Short Stories

Hope, Strength, and Courage

I pull my dark brown hair up into a ponytail as I wait patiently in the long line that seems to wrap around the building. My polo shirt and khakis stick to my skin uncomfortably causing me to want to yank them off and get into sweatpants and a t-shirt. My mother, brother, and I are all waiting for our annual scar count. In our society, the government administers a serum into your system from the moment you are born to your very last breath. This serum causes you to scar for every time that you lie. The more severe a lie is, the more noticeable the scar is.

I must have blanked out because I am pulled from my thoughts by the doctor calling my name. "Layla Collins?" he asks in a gentle voice. I look back at my mom and brother nervously. My mother smiles encouragingly and motions for me to go on. I nod and follow the doctor to a room that is like any other hospital room. It is boring, white and full of different doctor supplies. I jump up onto the table while the doctor washes his hands.

"Okay, Miss Layla. I'm just going to run a scan on how many new scars you have this year." I nod to the doctor and lay back on the table. The doctor walks out of the room and comes back with a huge scanner mechanism. The scanner looks like a round tube that the doctor pulls over the top of me so it can count all the scars and record them. I relax while the doctor begins the scan. The scanner takes about ten minutes to finish the full exam before finally beeping to signal that it was finished. The doctor walks the scanner back out of the room and comes back with a paper.

"Well, it looks like you have two new scars. They aren't that severe for a fifteen-year-old, so I won't have to ask you what happened this time," the doctor said in a professional tone. I let out a breath of relief. If the scars are a certain degree of severity, the doctor has to ask what it was that you lied about. After the massive war several decades ago, the government doesn't trust the people of the country easily, and in my opinion, has become a dictatorship.

"So, can I leave now?" I ask. The doctor nods and helps me down from the table. He escorts me back to the waiting area, leaving me to sit down in a seat to wait for my mom and brother to come out. My mom and brother finally walk out after about twenty minutes. Together, we all head back to the little shack we call home. It is a raggedy, old shack that is just big enough for us to eat, sleep, and sit in. Nothing more. Nothing less.

"How did your scar count go, Adam?" I ask my brother as we near the shack.

"Layla, you know we can't talk about any of that. Rules are rules," Adam scolds. I huff in reply.

"You can't do anything without breaking the rules," I mutter grumpily. Adam elbows me in the ribs. I smack his shoulder causing him to smack my head in return.

"Children, no violence," my mother scolds. I grumble and settle down.

"See what I mean!" I exclaim. Adam shakes his head and holds the door to the shack open for me. I wait for my mother to walk in, as it is part of our "rules", before I walk in behind her.

"Layla, I need you to take over my shift at the retirement home tonight," my mother informs me as she sits down on the couch. I nod obediently and walk up to my room. I pull off the uncomfortable polo and khakis and put on some old clothes I have in my closet. Another rule in this society is that every family has to volunteer time somewhere. My mother chose the local retirement home after my father passed away.

Wiping away the tear that managed to slide down my cheek, I walk downstairs and out the door toward the retirement home. After my father passed, my family couldn't afford an automobile, so we were left to walk everywhere. Thankfully, the retirement home isn't far from the shack.

The little home appears in my vision not too long after. I walk inside and wipe my feet on the welcome rug. I head to the main office to find out who I would sit with tonight. A red-headed woman is stationed at the front desk. "Hello, Kathy," I say chirpily.