Underworld (#TheWatty's2017)

Chapter 1

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Hey guys! Hope you've have had a great memorial weekend! Just thought I would update this next chapter... hope you enjoy, and please comment on anything I'd love your feed back! Me and my friend Kate came up with this story from a prompt on Pinterest... so anyway enjoy and vote! 😄
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Today is the day I'm going to die.
I know, that must sound really melodramatic, but you have to have some context here.
You would think that driving along a steep cliff on the side of a mountain can be scary, or being mugged in the middle of the night with no one around to help you. And yeah, those are terrifying situations, but today takes the cake.
Imagine living your whole life knowing the one day you are going to die. And it's not even a lifetime away. It's barely two decades of life given to you when you were born. And then imagine today being the day. And then - and this is the big one - imagine knowing that there is absolutely nothing that you can do to stop it.
You can always drive slowly and carefully along the cliff. You can always poke the mugger in the eyes and knee him in the balls to detain them and then run away screaming for the cops. But you can't escape this and live.
It just happens. Yeah, people have run away. People have attempted to prevent their death. But there's nothing you can do. That's how it is. You go to sleep and you never wake up. And when you know that this is happening to you, it's the most frightening and powerless realization that you have ever felt.
That's how I feel today.
Right now, I'm curled up in bed, watching the early morning sunlight stream through the openings of my curtains. I've been up for a couple hours now. It's hard to get some sleep on such an impending day as this.
I turn over, away from my window and away from the sounds of the street and the city of Atlanta, Georgia, rousing itself from sleep. The light has lit my room up enough that I can seeeverything clearly. On the wall opposite of my window is my calendar, hanging open at the month of June. Sloppy orange slashes mark off just about every day of the month. All except one.
06/30/96.
This is what's tattooed on the inside of my arm. This is what binds me to society.
When I was first born - when everyone was first born - a tattoo printed with the date of their death was seared into their dominant arm. It scares everyone, and honestly, who wants to know these things? But even the top government officials have them. And it is supposed to be "a mark of safety and caution to its wearer".
Yeah, right.
Ever since I was born, this - this system, I guess you would call it - was instituted as a part of the doctrine of the United States of America in 2048. Before the system, it was said that - so my history textbooks tell me - the population had skyrocketed over the century, and so had the global population as well. After World War III in the 2020's, the nations who had fought - the US, Britain, China, Russia, North Korea, Iraq, Iran, and Syria - had all settled into an uneasy alliance through negotiations with the UN, with the main consensus being that not one of the countries that had fought could engage in seige or any kind of warfare, unless they wanted an international trial and their UN membership revoked.
It wasn't until the '40s that - at 12 billion globally, a sort of baby boom that had happened after WW III that was reminiscent of WW II - government had been forced to take action against the raging tide of the newest abounding generation. Abortion had already been made legal earlier in the century - in the teens - butthe government had to take even more extreme measures. The executive office attempted to pass laws and acts to curtail population growth, but with the highly conservative Congress being opposed to these "barbaric" ideals, they had vetoed every idea. Cue the executive office issuing executive orders to cheat the checks and balances system, and to gain control over more government power in order to properly establish their new system. Congress was more of an influence now, and doesn't have the power that it once was able to wield.
Other countries were the same way. With war came death, which meant that children lost their parents, or sometimes entire families. That generation - especially the ones in third world and totalitarian countries, like Iraq and North Korea - lost everything and fell from their former social status into poverty. With poverty came poor domestic choices, such as breeding a lot of children to put to work for extra income. Child labor became even more popular in those countries. So, of course, with the lower income class widening, came more children, and soon, the population per square mile began to surpass the amount of available jobs in many regions. Which leads to more poverty, and an increase in crime.
And then the UN took global action.
The five main members of the UN - the United States, Britain, Russia, China, and France - had all met in probably one of the most important events in global history to propose solutions to the single problem that affected everyone. China was the country that had proposed the system of the tattoos. They were already notorious for their suffocating overpopulation, and also for their laws that they had passed to inhibit population growth. However, the countries had been so desperate for a solid answer to their problems, for relief, that they gobbled it up.
And naturally, the system has been reformed over the years. With the advances made in technology, the United Statesdecided to be more "humane" with their protocols. Every baby, when born, was to be tested for their genetic code, something that had been legalized with the Genetic Safety Testing Act of 2050. Their solution to "humane treatment" would be to inhibit the growth of certain children who would suffer from inborn disabilities: autism, a possibility of cancer, blindness, deafness, cystic fibrosis, Huntington's, down syndrome, and so many more. Mostly genetic disorders. Something that would inhibit a person in almost every aspect of life. Basically, we let them live life with their families, but don't allow them to have an actual life that might involve passing it on, was their excuse. And it curtails population growth.
