Forever Young

Dreaming of the Past

I am thrown out on the streets; left to fend for myself. The Forever Preparation Camp Councilors dropped me off here. I'm not sure where 'here' is. I'm only ten years old! How do they expect me to survive? That's when I remember, I'm different.

When a child turns three, they must be sent off to 'Forever Preparation Camp.' At the camp, they teach us basic life skills like reading, writing, math, and science. After seven years of teaching us and feeding us, they force us to drink the elixir and drop us off at different places around the United States.

So now I'm in a city, rummaging through heaps of trash, hoping to find food for the day. I wish I knew how to hunt; maybe I wouldn't be so hungry all of the time. Not only that, but I could actually have a decent meal.

I finally find my favorite, chicken pot pie. Even though the chicken inside the pie is moldy, I still stuff it in my face.

Eating is the most difficult task I have to do. Every time I take a bite, my mouth dies a little.

My stomach screams at me while I swallow and I know why; I'm getting food poisoning again. I lean over the garbage can and throw up, allowing the pot pie to escape my body.

"What are you doing?" The voice startles me. "What is that coming from your mouth?" I almost forgot that nobody knows what puke looks like.

"It's throw up."

"Why is throw up coming out of your mouth?" he said, his eyes gazing into mine. I look up and down the boys body, guessing his age. He looks to be about my age, maybe a little younger. Did he escape?

"It happens when someone doesn't feel well. I think I have food poisoning," I said, walking towards him. "What's your name?"

"Ed," he replies. "What about yours?"

"Taylor," I answer. "I'm different. Everybody else doesn't have to eat, but I have to. Why is that?" Ed scratches his red head with his tiny hand.

"It's okay to be different. Being different makes you stand out. Being normal is boring."

"What if I don't want to stand out?"

"Your special. You can use that as an advantage," Ed says, looking behind me. "Don't move," he whispers. "When I say run, you sprint as fast as your feet can carry you," he said, I just now noticed his accent. It certainly isn't American. "RUN!"

I do as Ed orders me to do. I know I shouldn't look back, but I do anyways.

"ED!" I cry as a police officer disappears with Ed.

I sit up in my bed, breathless.

It was only a dream, I constantly tell myself. Deep inside, I know that's a lie.

It wasn't just a dream; it was my horrible past.

I wish Ed was with me. I barely knew him, yet I felt like I've known him my entire life. I never had the opportunity to get to know him better.

His story will always be a mystery.

He's probably dead. He might've been like me; different, making him as good as dead. He might have never taken the elixir. I don't know, and I will never find out.

I glance over at my clock, noticing it's time to get ready for work. Work is something I've been dreading.

Dr. Evans always wants me to clean the storage room, which is already clean. Ever since I started working for him, I never left the storage room. It's almost like he doesn't want me around. Last time I checked, assistants are supposed to help accomplish useful tasks. All I do is clean the storage room. As a matter of fact, I've even made it more organized! I have cleaned the blood off the floor (before anyone noticed), I scrubbed every beaker spotless, I organized all lab equipment alphabetically, and I made sure to sanitize the equipment. I have not the slightest clue reason why I clean because no virus, disease or bacteria will effect anyone; besides me. I guess I clean to make this building more presentable. The building may be huge, but it smells like a circus!

I park my car in the parking lot, in front of the science center. I quickly unbuckle my handmade seatbelt and I rush inside the building.

"Miss Swift!" I hear. I immediately know who it is without turning my head to see his face.

"Dr. Evans," I mutter, refusing to turn around. I despise him. He is annoying, rude, and conceited. I don't see why he's conceited; he's a skinny wimp. A squirrel could beat him up. I turn around to face him and say, "I organized your equipment alphabetically. It's all in order, just like you asked." I fake a grin. I can't help that it looks fake. It takes everything in me not to explode. Anger has never been an issue with me, until I met Dr. Evans.

"Miss Swift, you are now officially my personal assistant. Maybe you're not as dumb as you look."

"Pardon?"

Did he seriously call me dumb? This man is pushing his limits.

"It was a compliment. Trust me, you won't get them often."

"I've noticed," I mumble to myself, but I think he heard me.

"This way, Miss Swift," he says.

"Could you please call me Taylor? Since we are--"

"We are nothing," he rudely interrupts. "You're just my personal assistant."

"And you're a scrawny scientist who can't get a proper date," I mumble.

"Here are the keys to my office." Dr. Evans hands me his office keys and runs in the direction of the main laboratory. He doesn't even tell me what I'm supposed to be doing!

I unlock the door and step inside the organized office. By looking at his office, I can tell he has OCD. I take in my surroundings. Should I snoop?

I shouldn't snoop, but.... I'm going to.

I start by searching his desk. I'm not sure what I'm looking for; I'm only searching for something useful. So far, I'm having trouble.

Next, I try his drawers. I try the top and second drawer, nothing special. I take a deep breath, this is the final drawer of his desk.

Three's the charm, I tell myself.

I pull at the drawer, but it doesn't budge. I pull once more, and it remains closed. I sigh in frustration and stand up from the office chair.

"Miss Swift," Dr. Evans says, magically appearing out of thin air. (Not literally) "Making yourself comfortable?" I nod my head. "Well, don't."

His words make me flinch. I never did him any wrong, but yet he treats me like a dog. Always commanding me to do things, constantly insulting me, and asking me to go fetch something, except it's not a bone. "Pass me a pen," he says, more like a command other than a suggestion. I hand him a pen and he doesn't take it, instead he asks, "What's wrong with your hand?"