Except for Wolfe, I guess he didn't marry because he was too busy looking after me. He had plenty of girls interested, so that wasn't the problem. I have never asked him why; I started to ask several times, but I didn't want him to think I was ungrateful for his sacrifice, so I decided against it. Picking up my hairbrush from the nearby dresser top, I brush the tangles out of my long brown hair. I twist it and pile it high on my head, out of the way. Who knows, if I survive my first lotto, I might meet a cool guy. Better to be prepared, just in case. I grab a shirt and a pair of pants from the dresser and quickly get dressed. I want to finish this day as quickly as possible. Looking into the small, cracked mirror, I see a purple stain on my cheek.

         Ugh! Stupid cheap sheets! One of these days I'm going to trade for better stuff, stuff that doesn't stain my face while I sleep. That is IF I don't draw an X in the lotto, or IF I don't get mauled by a wild beast. Or IF I don't starve to death first. You know what? Never mind. Now that I think about it, I will just keep the stupid cheap sheets. I walk to the bathroom that Wolfe and I share, knock on the closed door, and pause for a moment. I don't want to walk in on him.

        "Wolfe, are you in there?" I call out.

        "I'm in the kitchen!" He says.

      I open the door, and I am hit with hot, steamy air. Why does he always shut the door when he isn't in there? That's so annoying! I flip on the light switch, step inside, and shut the door. That's when I notice the small mirror above the sink is fogged up. I groan and wipe it off with a dry towel. Then I reach for the small bar of handmade soap, wet it, and rub it on the purple spot. You can barely smell the pig fat used to make the soap. I splash water on my face; and then look up into the mirror and see that the spot is gone. My skin is barely red and doesn't feel like it's burning this time, so I must be getting better at making the soap. I turn around and use the blue towel to dry off my face. I check my reflection one more time, and don't see any more spots. My hair looks good, the clothes are clean; I am ready to meet a good-looking guy. One with money would be nice, so we can build some sort of fence. Satisfied with my appearance, I leave the bathroom.

         Before I round the corner, into the common room, I brace myself. I love Wolfe dearly, but birthdays are a bigger deal to him than they are to me. It feels like he tries to overcompensate for the loss of our parents. To me, birthdays just mean that you are one day closer to having to take part in the lottery. The Lottery. It always comes back to that.

       When I walk into the common room, I see I was right. Wolfe has hung a small banner that says Happy Birthday, Rayanna. He has another picture drawn on it, this one of a sunrise over a majestic mountain.

      "Happy Birthday, Rain," Wolfe says. Rain is the nickname he gave me when we were children. Something about me always asking to go outside and dance in the rain.

      "Thanks," I mumble, plopping myself down at the table. I notice the box of artificial sweetener sitting on the table. Wolfe must have sweetened our bland bowl of hot grain with it. What a great brother, always thinking of me first, always trying to make me happy. He would have been a great husband and father. I sigh and dig into my food.

       "Hurry and eat, you know we have to get going," he says.

      "Yeah, I know." I am nearly done eating when I speak up again. "Hey, Wolfe?"

      "Yes?"

       "I'm scared."

      "I know. It will be okay. No matter what happens, I'll be right there with you."