Unspoken

Chapter 2

I wake struggling to breathe. For a moment, I'm sure I'm dying.

I get an intake of air from a source my body isn't used to. It takes me a few seconds to realize I can use my mouth now. My cover has been removed to signify my ability to speak. After not having the ability to use it, the sensations are strange. I open and close it, stretching and clenching my lips. My face feels exposed now, vulnerable.

I take in another shaky breath through my mouth and sit up in my white hospital bed. The whole room is white, bright; the entire Movement is clothed in white. White shows perfection, my father told me. And all rooms are rounded because it signifies that everything is open; we don't have any dark corners to fall into as long as we have the Movement on our side.

There are no decorations in the room, nothing to show that for the next forty-eight hours it will be mine. It's a lot like my room at home. I have nothing hanging to show the life I've lived up to this point. If I fell off the face of the planet today, no one would have anything to remember me by except silent memories I've stored away on Transmitters or those nestled in their own minds. My father says my words will be the way I express myself, so why waste time on making a room I use only to sleep expressive?

I try to breath through my nose again, but it doesn't work. I bring my hand to my face and pull off a chilled, metal clip. I toss it onto the bedside table harder than I anticipate and watch the metal skid to the floor, finding a home on the middle of the linoleum. I inhale deeply. Relief fills my body instead of oxygen.

I throw one leg, then the other over the side of the bed. Across the room is a small Station Port. Sometimes the Station plays soothing music or silent cartoons from before the War, funny ones that always made me want to smile growing up.

The thought of smiling brings a weird sensation to my face; the corners of my lips have risen, and my teeth show through. The air hitting them is cold, but I like how it wraps around the strong bones.

I am smiling.

I wonder how this smile looks spread across my mouth. I'm nervous to see; when I do, that will make this whole change that much more real. This is one reality I don't want to face.

When the Port flashes on, I find the Station is showing a Viewing on the past Leaders of the Movement, profiling each one and the advancements they made. A couple of the leaders use words; the first seven didn't have a word limit on themselves. The last two do because that is what is expected of the society, so why shouldn't it be expected of them as well? Even though I know this information like the back of my hand, I still enjoy seeing it again.

At the moment, it is profiling Brailyn Smithe. He is the leader who has made the most advancements recently. I've always looked up to Brailyn Smithe, who only used 117 words in his entire life, even though it was revealed later that he was given 3,714. He died when I was eight from old age, something that rarely happens.

Before the most recent Leader is profiled, I turn off the screen. Simultaneously, my door slides opens. I glance up quickly, taking one step back from the Port as if I'd done something I shouldn't have been doing.

My father steps in, motioning a "goodbye" to somebody in the hallway. Our hand motions are my favorite; we only have a few, but I've always wanted to discover more. My father would always berate me when Jordan, Merda, and I would try to make them. I never understood why.

"Taeo." It's strange to hear my father's voice; he hardly ever speaks in my presence. Lately, he's credited it toward wanting to save his words so we could speak after my surgery--that's what he says, at least. I don't know if that's true or if he's using this excuse to make me feel like he actually cares.