Even homosexuality, which technically wasn't even an abnormality in the genetic code, was considered looked down upon. Of course, not everyone with early death dates have these. Like me. I'm healthy, but my date of death might imply otherwise. Usually this means a anomaly in my genetic coding like she is more likely to be a murder or thief or be able to pass a defect on. Welcome to my world.
And as you can probably tell, I'm a big history buff.
So yes, that's the history behind why I am lying in bed when I should be getting up and spending as much time with my mom as I can, and trying not to morbidly think about death.
Epic fail on the last part. Death has haunted me all my life, especially high school. I've just barely begun my life as, technically, an adult, yet here I am. A few months of being eighteen, and then oops sorry, your time is up!
I sit up and swing my legs out of bed. I shouldn't be thinking like this.
I pad out of my bedroom, and the first organism that greets me on my last day on earth is my miserable cat. I swear, he's demented, but I love him anyway. He's this white and black cat that my mom and I took in when I was fifteen, but his fur hasthese weird patterns where some of the white makes little circles and spots, which is why I named him (don't judge me) Bubbles.
I bend down and scratch his head. "Good morning, Precious Kitty," I tell him.
He responds by parkouring off my leg and bounding for the kitchen, where his automatic food bowl is. See? Absolutely demented.
I grunt and peer down at my leg. There's only a tiny little red mark where he pounced off of me.
"Did he scratch you?" Mom calls from the kitchen. I glance up and across the living room and kitchen bar, where Mom appears to be flipping pancakes at the stove.
My mom, and I don't mean to brag, is awesome. She's middle- aged - in her late forties - with a slim, but tall build, and straight brown hair that she normally keeps scooped up in a ponytail and messy bangs. I'm told that we look pretty much the same in regards to facial structure and body build, except that I don't have brown hair. Mine is dirty blonde and is more wavy. And I'm not really all that tall, but kind of average in height.
"No, Mama," I call back, "It's fine."
I walk up to the counter and take a seat at one of the barstools. For an apartment, it's actually kind of roomy, if a bit old fashioned. Although it's not in use, there's still an old air conditioner unit out on the fire escape. I glance behind me, and see that mom has the news on, though it's on mute. Right now, some gray-haired white dude is mouthing words while footage of some sort of march in San Francisco is being shown over his shoulder. In large white letters under him, the words SAN FRANCISCO PEACE MARCH ENDS VIOLENTLY are streaming. As I watch, a task force team begins to surround thepeople holding up signs and also probably chanting. I reach for the remote beside the sink and unmute it.
"Yesterday at around 5:45 p.m.," the man says in this falsetto grave voice, "a peace march of civil disobedience protesting what they call the "violation of basic human rights" by government officials and task force both ended with three severely injured when the San Francisco Task Force were forced to fire into the crowd, due to them not disbanding and continuously disrupting the public peace."
Ah, the task force. These are the people that enforce the Population Control and Termination Act of 2053 - straight A's all throughout high school in history, thank you very much - and drive these signature black trucks. They also are considered the elite team that deals with any violation of this act, instead of the city police. Although it was slightly foolhardy of those protesters, I can understand where that anger comes from. Especially today.
Tomorrow a task force team will come for me.
Deciding that I have had enough of bad news, I mute the TV again. If today is going to be my last day, then it will be a positive one.
My mom and I have been planning this day for weeks. She wanted everything to be perfect for me. A bucket list that we had come up with currently sits in front of me.
Mom comes over with the pancakes, and she sets them in front of me, then moves to sit at the dining table.
"Come sit with me."
I don't see why she could've carried the pancakes herself, but Ipick up the plate and sit adjacent to her without complaint. She has the little list in her hand now, and seems to be examining it, with a pen poised in the air.
"So," she turns to me, "where's my hug from my beautiful girl?"
I grin and wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her shoulder before leaning away just enough to grab her shoulders. "Mom," I tell her, "I'm not sure that I want to go to the zoo today."
She gives me a questioning look. "And why not?"
I shrug. "It's gonna be kind of hot out." The middle of summer is scorching hot in Atlanta.
She raises her eyebrows. "You realize that it's going to be hot out at the Centennial Olympic Park, too, right? That is where you told me you might want to go out to, right?"
I sigh. "Yes, I know."
Okay, if you had been told that you had one day to do whatever you wanted, what would you do? Because I keep drawing up blanks. I like going to the park sometimes, and shopping would be fun. But I can't buy anything.
