The landscape out here is rocky and flat; you can see for miles upon miles, assuming you're not blinded by the sun. Because of this, we had to pull over and hide our vehicle while the sun was up. At least one Perfectionist caravan passed nearby, so I guess hiding was worth it.
It's dusk, now, and we didn't see anyone ahead, so we've left just before the sky is dark. Mateo is driving, now, and Trent is in the passenger seat. I'm in the back with Lorraine, Sergio, and the last member of our team: Dez. Dez is my favorite sort of person, since he's a mute. Not strictly, though; his tongue is cut out. He opts not to attempt speech and doesn't seem interested in the sort of one-sided conversation Lorraine tried to have with him, where in she asked a series of yes-or-no questions. Dez eventually released an exasperated sigh and Lorraine left him alone.
He did seem intent on listening to the conversation Lorraine and I had with one another, though. She asks a lot of questions about the past, but not many about the future. That's probably because no one is sure that there will be a future at all.
It's her wording that gives away a lack of hope. Instead of "do you want kids?", for example, she asked me if I did want kids--as in, before the Bill of Perfection. My answer to that was a firm no, of course. Not only do I not want to pass my disease on to someone else, I also wouldn't want my child to watch me die--certainly not in the agony that my disease will bring about.
Lorraine understood my answer and told me that she had been adamantly against having children for as long as she could remember. But then, when she became pregnant, her mind changed. She wanted to raise the child--wanted to keep him. And she did, even though at times it was just the two of them against the world.
It reminded me of my own mother. Odd. I don't believe I have had my mother cross my mind in ages. Yet Lorraine's love for her son--particularly her love for him despite raising him without assistance--returned my own mother to my mind. I only recall bits and pieces--reaching back that far into my memories is taxing and heartbreaking. It's like reminding myself that my brain is so broken that even memories I know should be accessible can never again be seen in their truest form.
I should remember vacations with my mother. I should remember meals. I should remember nights spent watching TV.
But I don't. I only recall that she was there, that she loved me, and that I was a burden.
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The Imperfect's Journal: 2
Fiction généraleMemory loss, chronic pain, tremors. These three characteristics of Darren Stratt's illness raise the difficulty of Darren's exodus from the United States, a country that has decided he is "subhuman" and "imperfect", just like anyone else the governm...
