The New, yet Beaten Path

Strange

This will be my first fertility exam. It may be my last. In our society, all girls who are 16 are required to get it. My late mother got one and then was forced to have me. They killed her when they found out she wouldn't have any more children. She had said, "I don't want children to have to suffer in this world and to have me be a part of it. I would rather die." They killed her on the spot with a gunshot to the head, execution style. I didn't have a chance to get to know her or even get a glimpse of her face, but I still look up to her as a rebel.

In our society, we are raised to be obedient and have no sympathy for anyone, especially those from the outside. "If you see people begging on the streets, don't help them. It means they are too weak to be here and can't handle hard work." I took this statement as a compliment to myself. It meant that I was one of the survivors; I was hardworking; I was independent and could make decisions for myself. 

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I walked out of the clinic with a sense of pride and urgency, the urgency to leave this cramped place and pride that I had totally failed the fertility exam. I would never want to have a kid, not in a country with no variety and too many strict rules. My plain mouse-colored skirt kept clinging to my legs and my black heels tapped on the cobblestone streets. All around me there were many other girls with the same exact hair buns and similar outfits. I heard yelling from behind me as a woman ran towards me. I blinked in confusion. "Myna!!!" the woman almost screamed out. She lunged at my skirt and the police rushed up to confront her. They quickly got their batons and beat her until blood spilled from her mouth, and even then they didn't stop. My name barely escaped the woman's lips as her hands fell limp and her eyes glazed over. I stared at my bloodied skirt and saw the police leave the scene. Their job was done. Passerbys went on with their lives and didn't even glance at the puddle of blood gathering at my feet. The golden sun shone on the pedestrians' bloody shoeprints and made them into gilded roses growing from the stones. I walked home, still thinking about why the woman had called me. Why was it my name? Why not anyone else's on the street? How did she know my name?

More importantly, why is our world so cruel?