I just don't know. I look at mom helplessly. She sighs. "Alright," she says. Then her eyes light up. "Here's an idea. We'll head to the church towards the end of the day, but for the morning we'll just be spontaneous. Whatever strikes the mood."
I nod.
My mom works at this Methodist church a little way up the road. Not only do we attend church there just about every Sunday, but my mom kind of has a secretary-like position there where she makes sure that the church is caught up financially and keeps up with paperwork. Everyone in an administrative position knows who I am. In fact, the entire church does. Anyway, the entire church decided to plan this little dinner party for me... basically as a means of saying good bye.
"And also," my mom adds. She looks a little hesitant. "Is there... anyone that you want to come with us? I'm totally okay with one of your friends tagging along. It's your day."
I pause and think about it, even though there's really nothing to think on. I mean, it's not like I don't have friends. But it's hard to actually have friends. People that I could've given friendship bracelets to in elementary school, or stay up all night with talking about boys.
All throughout high school, and even middle school, one look at my arm would tell my classmates all they needed to know about being close friends with me. Oh wow, I could imagine them thinking, once she graduates high school, that'll be it for her. I wonder what's wrong with her. At first, it would be people befriending me out of pity mostly, which I had absolutely loathed, but then they actually became friends with me. Friends I could sit with at lunch and text in group messages and gossip with about other students. But never ones where I would be the first friend they turned to cry on my shoulder.
If I'm being honest here, the only person that I could truly say is my best friend is, well, my mom. Naturally, she had tried so hard to get me to go out and do all kinds of social things.
"You don't have the time of your life to waste lounging around inside or online," she'd tell me in a rare moment of chastising honesty, "Go out and meet new people! See the world! YOLO, beautiful."
You only live once. Great advice, Mom.I had a social life. I followed her advice. When I was little though, I used to be shy and could've kept my nose stuck in a book all day, but I eventually grew out of that shyness. I joined community service clubs and a book club when I was in high school. I went to sports games - mostly track. I'd go to parties with my friends, but my mom was strict enough that she wouldn't let me go to certain parties. I went to church camp every summer. I even went to a Quidditch summer camp at Georgia State University for a week last year. I led a campaign on the dangers of tobacco when I was in my junior year, but this being Georgia, the only thing it accomplished was by being a nice asset to a college application. Not that I would ever go to college.
The closest I had ever had to as a best friend had been Giselle. I had met her in my sophomore year AP Human Geography class when we were paired up for a project. She had been the closest, but not exactly my best friend. I still remember the way she looked at me at our high school graduation from Lakeside, our purple graduation gowns fluttering with the breeze. It had been the only moment when I knew she had honestly realized that my presence would truly be gone, that I should have meant more to her. She would never see me again. That was it.
Getting yourself out there doesn't always mean you had the time of your life with friends. No.
My mom was the one who lent me a shoulder to cry on. She was the one that would take baths with me when I was little and even let me sleep on her chest as we soaked. She was the one whom I went prom dress shopping with, and the friend I confided to about my first kiss. She was the one who would scour the Internet for tickets to our favorite artist's concerts with me, the one who wrapped every Christmas present and would hide them in our next door neighbor's storage closet. She had me convinced that Santa was real up until I accidentally overheard our neighbor Esteban from the health department and my momdiscussing what presents would fit in the storage closet when I was twelve.
The only person truly worth spending the day with, the only one who truly matters, is Mom.
I smile and shake my head no. "The only person I want to be with is you, Mama."
She smiles and wraps me up in a hug. She plants a kiss on top of my head. When she finally pulls back, her eyes are glistening.
I point an accusatory finger at her. "Mom," I say sternly, "no crying. We are not gonna get all moody and depressed, okay? We are going to celebrate life!"
She nods, but her sniffling obviously betrays her. "Yes, yes of course." She wipes at her eyes. Then she gives me this long, heartrending look. "I'm so proud of you," she whispers, "you're handling this so bravely."
I give her a weak smile and gently take her hands. Actually, I'm not. Honestly, it's just a shaky facade at best. I am freaking terrified.
She squeezes my hands. "I want you to know," she whispers, "that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I will never regret having such an amazing daughter."
I'm forced to whisper past the cinderblock of emotion lodged in my throat. "Thanks, Mom."*
The sun, in all of its deafening glory, is way too bright today.
I am standing on the loading dock, gazing out over the noisy streets below and waiting for my mom to finish paying for our tickets.
I lean on the railing and gaze out at the aerial trams that will zip across the skyline of the city, and carry mom and I towards downtown Atlanta. Below, thousands of vehicles glinting in the sunlight snake between soaring skyscrapers, and the sounds of car horns blaring and sirens wailing reaches even the top of the aerial tram station that I'm on. If I peer closely enough, I can spy a bullet train zipping through the median of a highway. If you can block out the noise pollution, it's an incredible, breathtaking view.
