Black and White [Young Writer's Short Story Contest]

Black and White

 I shouldn’t be writing this.

 I could get caught…

 But I have to. I have to do this.

 My name is Harper. I’m sixteen years old. And I live in a world of black and white.

***

 When I was born, They decided they didn’t like the way I was. Unruly red hair, blue eyes. Too brash, too bright They concluded. So They made my parents dye it black, like everyone else’s. When I was five, They deemed me old enough for contact lenses. To make my eyes brown, like everybody else’s. It was better after that. No one stared at me for having different eyes.

 The walls in every building in the city are white. The carpets are sludge colour. We eat an equally sludge coloured breakfast, lunch and dinner. We read what we’re told. We speak only in designated time periods, and we keep conversation simple. Polite.

 They’re listening.

 Our schedule is the same each day. Wake up at seven. Shower, breakfast, dress, clean teeth, school, home, dinner, bed. In that order with no exceptions.

 Unless you break the rules.

 I horded paper from the school. Slipped stubs of pencil into my pocket unnoticed. I don’t know why I did it. I’ve had no use for it. Drawing is banned. And writing. And music. Any art form is. Self expression is not what They want.

 Here, we are all one. One body, one movement. One mind.

 And the mind sure isn’t our own.

***

 I watch the sky every day. I have to be careful. If the teacher catches my eyes going astray, I’ll be punished. But I can’t force myself to care. The sky at day is a break from the black and white. It stretches over us, infinite. If only I could touch it. Touch the colour. Let it seep into my skin and my soul.

 If only it weren’t so far away.

***

 I saw something strange as we marched home in formation one day. I walked next to Pierce, like I did every day. He wore black pants, a white shirt, grey tie. Double bows on his shoes. His hair was dyed black, like everyone’s. I think he might have had yellow hair once.

 Each road in the city is perfectly straight. Three hundred metres in length, ten metres wide for walking space. Thirty houses along each side of the road. All made of dull grey brick. There’s very little grass. They don’t like the vibrancy of the green. Too lively, They think. So most of the ground is made of smooth, grey concrete. But that day, something was disrupting the grey. Something oddly prophetic.

 Red.

 I’d only seen red a few times. But that day it was scrawled across a wall. So bright it hurt my eyes. I squinted to see the words written, though three men were furiously scrubbing it away.

 Individuality is freedom.

 Whoever wrote it must be desperate. And stupid. I wondered if they’d caught the person.

 “Stop staring,” someone hissed. I tripped over my own feet in surprise. Pierce’s face was expressionless, but I knew it was him, though I’d barely heard him speak before. For a second he glared back over at me.

 “Do you want to be killed, girl?” he snarled. Then he turned into his house and knocked on the door.

***

 It’s night. I should be in bed.

 But I’m not.

 I stood beneath the wall. The immense grey fence that pens us in. I stared up, my neck hurting from leaning back too far. They don’t have any guards there, or even on the streets. They have cameras, but I mapped out where they are, so They would never see me make the trip there. But they know the wall doesn’t need guarding. Only a fool would try to scale it.