“As the quantity of years passed increases, the total sum of living matter decreases.”
Handicapped by fatigue, I could not see. I could not smell, nor taste but the ability to hear still remained. The sound of the live hologram on my bedside desk seemed to drone on, “Scientists have stated that if the current oxygen loss sustains its falling rate, humanity will become extinct within 15 years.” I lay in bed sore - the insufficient breathing had given me neck and back pains, but I thought to myself, ‘Wasn’t this the fate of everyone living in 3068AD?’
I heard fumbling west, and instantaneously my eyes traced the position of the sound. As my blurred vision began to focus, familiar colours and shapes formed into the slender frame of my mother. She held a face full of compassion and took a step closer to me so that I could notice the braids in her burgundy-grey hair. I reminisced to the beautiful face that my mother had once owned but lost to her lack of health. She was weak and the colour had been sucked from her face. The only colour that remained were the blood shots in her eyes, but I still loved her. Even if I didn’t want to, we were the only two Sterlings left. I got up from the warmth of my bed and stood up to face my mother.
“It has been a year since your father died from the ‘breath tax’, Brianne,” she spoke so softly and gently, “It’s an important day for us, the Sterlings.” As she smiled that charitable smile, her eyes wrinkled in the outer corner of her lid. I gazed upon her eyes, beginning to ponder on the philosophy of the human race; the ruthlessness of the world: how could society in such contentment crush the beautiful lives that lie nested within each body of every person? Through my own existence, I have discovered that the Earth is not for everyone. There are two rules that govern who may live and who must die:
1. The presence of one’s soul is not acknowledged in selection, but only in their convenience to whomever it may concern.
2. It is only those few, who are chosen, that can survive in a world that is far from the utopia we children all once anticipated.
Ever since the industrial revolution, fuels had been combusted and toxic gases released into the atmosphere. Over the years, trees had been cut down and so, poison had conquered the Earth’s natural air. Like blind mice, the world enthusiastically ran towards its own extinction while it foolishly believed that it was striving for prosperity. It started from the hotter continents such as Africa, and then it spread: the lack of oxygen. People began to die. Numbers began to decrease. Populations were lost. The cruelty of this dystopian world revealed itself, screaming that this life was not for everyone, and so, the ‘breath tax’ was born: “One must pay for all that they inhale within the grasp of a breath or with their defiance to pay, they have chosen to end their consumption and die.”
Today, the population is scattered into different communities across the land where air still persists. I live in a town called ‘Titan’. It was named after Saturn’s hostile moon, where it rains methane and temperatures go below -170ᵒC.
Once again, my mother looked at me with warmth and so, we walked into our small kitchen, where she signalled for me to sit down. She then reached out her hand and placed a photograph onto the table where we usually ate. It was a black and white portrait of my father. I noticed his hard jawline and grey hairs that were beginning to grow at the time. He hadn’t shaved that day and his lips seemed to be buried under his heap of hair.
Next, she placed down another photograph. It was also black and white but was of a young boy, aged around three. He was laughing with his small fingers held closely to his soggy mouth. That was Zane. Before I was born, my mother had given birth to that little boy. He was however disabled with severe asthma, which to the understanding of others, encouraged heavy breathing. They therefore terminated him along with other asthma sufferers as oxygen is too rare to be wasted by those who require a high intake. That was not all: sport was banned and a cap of one child per family was enforced.
We stared at the images, sparing a moment of silence. My father had always been a confident man who craved politics. He was narrow-minded, fixated on the idea of world-wide peace. When the ‘breath tax’ had made its unpopular arrival, he stood alongside it, preaching how it could not be avoided. Even at the point where the tax’s demand increased to such a high extent that we could not afford to pay for all three members of our family, he firmly explained that he would die for the sake of his dream.
I could hear the gentle sound of rain falling onto the ground, mixed with the mumble of the live hologram next door.
However, above the silence and quiet noises, a deafening cry filled what was left of the still air. Helicopters buzzed with great sound, shaking the walls of our small cottage. Frames fell from the walls. Shattered glass surrounded me. A massive force slammed our windows and doors wide open. It was just like before.
Before I could yell for my mother to get underneath the table, a shelf of plates collapsed onto me and buried me into a ceramic heap. I groaned at the bolt of intense pain that surged through my temples. In attempt to get to safety, I crawled out of the pulp and ran towards the shelter of my table. My mother was already there, with horror struck in her face. She had realised what was going on and bit her lip in anxiety.
Suddenly, the sound of marching soldiers emerged, rapidly increasing in volume. The helicopters had all landed and the chaotic quake had stopped; all focus was built on the synchronised sound of footsteps. It got louder. The door remained wide open but my position did not allow me to get an angle of view at what we were up against. Even louder-
In an instant, five men, dressed in green, stormed into the house, holding guns at the ready. One tipped over the table that had sheltered us while another grabbed and pulled my mother up from under her shoulders. He dragged her farther away from me, rearranged his grip on my mum so that another two other men could assist in holding her still.
Like a cheetah, I ran across the room and pounced onto the fifth man who had been blocking my way, “STOP! What are you doing?!”
I was nothing compared to him: all it required for him to send me flying across to the other side of the room was an effortless elbow to my stomach. As he walked towards my mother, he turned sternly and held out a form of army identification, “Mrs Jennifer Sterling will be taken into custody for her lack of ‘breath tax’ payment. Her court trial will take place within 3 months from now, meanwhile she has been assigned onto death row for her arranged death the day after. This will be after her crime has been proven.” For a drawn moment, he stared deeply into me, as though he were searching for something, “Farewell, Miss Brianne Sterling.”
In an instant the men vanished from the house, along with their helicopters and my mother. An eerie and isolated silence lingered in the air.