Mom appears at my elbow. "The next tram is ours."
I nod and turn towards her. "Hey Mom," I say, "you know what we could've done today?"
She sighs. "Oh, so you wait until today to tell me now?"
"Well, listen here," I say, "we could've driven down to Senoia today. I hear it's a really quant, cute little town."
She rolls her eyes, and I can tell she's mentally face palming herself. She knows exactly why I would want to go down and see that town.
I've always considered myself an old-school kind of girl, and there was this particular TV show with numerous seasons from way back at the beginning of the century that basically turned our city famous. There are even murals in some parts of the city with the characters from that show. There's a reason Atlanta is known as the City of the Dead.
Of course, Atlanta wasn't the only place that popular zombie show was filmed in. Senoia is actually where the bulk of the show took place. I live to revive gone-by, vintage classics, as you can see.
I'm not actually serious about the whole Senoia thing, but Mom seems kind of down now. "Mom," I say as I wrap an arm around her shoulder, "I am fine with sightseeing." Honestly, I could stay up here all day, it's so amazing.
She shakes her head. "Well, you better be because I already paid for those tickets." She glances up and takes my arm. "Our ride is here."
It takes several minutes for all of the passengers to load onto the long, rectangular tram car, and when we all finally do, the tram car takes off, zipping down the cable. The air conditioning is heaven.
I grip one of the poles in the middle of the car. Benches overflowing with people ring the sides of the car, and behind them are wide windows displaying the sights whizzing by. Below, I can see the roads and streets so much more clearly now than when we were higher up than on the tram station. I can see the modular variable message signs stream advertisements, news, and driving advice – Click it or ticket! – above the streets and on the sides of tall buildings. I never understood why you would put up a sign to remind people to watch the road if the driver would have to look up and away from the road just to read the message.
Someone coughs, and a little baby somewhere behind me starts to cry.
Mom is giving me one of her signature calculating looks, whichmeans that she is concocting some sort of plan to spring on me. I give her an expectant look and wait patiently – something I'm not very good at.
She raises an eyebrow and shrugs guilelessly. Oh dear Lord.
The tram suddenly begins to decelerate before coming to an abrupt halt at the downtown air tram station. The doors open, and we file out just before the next group of passengers streams in. The aerial tram stations are like open markets. The wide building hosts so many establishments and kiosks that it's like I've stepped into a mini mall. Mom and I follow the crowd off of the bustling loading docks and inside, back into the air conditioning. The greatest thing thought of by man, in my opinion.
We head for the stairs to descend to the ground level. They hug the glass walls.
I turn to Mom as we shuffle down the steps. "Okay, woman," I say, "spill."
She gives me an infuriatingly innocent look. "What?" she leans closer. "You don't trust me?"
"It's not that I don't trust you," I tell her, "it's that I want to unearth your crafty plans."
She snorts. "My," she pauses, "crafty plans. Honestly, child, you'd think I was taking you somewhere horrible."
We're outside now, and immediately we are both swallowed into the crowd. Now that we're in the middle of the chaos, I loop my arm around hers to avoid getting swept away. When I look up, skyscrapers loom over the streets. When I was little, I used to get dizzy from looking up at them. I even made up this game when we went out that certain buildings were these giants thatmight chase us if we got to close.
I miss being a kid, being that innocent and happy and naïve.
Soon, we're walking along some side streets, and then we are heading towards the entrance of Centennial Olympic Park. I shoot a look at Mama as we pass by the map.
She smiles. "You did say you liked this park."
I sigh as we head toward the fountains. A bunch of kids wearing swim suits run screaming through the water, a perfect picture of mass hysteria. I bite my lip. I wish we could come tonight when the water turns different colors. We walk along a little path to avoid the fountains, and walk beside the reflecting pool. Ahead of us, a whole mass of people have congregated out on the lawn. Some stand around talking. Others lay on the grass. All in all, it's an odd picture. Most people don't gather like this in the park, except by the fountains.
"I wonder what they're doing," I say. Mom says nothing and keeps walking. She wanders off the path to sit down and stretch her legs in the grass. Not knowing what she has planned, I follow her.
The people all crowded in the lawn, as if on cue, start to lazily hoist themselves to their feet. Instead of doing anything, they just stand there, kind of gazing around, as if waiting for something. I glance at mom with a question in my eyes. She shrugs, looking as clueless as I am.
