symmetry ; a dystopian tale

Chapter 1.

      I stared at the wall with hungry eyes and an excited soul. Never had I seen such a beautiful scene; and it wasn’t even real.

            I was only seven years old. I had never known art, and if I did, I was too young to remember it. It had been a few years since we had all been ripped from our homes. After the Korean bombed us, no one could stay. Everyone who had survived was forced to live on this little island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. They added land using the techniques of the ancient Mayans. There was no where else to go; no other countries wanted us. We were war bait.

            It was a painting. That’s what my mother told me that day. It was a painting, something someone made with pencils and paint. Someone had created a painting on the front of our apartment building, and it was amazing.

            My mother found it amazing too. I could tell because her eyes were watery and she was blinking faster. It was as if she was looking at a photo of a long lost friend, a friend that she had almost begun to forget about.

             At the same time, though, art wasn’t allowed. It hurt people. The wounds of the bombing were still fresh, the memories were still new. Art was not helpful. Art reminded people of the pain, their suffering frozen into a painting. Even my own mother, my strong mother, couldn’t help but cry.

             “We have to go,” she said softly. I didn’t argue, because I knew she was serious. Besides, we never got to go to places very often. There was a slim chance that we would actually have some fun.

              I walked with her along the path surrounded by birch trees. They were huge, thanks to their genetically modified roots. This island didn’t have birch trees before we came, but the government agreed that we needed something to remind us of home. A couple of trees couldn’t really help us, but at least they were trying.

             She dragged me down the worn dirt road, muttering something about selfish people who couldn’t accept good change. I was only a kid then: I didn’t understand anything about her or the new world. All I knew was that it made people sad.  When my mom was sad, I knew that something must have been very wrong. I was right.

              I smiled a little grin. “Mama? Mama, look! Look mama!” I pointed to a tree on the side of the road. She stopped irritability and turned toward me sharply. Her face melted into a calm smile when she saw what little me was pointing at. “Can you get it for me, mama?”

              After the war, the new government banned three things. They were known as the big three, and everybody had their opinions about it. The only thing everyone could agree on was how important they were.

              The first thing they banned was art. A lot of people thought it was unfair; my mom thought it was the only thing keeping her sane. Art was her life before the Japanese came. Even seeing it broke her into a million little pieces that no one could put together but herself.

              After a couple months the government decided to ban technology from homes. What was technology without art, anyways? People could still use their photo apps, their Facebook memories…technology wasn’t any better than art. If people wanted to communicate, they could write letters.

              Just last year they banned music. It took them long enough to realize that music also held memories. This broke my mother to pieces. Since she met my dad, music has been a huge part of her life. She would go to parks and cafes and play all sorts of instruments with him. He was a great singer, and she was a fast learner. They made the perfect couple.

              But they took that away from her too. They take away everything she cares about: it’s only a matter of time before they take me too, I guess.

              She looked around for a few seconds. 

              “I…I guess so, Eko, but choose a quiet one, okay?”

              “Mama, I want the guitar! Get me the guitar mama?”

              The chill of the wind sent shivers down her back. I was still smiling, pointing to the acoustic stuck in the birch branches.

              In today’s time, if I was caught with an instrument, I would be arrested. Back then our government hadn’t planned that far ahead. In 2034, when N’avae was first established, we didn’t really have punishment. If someone disobeyed one of the Big Three, nothing really happened. They used fear of the unknown to keep people away from them.

             That didn’t work for very long, so they built prisons. The government called them prisons, but they were more like workhouses. You would spend all day organizing papers and rewriting old scripture. It was boring work, but at least they were learning a little bit. The government believes that a smart person is a functional person. If someone is educated they won’t go against the big three.

             Maybe stupidity runs in our family.

             After a long day of organizing and writing, they got a meal. It was nutritious, if tasteless. Then they got the recommended eight hours of sleep.

             Nothing about the prisons were harmful. The place was perfectly sanitary. The walls and floors were plain white. They had no windows, but they had sun lights everywhere. No one was in pain. No one was sick. No one died in the prisons.

             But they were bored. And they had no idea of what was going on outside, which is definitely a con. They were good enough to be humane and acceptable, but bad enough to be undesirable. They were perfect.

             Personally, I would rather die than be imprisoned.

             My mom took a deep breath before reaching up into the tree. She shook the guitar loose from the branches and handed it to me. Once she was sure I had a good grip on it, she immediately started walking again. It was all I could do to keep up.

             Granted, I didn’t know any guitar. My dad had tried to teach me a little before the bombing, but it’s hard to teach a four year old anything. Just the thought of it makes me sad now. If only we had a little more time…

              I plucked the tiny string softly. It made a little ‘ting’ sound. Little me giggled before trying out the lowest string, this time louder. A few birds flew from their perches in the branches.

              “Eko, you said you would be quiet!” My mom said, her brow furrowed. “You have to keep it down! Here, give it to me, we’re entering town.
 
                I winced at her distress and handed it to her as fast as I could. Promptly, she shoved it into the nearest bush and continued walking normally. 
               
                She kneeled next to me, looking ahead to the circle of shops and people to the left of us. We had to report the outlawed piece before the government started to investigate. Otherwise, my mother could be convicted of the crime. It was illegal in itself to ignore it.

                 "We're going to the Black House," She explained, running her fingers through my hair. "You have to be on your very best behavior. It won't take long, I promise."

                   "Mama?"

                   "Yes, Eko?"

                   "The person how made the picture. Are they gonna get arrested?" My face was knotted and confused. I remember my heart racing. How could someone so talented be punished?
  
                   She nodded strongly, a smile apparent on her face.

                   "Yes, honey. And the world will be better for it. One less trouble maker taking up space, right? Come on, we'll get ice cream after!"