Last year for English class I had to write a short dystopian story. I ended up getting into a lot of world-building, enough for a full-fledged novel. I've decided to continue expanding on my world by writing several short stories, each from a different perspective. You can view the first installment of my dystopian fiction commentary here and the short story previously mentioned here.
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| via Google Images |
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The skin sags on the frail frame of the body, almost translucent. The veins are purple, more prominent than ever. This particular Elder has large glasses framing tired eyes, the lenses are thicker than any Timothy has ever seen before. Yes, this one definitely has to go, but what a pity. The patient's chattering has been amusing, even endearing, Timothy always stares at the patients with fascination tinged with horror. He's afraid of aging, so much so that he lies in bed, restless, unable to sleep as his mind imagines what death feels like. He pictures himself as one of his patients.
His heart pounds. Oh, glorious, glorious blood rushing through veins! Pump heart, pump while you still can...
He jerks up in bed, breathing heavily as he yanks himself out of the nightmare. It's early morning, shy lilac light filtering through the old wooden blinds. He won't try to go back to sleep. He slides out of bed, groggily making his way to the bathroom. He never takes his eyes from the mirror as he brushes his teeth, combs his hair, slips into the crisp hospital scrubs he has folded neatly the night before. They're a garish teal, speckled with half-distinguishable cartoon characters. Donald Duck grins at him maliciously as if to say ready to age another day? Is 30 too young to have gray hairs? Of course it is.
He shudders and walks out, heading to the kitchen.
As he munches raisin bran he flips on the TV, letting the mind-numbing colors and pictures wash over him like a balm. Sometimes he gets the irrepressible urge to think about things, his mind exploring the nooks and crannies of those taboo subjects. If he talked about them at work he'd lose his job, so he doesn't even let himself think them. But that was the dilemma.
Wondering about age and death and the current state of affairs was like a deep wound, hastily covered up with a band-aid and needing air exposure to heal. He knew that if he ripped off the band-aid and ruminated over things for a while he might be able to make sense of it all. But maybe not. Killing people and being killed are both equally unpleasant when you think about it. He tips the bowl back, drinking the remaining milk from the bowl. Almost time to go.
He grabs the car keys and his phone. Halfway down the apartment staircase
, the phone starts ringing and he rolls his eyes, annoyed. Why did his mother pick the most inconvenient times to call? He almost ignores the call but thinks better of it--his mother would only keep trying. He picks it up. "Mom?" No answer.
"Mom, please make it quick, I need to get to work." He jogs down the rest of the staircase, walking out into the open air and towards the garage. He waits a couple of seconds, then hangs up. Disconnected. The phone rings again. He opens the car door and puts the phone up to his ear.
Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump.
It's a steady beating, and he's heard it before, somewhere. It sounds vaguely like a heartbeat.
"Mom, you're having phone trouble. Get dad to check out your service, okay?" He grumbles, starting the car. Can she even hear him? If she thinks that he hung up on her then there would be hell to pay later. Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump.
He ends the call, pulling out of the driveway. The ride downtown is slow and monotonous as always, and he stares listlessly through the dirty windshield as he listens to the radio. The bass fills the car in a glorious rush, and he smiles with satisfaction as his spirits lift.
Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump.
And they say life's too short for games, but I like playing 'em
He sings along.
Can't take it with you, with you, with you, and so I'm living it up, up, up... Inspired by XOX's newest hit, he has a spontaneous dance party in his car. He doesn't care who sees, because he's alive and everything is glorious and he has a job and a home of his own and lives in a beautiful city and--
Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump.
And there was that odd sound again. Where was it coming from? He turns off the music, straining his ear. It's stopped.
He furrows his brow in confusion, turning into the parking lot of the hospital.