And as if they were never lounging around in the first place, they reach down to the ground to pick up signs that I didn't notice before, and everyone begins to chant. In my peripheral vision, I see some of the kids running through the water fountains all pause, and the adults standing off to the side stare. "Freedom to live, freedom for life!"
A cold feeling fills my chest. This isn't just some random thing. It's a protest. How did my mom know about this? I look over at her to ask, but she's not sitting there. Slightly worried, I glance around to see if I can spot her.
She's little ways off behind me, standing under a copse of trees, talking to a tall, pale man. He's standing closer to the trees than her with more shade thrown over his figure, and with his black clothing, he almost blends in perfectly with the shadows. Why would someone wear all black in the middle of summer in Georgia? He looks suspicious, to say the least. Mom seems to be standing several feet away, as if pretending that they have nothing to do with each other, but I can tell that they're talking.
I have a feeling that I'm not supposed to be watching this.
When Mom turns around and begins striding away towards me, I whip my head back around and squint at the protest unfolding in front of me.
Mom approaches and tugs my arm. "Get up," she murmurs, "trust me when I say that we don't want to be here when security comes."
I get to my feet and brush off my blue sundress. I look up at the people chanting and raising their signs one last time, mentally wishing them the best of luck and that this doesn't turn out like San Francisco.
I realize that my mom is already booking it for the parking lot, and I jog to catch up. I try not to notice when several black trucks swing into the parking lot.
They're heading straight for the protest.
*
As soon as I get home, I find myself retreating to my room. By now, it's late evening, and if I weren't so jittery, I'd just go to bed.
After the park, we just walked around downtown a bit before getting back on the tram to head for church, where they gave me a farewell dinner from one of my favorite pizzerias on the block. I'm pretty much stuffed at this point.
Mom is packing up the pizza into the fridge when I walk into my room. I gaze around at everything, and find myself ghosting my fingers over certain things. My dusty, overflowing book shelf. My dresser, my stuffed penguin that I named James, a straw hat Mom bought for me at Zoo Atlanta, a picture of my mom holding me as a baby. I miss the place already. I miss the idea of still thinking that I have plenty of time, even though I haven't died yet. For the second time today, I find myself forcing down tears.
Suddenly I want to scream, rip my hair out from its roots, knock down the door and run as far as I can away. I want to escape this, I don't want to have to face this, to accept that there is nothing that I can do to prevent my death –
I press my palms flat against my bed in a bid for calm. I have to get it together. I find my gaze darting across my room, my thoughts turning towards my mother. My room is a mess. When I'm gone, Mom is going to have to clean up my room. She'll dust everything first, and then she'll meticulously sort everything either into a pile of mementos or things to recycle. I suddenly feel guilty. I feel like I never did enough for her, when she would've given everything for me.
I walk back out into the living room, in search of some boxes. I find one in the back of the laundry room, and plop it down onmy bed. The first thing I do is start going through clothes that I could leave for Mom to give to a charity, and I make sure to fold them neatly when I lay them into a box. Then I start on the little trinkets scattered around my room into the next box, and then some books she could donate to the public library. Soon enough, I'm out of boxes.
I pull out a sheet of paper. Mom, I write, everything you see in a box is what I organized for you to give away. I know it'll be hard, but you'll have to move on once I'm gone. Don't let me hold you back. Remember me fondly, celebrate my life, but don't let my absence swallow you whole. Go out, go get a boyfriend (I'm 90% sure Esteban has a crush on you despite being, like, 15 years younger than you), even go have a few kids with another man. I love you, and I know you'll always love me, but this is the first step. Take it and run with it. For me.
I stare down at the letter with the sudden urge to crumple it. Instead, I lay it carefully atop the pile of boxes I stacked in the corner of my room. I'm antsy. I need to do something else with myself.
I look down at my dress, and I can't help but conjure up a picture of some mortician lifting up my dress and leering at my body. I suppress a shudder and quickly change into jeans. The harder to get off, the better. I go sit on my bed, trying not to think about how my chest feels like it's about to implode.
Mom just so happens to walk in at this very moment. She pauses after pushing the door open partially. "May I come in?"
I simply nod, feeling too dejected to liven up for her. She comes in and sits next to me, but doesn't bother saying anything. We have already told each other our good byes. She turns out the lamp, and I lay against the sheets with Mom spooning me from behind. I can feel her silent tears trace their paths along the back of my neck.Sometime during the night, she leaves, and the cat meanders in to curl up next to me. I don't bother kicking Bubbles out. Why not? It's my last night alive. I'd love some company before I go.
With his purring against my stomach, I find myself falling into a fitful sleep. The last thing I hear before I drift off is a racking sob.