The Eyes Of An Unknown Figure

The market

50 years ago, the word "like" meant something different. If someone liked something, it held a special place in their heart and mind; like a nice day out or a funny joke. Likes on social media meant someone appreciated the photo. Teenagers of the time would argue that this is important, but other people might have only wanted to share something special...

It changed 10 years ago; everything changed.

Each morning my routine is the same, pull the course, canvas sacking away from my face as the grey, dying sun shines weakly through the lifeless clouds. For me getting up is another task for the day, some people wake up early to get ready to work. They pick an outfit, do their makeup and take a never-ending stream of selfies and pictures. The more zealous workers hire professional editors to manipulate and correct their pictures into slate masks of unrecognisable beauty.

I am not one of those people, instead of designer clothes and perfection, I have blunt razor blades and a ruddy, freckled face that even the most skilled of editors wouldn't be able to turn into another one of their sculptures. Perhaps my one redeeming factor is my eyes, brown eyes aren't as common nowadays as perfection has now been seen as having green eyes for multiple generations. My brown eyes would be the first thing that springs to a stranger's mind when asked about me. 

I pull my jacket on to leave the dormitory and stop to listen; screams echo through the paper-thin damp walls and force their way into my head. This has become the norm for me, walking outside to see another unfortunate family being dragged out of their home for reasons obsolete to the sane mind. I cast their unpleasant fate out of my mind and join the fray of men, women and children; their eyes clouded and shoulders hunched like prisoners; their feet limping wearily over the stony, dirt street.

Crack! 

Whip-like an officer's voice breaks the air; I turn panic-stricken, my blood running cold as ice as I it's merciless, robotic eyes glinting maliciously, eyes trained upon my face.

I start to run.

Stunners endanger me every second, narrowly missing me, so close i can feel the air pressure caused by them; whizzing past my ear, my arm, my leg. I turn a corner and push through the thick sea of citizens. Three more corners and I've found my solace, my salvation. I crash breathlessly through the wrought, iron door, my heart threatening to break through my chest as I slide the bolt across into the lock. I lean against the metal as my breathing slowly returns to its normal pace. I walk into the warehouse. I walk through into the cavern and the whirr of machines becomes louder and louder until I'm greeted with the dingy misery of the market.

In this city, citizen face imprisonment or worse if they do not get a certain influx of likes on their social media account.