Short Stories & Poetry

Sheep amongst the wolves

"Order! Order in the courtroom!"

The judge needn't have called for order. The room was deadly-silent, the air so still it was stifling. We all held our breath for the verdict even though every person in the room had known it the second they arrived.

"Mr McGonigal has been found guilty of his crimes against the Circle. Please bow your heads in acknowledgement."

The silence stretches out like an empty street- something most people in this room are not familiar with- as everyone stares at their polished shoes, perfect faces attempting to look something like sad. Most fail.

I stare at my own shoes, the silver glinting. My eyes catch on the embedded diamonds I gained when I became a court member. Selling just one of those diamonds could feed an entire family in the lower class for a year. People like Mr McGonigal. People like me.

The thought of Mr McGonigal's struggle makes me hiss through my teeth. No one around me notices, unsurprisingly. They're probably too busy thinking about what to wear for the reception after this. I will not be attending.

I lift my head when everyone else does, in time to see him taken away by five heavily-built bodyguards. Like he needs five guards to keep him in check. He can barely walk.

Everyone files out to the reception, but I refuse to celebrate the imprisonment of an innocent man. Maybe not innocent in the eyes of the Circle. But in mine.

The whole way home I smile, keeping it pasted on my face so that it matches that of everyone I walk past. The world becomes a blur from the other pedestrians' clothing and bodies- flamboyant and brightly coloured clothing; pigmented skin; dyed hair in many different styles; smooth skin fitted around well-shaped cheekbones. Their prosthetic smiles make me want to vomit.

I reach the door of my pod with sweaty palms and a racing mind. I'm struggling to keep my smile wide and my thoughts off my face. Amongst the sea of beautiful people and faces I pass, not one is untouched by needles, dyes, or surgery.

The door shuts behind me, and I rush to the dingy backroom, sighing with relief when I see the McGonigals' baby dimly illuminated under the light of a tiny window on the corner.

I bring my hands to my face, ripping off the skin Mr McGonigal made for me. I open a drawer next to me and place it carefully back in its place, moving on to my arms. Then I strip off my court dress and the layers of petticoats, until I can pull off the rest of the skin and reach the itch forming on my own skin underneath. My real skin.

The fact that I was asked to testify in court against the very man who made this for me cannot be a coincidence. Without the skins Mr McGonigal made me, I'd still be grovelling under the feet of the Circle and their ridiculous upper class in the grime and dirt of the lower class streets. Or the Unchanged, as they- we- like to call ourselves. Those untouched by meddling scientists, with normal genes, natural skin, and real smiles.

Instead, I am a wolf among the sheep- or rather, a sheep amongst the wolves. Mr McGonigal gave so much to a few promising individuals in the Unchanged mass, helping them to infiltrate deep into the society of the Blemished. I am now a respected member of the courts, which is how I ended up testifying against the very man who gave me this life.

I look back at his baby, fast asleep and unaware of what I just did in court. I'm left to care for it, at risk of exposing my own defiance to the fashions of the Circle. Unless I were to take it to the surgery. But I made a promise that I intend to keep. No gene or feature editing.

Flashing colours from passers-by catch my eye through the little window, flitting before my eyes. Do they even remember what it is to be pure? To be clean, and not filled with chemicals? I run my hands along my cheeks, eyes wide. Theirs' is a life where your skin is not your own.