It's been done.
They have done it.
The law has been passed.
Everything that was my life is now illegal. I, and the ones like me, have a week to destroy anything we aren't allowed to have. There have been protests on the streets, people like me dancing and waving signs. I haven't had the courage to join them.
I'm thinking about it, though. I'm thinking about it. Because I can't let this happen.
I begin to delete. Take down the posters from my walls. Then stop. One day, if this remains... how it is, they will be relics. Tokens of my inner resistance. How can I shred them in the food shredder, like I've been ordered to do? So I take them. Fold them into a bag. Bury them out in the garden. Fear and exhilaration – the thrill of resisting, of fighting back – rush through me, dizzy and addictive.
It's nine at night, and I'm shivering... but not sleeping. I'm not used to sleeping. I normally stay up... doing the things I can no longer do. There is a day left before the police will come, to search every house in the street. If they find over ten files on my computer, or over five physical things, that break the new law... I'll be marked. They will burn on the inside of my left arm (and the old part of me gives a quiet thrill; this is like a book) the letters F, the symbols that used to mean everything to me, and my name.
Chants rise up in the distance – take it back take it back – and I give a kind of exhausted shudder. They can't do this, can they? What's the justification? The steady chants swell and then are overwhelmed by shouts and screams of pain. Lights, red, blue, flicker through my window and dance on my wall. I pull the covers over my head. Sleep, I command myself. It's more difficult than I expected, but finally I drift off. Even these kinds of dreams have been outlawed, but no one can punish me for them because no one will ever know.
They're here.
The brand-stamps peek conspicuously from their bags – I can see the large, dark F, and some other, smaller letters – A, W, B. The third one carries the symbols, and I shiver in delight when my eyes land on them (I can't think like this anymore, I can't!). Their names drift past me, but I push them away, catching only snippets. I know the full names, but I refuse to think them.
...tri... mock... hall...
"I don't have anything," I tell them when the lead one approaches me. I had to delete all the art. Just as beautiful, just as real as what is now known as 'proper art'. "Nothing." I pass over my phone, my laptop. None of all the files I used to have remain. Thousands of headcanons.
One of the police scrolls through my laptop's storage. The other swipes through my phone. The third one, carrying the symbols, rifles through my cupboard. I remembered everything, I'm sure. Nothing left.
"All right. All good," one of them nods. He smiles at me, fatherly. "You're a good one. Too many people your age have been corrupted. Let's go check your sister."
Caldora. Fifteen. She was just as bad as me. I didn't have time to help her. Fear washes over me as I realise she might not have made it, she might have forgotten something. Caldora, please, I beg. Don't do anything stupid, please don't have forgotten anything, and don't scream at the policemen. No matter what. I know she won't hear me – duh – but saying it makes me feel better.
I'm not allowed in as they search her room, but I can hear thumps. Pushing things around. A shout. One of the policemen holds me back as I hurl myself at her door, but he can't stop me hearing the calls from one to another as they find the various things she either forgot or... out of her idiotic pride... deliberately kept. "You idiot, Caldora!" I scream. Throw myself at the policeman. He is strong and stands steady, like a wall of iron barring me from my sister.
The door opens. One of the policeman walks out, dragging my sister by the arm. Her eyes are full of animal pain, and she slumps against the wall. I don't know what it means. What did they do to her? I run to her, and the policeman doesn't stop me. They let me take her weight and leave.
I can hear the door slamming.
"Caldora," I whisper, and our parents run from their room. My father takes one look at her, shivering and white, and turns her left wrist towards him.
F
Caldora
And next to the F are three symbols. A mockingjay. Dauntless flames. JRRT.
"Oh God," I breathe. "Caldora, how stupid are you?!"
Our mother shoots me a sharp glance. "Not now," she warns. "Not now, Ani."
I sigh. "Mum. She's been branded –"
"Under the new law she now has a criminal record, she can't go into libraries or cinemas, repeat offences punishable by death, yadda yadda yadda," she sighs. "I know, Ani. Do you really think I don't know?"
I stop. I don't.
I really don't.
"Why, Caldora?" I whisper. "Things from all three of your fandoms. All three."
Caldora shrugs, smiling weakly.
"It's just a book, Caldora," my father tells her. "Just a book."
But they aren't just books. No fangirl would ever accept that. And neither will I.
It's going to get me into a lot of trouble. Any fool could see that.
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