In the quiet desert village of Dey, living among the sand dunes and mirages, existed an anomaly - me. I was different, born without the ability to read, write or keep long memories. My scientist father hailed my uniqueness as a miracle, but my life...
"Everything's wrong with me and it's not even entirely my fault! How fair life can be?" I muttered, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. My own tattered visage staring back at me was a constant reminder of the harsh reality I was trapped in. Mom's echoing voice filled my head, "We get what we deserve, dear." But what could we have possibly done to end up here?
Here - in this God's forsaken hole, this wasteland of hopes - a place we called Dey. Dey, a bitter name for a place that hadn't seen a day of brightness. A remote desert village that barely clung to the edge of existence.
Each morning, as the ruthless sun scorched the arid landscape, my youthful dreams and aspirations evaporated into the thin, dry air. The storm inside me mirrored the dust devils that swirled around, carrying my ambitions away into the vast nothingness.
I often found myself contemplating, was it better to be taken by the capital hounds on the Counting day, than face another year in this abysmal existence? The thought reverberated in my mind like a haunting melody.
The Counting day was no less than a desperate reckoning. Once you hit eighteen, you'd stand in line with the others, the trembling shelled teenagers, praying to be spared, praying for another year in Dey. The empty-eyed capital hounds would arrive, selecting their prey, disappearing them into the unknown within the belly of gleaming steel machines. The whispers said they carried you away to a chillingly cold place, where the sun was an alien element. Certainly a dreadful fate, but at least it was far away from Dey.
The thought of being chosen terrified me, but so did the thought of growing old in Dey. Despite its horrors, at least a removal promised a break from this monotonous routine, this never-ending illusion that they had the audacity to call life. My daily existence was an agonizing labyrinth of monotony and despair - any escape seemed preferable.
I was caught in a tug of war - desire for the unknown or the comfort of familiarity. Yet, no matter how I grappled with the thought, an escape remained a far-fetched dream. For now, all I knew was that I had to survive, but how much longer could I endure?
...
In the featureless desert outside the bustling opulence of Tulin, lies our village. Hot as a baker's oven by the daylight blare, bone-snappingly cold when the desert's stark night falls, a place where life is an unending beat against unforgiving entropy. We make do with our lot here, the hundred faces that call Dey home, in our small clusters of adobe houses that dot the wide expanse of burning sand and stone. The only time our monotonous rhythm is disrupted is when the 'Hounds', the draconian law enforcement from Tulin, sweep through on their iron steads- checking, counting and collecting.
Once a year they come, an event we've grimly named 'The Counting Day'. The day the Hounds count our numbers, confirming we do not exceed the allowed tally of one hundred. They ride in like a whirlwind, their imposing silhouettes standing stark against the mirage-ridden horizon. You never forget your first Counting Day. You never quite get used to the metallic tang of forcefully concealed fear, hanging heavy in the arid air.
There is a beauty in our simplistic lives, a peaceful tranquillity uneclipsed by the grandeur of the ever-glowing Tulin.
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