Saturday, August 13th, 2318
I grow tired of this cage.
Today is ration day. Usually, a pleasant enough event but today the gray sky pushed down on me, grating against my skin, pelting it with an irritating spray of painful rain. The tall gray and glass walls enclosed my heart.
Gray on the ground, gray center, gray above. Even the people, in their loud clothes splashed with names and logos, seemed muted to my eyes. The air was rife with commercials rapidly flashing on every surface, vomiting noise, driving people to madness in their pursuit to purchase. Acquire. Own.
I don’t know why I haven’t seen it before. This madness, this…I just can’t find the word but it makes my tongue feel coated in rotting fur. Perhaps, with my father, my one kindred spirit, gone I’ve grown jaded, distrusting. Disgusted. I feel incomplete and anxious waiting in a monotonous line.
But I put on a sweet smile and hurry up and wait.
Standing, waiting, grinning, like a mind-weak child. They can’t know.
I hide the truth through layers of saccharine and obedience. If anyone should hear of my true feelings, should read this journal, I would be Labeled.
No one wants to be Labeled.
Medications would be prescribed, monitoring would commence. My life would never be my own again. Even if these feelings passed, the Label would remain in my file for all eternity. All my actions, thoughts, feelings, dreams, wants, desires would all be because of that one Label.
I wouldn’t be me anymore.
Who am I? I’m not sure I have the paper to write it all out.
The simple answer is that I am Faylinn Monroe. Daughter of Jackson and Kate. Born on September second in the year twenty-two thousand nine hundred and ninety six. I turn twenty-two next month. My mother died when I was three, when the Earth died and swallowed her up in it’s last gasping breath. My father died one week ago. I have no siblings. I am alone.
I suppose if you were of a mind to describe me, you would immediately think of “average”. Average height, weight, averagely brown hair and skin. I will only admit, here, because I am the only one to read it, I have very unaverage eyes.
They are green, like how I picture leaves might be. And they are large. Probably too large for my narrow face and they are rimmed in thick black lashes with dark, perfect arches above them.
They are my mother’s eyes. At least, that’s what father always said.
But I digress.
Today is ration day and the line isn’t overly long and the people were quiet, minding their own business. But I couldn’t shake these feelings of wanting to run, screaming through the gray streets. To shake people, hard, to wake them up to the obscenity of our lives.
To see if anyone else believed in blue skies and dreamed of birds.
I closed my eyes and pictured my father standing beside me. I willed my blood to cool. My heart to slow.
I turned in my voucher to the plump lady behind the counter, passing the slip of paper through the small slot in the Plexiglas wall. She typed my number into the computer with long, clacking nails that spelled out “Drive Manbouto”, her day-glow hair was pierced with a large plastic set of golden arches. A little metal door to my right whooshed open ejecting a brown package onto a gray counter. I held it in my hands, I swallowed hard, it weighed nearly nothing.
Today is ration day and with my father gone my food supply has already been cut by more than half.