Riding the elevator up to the top floor, he readies himself for the day's work. He can't remember how many patients he has today. He can't remember how many he had yesterday. That was the thing, with these people. There were always so many, but the procedure was quick. A swift reassurance of heavenly blessings, a stick with a needle, and it was all over. No use having a whole lot of people around who were just inconveniences to hard-working citizens, and besides, the surgeries were useless. They'll just die anyway.
He strides into the office, plastering on a smile as he passes the pretty girl at the front desk. What was her name? He's forgotten, but she looks like a Peyton. One of these days he will get up the nerve to ask her her name, maybe invite her to dinner. One of these days.
Informed that the patient is waiting for him in the little room at the end of the hallway, he quickly gathers the necessary instruments and papers, waves to a fellow operator, and strides into the room. He stops dead in his tracks, feeling as if someone has thrown a brick at his chest.
There, on the papered table is his mother. Her painfully skinny legs dangle far off the ground, and she looks cold and small in the thin hospital gown. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She's been crying.
"Hello, hunny. Funny that you're the one who'll be sending me off, huh? I give you life and you give me death? Haha!" She starts laughing hysterically and Timothy runs his hands through his hair, his throat constricting like the time he found out he was allergic to tree nuts. He runs towards her, feeling a strange urge to squeeze her hand. He puts down the instruments and papers and gives her a tight hug. He hasn’t done that in a long time.
"Mom! Why are you here?" It has to be a mistake. Yes, that's what it is. His mind races.
"I needed the surgery after all, and you know the new policy. The older-than-60s get the send-off to Happy Land and that's the way it's gonna be. It's fine really, it's the law. It just came faster than I thought it would, you know what I mean, hunny? And, my word, imagine my baby being the one to do it for me. It does make things a bit better, doesn't it?" She trails off, deliriously babbling.
He struggles to breathe.
"I'm not going to do it. We'll get you the surgery, and you'll be fine. Fine, do you hear me? And anyone who says differently will have to deal with me." He's angry now, rage pulsing in his jugular. The world has flipped upside down and he is flailing in the blackness of space.
"But, hun, you know it's the law. And it does make sense, I suppose."
"Who cares for the damn law?" Timothy explodes, his voice rising to a panicked roar. There's an insistent knock on the door. A timid voice inquires if everything is alright, and he says yes, it is. But it isn't.
"I'm not letting you do this. We'll find a way out." He says, pacing the room.
"Think about it, hunny. I'm sick. I can't get better unless I have that surgery. It makes sense that they don't operate on over-60s, because they'll just die sooner than later. They do it to save money and time and keep the population in check. You know that, dear. It’s sensible. You learned it at your medical school, didn't you?"
He hadn't. The policy was new, instituted four years ago. How had he been so blind?
"Goodbye, hunny. I hope this won't shake you up too much, it really shouldn't you know. It's the law. It’s the way things are meant to be done." She grabs the syringe and pushes it into her paper-thin skin before he can stop her. He lets out a scream and a doctor runs into the room.
“What’s going on?” The doctor says, bemused. He looks at the limp form on the table. “Need some help?” Timothy can’t speak, the blood draining out of his face.
Thumpinggg thump thump thuuuuuuump.
The sound. It’s surrounding him, it’s in his body, he can’t shake it from his head. He grabs the needle.
~
This story was inspired by an article on Live Action I read a while ago. Recently I've been practicing short stories, and it's been a lot of fun! Short stories are great because you're not tied to writing a full novel but can still develop your story and characters a good amount. I also have a tendency to be a little long-winded and prosy in my writing, so short stories challenge me to be more concise and snappy.
One of the criticisms I got when I ran this story past a friend was that my meaning was a bit too nebulous and I should make it slightly clearer for those not familiar with the topics I'm exploring. I think she brings up a good point, and I was wondering what you all thought. What would you have liked to see in this story? What worked/didn't work?
I apologize for the wonky formatting of this post, I'm not sure how to fix it! (Blogger can be so frustrating at times...) Stay tuned for the April installment of Tea and a Read coming later this week!
Have a fabulous day,
~ K A T H R Y N
