Don't Be Yourself | #ShawRocketFundContest

~one~

My mom strides into my room. In her arms is a stack of neatly folded white shirts and blue denim jeans. "Sophie, dear. I have your clothes. Please put them in your drawers." She moves with calm, calculated movements, yet I can still see the sadness bubbling up inside her. Even the tiniest quake of her stony demeanor will expose her. Which is why she needs to mask her emotions with a thick coat of ice. 

But I know my mom better than that. I can see through her lies. If she could, she'd collapse on her bed and cry herself to sleep. But under the disciplinary perfectionist view of the Distsiplina government, no weakness can show. 

"Mum, are you feeling alright?" I ask. 

My mom looks at me out of the corner of her eye, nonplussed. "Sophie, do not ask me questions. You are a child. Children remain silent unless called upon." 

"Yes, ma'am," I drone.  

"You must join me in the living room in fifteen minutes. It's almost time for your measurements."  

My blood seems to stop and harden. I think of last night, of the blinking numbers on the scale, of the dread coursing through my veins. I hate that fateful moment where the growth chart gets pulled out, where my numbers get compared to the ideal average. Where I can see my life getting yanked away from me in a heartbeat. "Why?" I ask.

I clamp both hands over my mouth. Why did I have to make noise? Why can't I learn to shut up? My mother pins me down with her glare. "Sophie, you bastard," she hisses. "Do you realize the extent your father and I go through to keep you hidden and safe? We risk our lives every single day just to keep you from the Distsiplina incinerators. And what do you do in return? You throw your Sophie nonsense at us every day and make our lives even more stressful than they already are!" The anger pours through the cracks in my mother's icy coat, melting away at the surrounding frost. 

I tug at my dyed blonde hair, identical to my mother's and everyone else's. The very hair that could get me killed. I think of how my hair is a lie, exactly like my mom's cold demeanor. How she has to cover her personality with sophistication to please the men like I have to dye my hair blonde to follow the government's criteria. 

"Do you see this?" my mom continues. She slaps the shiny poster to her right, tacked to the wall by my doorframe. The Child's Charter of Expectations, it reads. My mother points to the first bullet on the list. "'Every child must have blonde hair. You must have an acceptable temperament and only speak when told. You must court the person chosen for you with passion and respect,'" she reads aloud. "And you," my mom says, her voice cracking and swaying as she continues, "you aren't what they want. You have brown hair, an atrocious temper, and you refuse to date the perfectly nice boy that the Distsiplina have picked out for you. Tell me, Sophie, should we stop protecting you? Are you worth it anymore?"

I sit on my bed, tears welling in my eyes. The weight of who I'm supposed to be comes thundering down on me. An alluring girl with a curvaceous yet slender frame. An alluring girl with silky, naturally blonde hair. An alluring girl with an alluring personality to match. "You know what?" I finally say, looking up at my mother. "Maybe I'm not worth it."

My mother's chin quivers as she matches my gaze. Without another word, she storms out of the room, closing the door roughly behind her.

I scoop my phone off my nightstand and scroll through my contacts. All the 'Sophies' and 'Liams' blur together as I reach the one I've been looking for; 'Liam #65,890,567,234 or 'Liam #65,8' for short. 

I like to think that we were meant for each other; two fiery souls who can see straight through the Distsiplina's dirty lies. We're the only ones out of all the hand-bound people on Earth who were able to jerk our heads in such a fashion so that the censored filters they put on our eyes fell off and clattered to the ground. We can see how twisted and broken society has become in an effort to transform into a flawless utopia where everyone co-exists peacefully. On the way, the government has brainwashed us into submission, forcing glasses over our vision which show us what they want to see; all the men named Liam, all the women named Sophie, and all of the human race blonde-haired and blue-eyed. 

And then there's Liam #43,5.

We got paired together since both of our identification numbers start with a 43,5. I despise every inch of him. He's arrogant and boastful, like all the other boys on this planet. He treats me like a rag doll; like nothing but a worthless scrap of fabric with a cloth heart and cloth feelings.

I dial Liam #65,8, dreading what's to come. 

He picks up on the second ring. "Sophie," he says. "How're you doing?" 

I take a deep breath, settling down amongst my sheets. "Look, I don't have much time." 

"What's wrong?" Liam asks, worry hinting in his tone. "Babe, you're scaring me." 

I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine his hands running through my hair, flattening the anxiety with every gently stroke. I imagine the warmness of his body against mine, the closeness of him and the comfort it gives me. I thought of the last time we saw each other, the last time we kissed, and all those memories are tainted red as I realize they will never happen again. "Liam, I love you," I choke out. 

"I love you too, Sophie, but you need to tell me what's going on," he says. "Do you need me to come over? I can come and stay the night if you want. I can leave right now." 

"No. You can't. Liam," I whisper, "you know how at age 16 I'm supposed to be 110-120 pounds?" 

"Oh no," Liam says. I can practically feel him deflating. He knows what I'm about to say.

"I'm 123.2" I manage to spit out. 

There's dead silence, broken a few seconds later by quiet crying on Liam's end. "Baby, I'm not going to let them do anything to you." 

"My measurements are today," I say, a fresh batch of tears swelling in my eyes. 

"Soph," he says, voice thick with sadness, "I'm coming. Whether you want it or not." 

"But you cannot," I protest. "My mom will beat you." 

"I don't care," he says. I can hear his front door creaking open through the phone. "See you in a few." He hangs up, not leaving room for argument. 

I sigh, cranking the window open. My alarm clock reads 4:07 PM, which means Liam has 8 minutes to get here before my fifteen minutes are up.

I lean against the windowsill, feeling the warm spring air on my hot skin. I close my eyes against the breeze, revelling in my last few minutes of life. For someone who has death looming over them like a rain cloud, I'm quite relaxed. Maybe it's knowing that with me gone, my parents can live a stress-free life. 

"Sophie, come on," my mom barks.

I blink awake, out of my reverie. A glance at my alarm clock tells me it's 4:15 PM. 

Liam never made it in time.

"I love you," I whisper out the window. "I love you, wherever you are." 

I drag my feet as I head down the tight spiral staircase. My head throbs; my heart is heavy. I know this is the end, and there's no one that can prevent it. 

As I step foot into our grand living room, tears sting my eyes. There are two government officials menacingly perched on the crocodile leather sofa, a man and a woman. Their heads turn towards me in eerie synchronisation. They sit with backs straighter than a wooden beam and look me over with gazes just as splintery. "Sophie #43,589,779,567?" the man asks.

"Correct."

The lady beside him harrumphs and looks down her nose at my previous growth charts. "You seem to be growing accordingly. Let us see if you're still following the ideal pattern. Please step on the scale in front of you."

My breathing quickens as they approach me. I back away a step. The woman frowns at me. "Young lady, please comply or there shall be consequences."

I shake my head. This is it. I might as well get it done with, instead of lingering here for longer. There's nothing left here for me. 

Just as my feet meet the cool metal of the scale, a hurried knock sounds at the door, then a blond-haired figure bursts through. In his hands is something shiny that catches the light of the chandelier swinging from his violent entry. "Stop!" he screams. "Stop or I'll shoot!"