The Defects

‹three›

SAMUEL felt completely out of place in the hall. It was a vast, grey cement building filled with people his own age who were shouting across at each other and laughing. Although he wished he could join in with them, there was something that sickened him about their carefree attitude. How long will it be before they're all brainwashed―until they turn from happy, carefree teenagers into mindless killing machines? He shuddered, staring determinedly at the ground between his feet as he sat down on the floor.

Suddenly, a booming voice echoed through the room, and everyone fell silent.

"Welcome to the Institute." The voice sounded far from welcoming: it was aloof, speaking in an aggressive monotone.

Samuel glanced around the room, trying to find the source of the voice, but he could not see anyone speaking. Giving up, he shook his head and went back to observing the dust particles on the floor.

"It is the first anniversary of our glorious victory in World War Three. The rest of the world proved to be weak and incompetent, accepting the destruction that was thrust upon it. But we, we proved to be the superior race, we alone survived, all thanks to our Great Leader. . ."

Samuel grimaced at the overly patriotic tone of the voice, the way it sounded overcome with love when it mentioned the Great Leader. It all seemed painfully fake to him, and he took an immediate disliking to both the mysterious voice and the so-called Great Leader. He risked looking around the room, and was horrified to see that many, if not all, of the youths around him had expressions of patriotic zeal and joy at being named the superior race. I cannot be caught out. He immediately forced himself to take on the same expression as his fellows. It feels like I'm wearing a mask.

". . . Our lives now are the best that anyone has ever had. At the beginning of this century, those your own age, along with their families, lived in extreme poverty, very few had any food or clothes to cover their back in what they called the United States. Many had no homes, and the government tore families apart, countless wars occurred in their homeland. . ."

As the voice continued to list the supposed atrocities of the early twenty-first century in the former United States, Samuel dug his nails into the palms of his hands so as to hold in his anger. He could see right through their lies―they claim to give us the best of life, but they murdered my family in cold blood.

He fought to keep his eyes open, but he slowly became lost in his thoughts; his face as blank as a new sheet of paper.

They had been standing on the edge of a cliff when their hunters cornered them. His parents' eyes had been dark and tortured as they looked from their captors to himself and his sister. He was sure that he had heard his father whisper that he loved them both, before pushing them over the edge. He could not remember much of it, it was like a dream―a nightmare, but Samuel wished that it was nothing more than that; it was a reality.

Falling,

Falling,

Falling.

He'd hit the water; the turbulent blue-green liquid churning up dirt around him, suffocating him. He had felt so lost as he was dragged along by the current that was holding him under. He was frantic―he needed to find his sister, know that she was okay. He needed to breathe.

Maybe he'd only been underwater a few seconds, or maybe it was hours. He never could tell. He only remembered the exhaustion of finally being washed up on the shore, lying there half dead, choking up water from his lungs and gulping down air as though he'd never breathed before.