Wired.

Sticks and stones...

A world where your reality is a social media sounds ridiculous right? Where every interaction is rated by a swipe on the phone. It sounds mad and far fetched right? But it is that far from the reality of some.

Each word spoken and each second that they live is a moment judged by others because as soon as you are old enough for social media that is where your whole life changes forever. You get an implant and that's where it all begins. This implant is the being of your existent, it stores not only your memories but also a system called your ratings. People rate their interaction with you and is now used everywhere, this was created as a small hot or not to begin with but then as it gained popularity crime began to go down due to the obsession with social media that was developing.

I was 16. October 14th. I remember the day exactly when i got my implant, not that they let me forget. They never do. I was called into the office, i was at school on my birthday, quite happily and everyone was quiet, more quiet than usual. Getting your implant used to be something celebrated, not anymore, everyone watches as you and your whole personality changes. Sometimes for the better but most of the time for the worse. Makeup, dresses, fake smiles and extensions for everything. Everything about you changes and you become more aware of everything, not just the public gaze but the way you look at yourself and how friends, strangers look at you. Some cut their implant out but then that leaves them paralyzed, this caused by the shock it gives you. There is no escape. You are stuck. Run away.

"5:00Am get up for your morning jog." The implant chimes in my ears as i groan loudly and swear under my voice. I am glad no one can see me at times like this, my hair a mess, eyes puffy from the crying, bad breath, everything and anything you can think of it probably is true. But what can you do when the public gaze, does matter. Sticks and stones will break your bones but the words and rates make you wish you were dead.

I sluggishly get out of bed. With a flick of my hand the voice stops mid word and leaves me in the silence of my home, the only noise that bounces off the wall is the sound of my bare feet slapping the cold floor. The white walls, white floor and vintagely furnished room reverberated in my nightmares. The white reminding me of a mental asylum. I was a prisoner, a prisoner of society and i couldn't do anything except smile and practice my laugh as the day goes by.

I walk to the mirror, to look at myself, following the routine that i had been made to live since my 16th birthday. My stomach was flat, toned from the running i do, my legs thin, a large gap between them. Turning to my side, my boobs jutted out making my stomach look even smaller than it already was, my ass sticking out but only because of my stick thin body. It was to die for, but most people did die for it. I walk to my wardrobe, in it were the clothes that contrasted the room, from whites to blacks, everywhere in that scale.

My hand skims the various amounts of silks and soft fabrics that fill my wardrobe, instead i reach to the workout clothes, grabbing a black sports bra and a pair of black cycling shorts, both nike, both branded. And god to i hate nike, but in order to stay near the top i need to fit it. What does that mean anyway, 'to fit in' is to match the society at the time but then that makes you fake. I can't fit in but i have to. I pull the sports bra over my bare body, the cycling shorts tight over my butt. Then to the modern bathroom that was connected to my room, the whole house i lived in was dramatic, not that i wanted it to be but it needed to be. Because they matter. Their opinions matter.

The bathroom, mostly white again, modern however with black bath and toilet and sink. The whitening toothpaste next to my sink, the hairbrush to catch my curls and make them waves, the makeup that creates the face that everyone sees, no one but a possible partner, no-one sees the spots under the makeup, the dark circles, the dark red lines around my tear ducts from where i have been crying. A light base of foundation, hide the spots, show the freckles, contour strong and highlight even stronger. Eye makeup needs to pop with strong eyelashes and strong eyeliner, my blue eyes need to shine and my ginger hair needs to sparkle along with my makeup. It needs to fall in soft waves around my face but stay still while i run in the cold of the morning.

Once i'm made up and i look hot enough to go out, i take the mandatory photo, this is like snapchat with stories, the only difference is that you can have permanent posts and people rate you. I pose, leaning over a little so you can see my boobs more clearly and so my ponytail falls slightly to the side with my hand in a little peace sign to the side of me. I had to admit i looked hot, but it wasn't just my opinion that mattered, As i posted my photo and in came the ratings of 1 to 5 in variety. This was my life. Some comments on my figure and some on my face, some trolls, some serious posts and some spam. This is life. We have to live it.This is life. We have to live it. My rating, a 4. Not bad but could be improved.

I walk out into the brisk cold of the morning and take a deep breath in, the chilling cold burns my throat and my lungs, attacks my skin and tells me to go back into the house, my heart and the earpiece rings in my ear telling me to run. My legs begin to ache and my trainers pound against the ground, my feet already hurting as i run. My head beeps every 2 moments as people rate me as i run. The brisk cold that brushes my skin gives me a wake up call, this was the world we live in and this is the life we have to live to even survive.