Our Darkest Knights

Chapter four

I'm like the odd tomato in the fruit basket, acknowledged as a fruit but never truly embraced as part of the group. I mean, who says their favorite fruit is a tomato? Hardly anyone. I made the mistake of trying one when I was five, during a hospital visit to see my grandmother. It looked so tempting on her food tray that I couldn't resist taking a bite. Big mistake. I ended up hurling on my mom's sandals. Now, whenever I encounter one, I scrunch up my nose and look up at the sky, careful not to upchuck on someone's toes.

Being labeled a vegetable when you're supposed to be a fruit is not something you want in today's world. People don't readily embrace the different, and forgiveness is a rare commodity for those who've made a mistake. We are expected to be flawless, government-approved zombies, walking embodiments of perfection. There's no room for those who tarnish the image of our city and its officials. The pressure to conform becomes suffocating, anchoring heavily on those who dare to be different.

In our divided world, there are five ruling Mystics, known as the Jaracas, or simply the Jara's. Each presides over a sector, asserting their authority. Beneath them are the Caspiens, governing cities and states. Then there are the Keapers, the enforcers, or, as we see them, the fleas on the big dogs. Keapers are meant to maintain order, but power often corrupts, and they wield theirs without restraint. I once saw a kid beaten for levitating an apple. Another time, they had someone strip down naked and run through the streets in the dead of winter for talking back.

But our fears extend beyond the oppressive Keapers. lurking in the shadows are Turoks. Sinister creatures, pale, and skinny, with sharp razor teeth. They roam the night seeking to capture any Mystic they can snag with their knife-like fingers, draining their power to fuel themselves. They are a rare sight in the city, but when one does appear, alarms blare, warning everyone to get inside and hide while Keapers comb the streets.

In this tangled web of rulers and enforcers, trust becomes an elusive luxury. Suspicion looms over neighbors and supposed friends. Basically, everyone is out to get each other. There's a reward of $200 each time anyone reports any unlawful activity. They all trip over one another, trying to be the first ones to snitch, do the crime, and pay the time, but unfortunately, the consequences extend beyond the offender. The entire city pays the price for a single transgression. A lockdown descends over the whole city, and electricity, water, and food are cut off for a significant amount of time, depending on what crime was committed. All it takes is one person breaking a law to have the rest of us starving and rationing water. As dire as our situation may be, some cities have it worse. In the next city over in Araveil, they have a public spectacle of hangings in the town square, even for the more minor offenses.

My own crime sentenced our city to endure two months without electricity. My first day back to school after prison was a brutal awakening. A group of kids jumped me in the courtyard and threw rocks at me. I guess they still held a grudge after six years.

The Impure Law stands as an unyielding sentinel. Strict separation for sectors. Dating, marriage, and breeding are prohibited. Offenders will be executed for creating child hybrids. Any child born of a crossing sector will be taken and await their swift execution. The law admits no exceptions, no trials, and no excuses. It's an automatic death sentence.

Hushed rumors once swirled around Mrs. Benson, a neighbor a few doors down from me. I never knew her first name, but it was speculated that she had a child outside of her designated sector. That same week, Keapers flooded our hallway, raiding Mrs. Benson's apartment, cleaning out her things, and marking the ominous end of her presence in our building. Shortly after she vanished, a new tenant moved in, Mr. Hackshaw. I hated that man, he was a creep.

      The rhythm of disappearances on my floor felt like a twisted dance, with each passing month claiming a new apartment. After a while, I stopped talking to my neighbors, it would sting less when they would disappear. Yet, amidst all the departures, none cut as deep as Holland- the boy across the hall. We shared the sweet echoes of childhood, only to see him vanish without a trace, and just like all the others, his apartment emptied, devoided of all life, holding nothing but the lingering scent of his presence. A single broken law and my closest friend was swallowed up by the unforgiving abyss, that threatens us all daily.