The Worst One Percent

Chapter 1

Chapter One: You don't know that
     "After the final world war, which whipped out almost all forms of life, the few remain humans grouped together with only one goal: survive. Centennials later, sprouting from the survivors, a form of government and social begin to emerge. Determined to learn from the mistakes of the "barbaric days," the new found leaders created the one percent rule," my ancient history teacher reads from the screen.
     Giggles erupt from the back as Mac, the well know trouble-maker and also my significant other, passes around his chip. As the chip makes it's way closer to the fount, closer to the teacher, the obnoxious fallows. When it finally lands it's self in front of me, I expand the chip and revel the image- an unflattering photo of our teacher. I attempt to stifle a laugh; but it was too late, Mrs. Thomas stops the lesson and glares in my general direction. As I quickly snap the chip closed she takes a step closer to me, she questions me.
     "Lolita, you seem quite enthralled with our lesson today," she says staring daggers at the chip, "won't you explain why the new government created the one percent rule?"
     I hesitate, creating an weird space of science.
     "In order to keep the purity of the new society, the worst one percent of the population  each year would be taken away and brutally murdered, their skulls beaten in and as their blood-"
     "Thats quite enough Michael." The teacher interrupts Mac.
      "Yet don't you find it weird how after the hundreds of  years since the creation of the society, the worst portion of the population only have done minor offenses. The line of "worst" has become blurred-"
    "That's also enough from you," Mrs. Thomas says turning her anger towards me. Before I could say another word, we were released from our lessons.
"You're welcome for the help back there," Mac says with an egotistical smirk as we walk out of them room.
"I didn't need your help, I just hesitated"
"That's right, so I stepped in to help," he says, continuing to enlarge his ego.
"Doesn't matter, she hated my comment of the blur." I respond when he swings his arm around my shoulders as we continue to walk.
"Duh, the blur makes everyone uncomfortable. Break the wrong plate and you're done," Mac states making a slicing motion across his neck.
     "Cut it out, you don't even know that they get killed. No one knows what happens to them," I roll my eyes at him.
     "Okay, fine. But they don't have to tech us the same lesson every year. It's boring, and by now, we know what the stupid rule is."
     "In all fairness, at least they tech it on the day it happens. Apparently the ancestors did something similar for attacks." I state matter-of-factly. "Are you going to watch the announcement?"
     "Are you going to watch the announcement?" He says mimicking me, "Yes, of course I'm watching the announcement. I'm not missing people receiving their death sentence."
     "They don't die!"
     "You don't know that."
••••••••••••
     Sitting down in the main room, I watch the crowded of people fill the half-circle seating. Separated by age, I wave at my parents as they take a seat a few sections over. Continuing to search the sea of people, my gaze lands on Mac and I attempt to flag him down. When he finally makes his way over to our section of seating and scales the steep steps next to me, he speaks.
     "I want to make some comment about how these people are gonna die, but I think I've driven that point home already."
     I simply roll my eyes at him and turn my attention to the center of the room, where seven people, the counsel, stand. These were the people who decided the one percent. These were the people who created the blur.
     "Every year we, the council, decide who shall pass though the society." The head councilman began. I zone him out as he reads the list of wrong-doers and scan the faces of the crowd. Remorse, shock, pity, emotions that fill the normally joyful citizens.
     "Lolita Simmons, Carl Maclow," the councilman reads breaking me from my thoughts.
     What? No way. I didn't hear him right.
     "Low? What happened?" A very conserved Mac questions.
     No, this is real. But I haven't done anything wrong! I fallow all the rules, I don't stray from the commands set for us.
     Guards climb the stairs leading up to me. Their straight thin lips pressed together seemed to pronounce my death.
    "Mac, it wasn't me. I didn't do anything, Mac please." I plead with my boyfriend. His eyes search mine, debating if I'm telling the truth. "Mac," I grab his arm "help me."
     "Come on," he slips his hand down into mine and tugs me in the opposite direction of the guards.
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