It’s a girl.”
The phrase buzzes into my ears like a swarm of mosquitoes. Unwelcome. Unbearable.
A paper towel appears in the doctor’s hand and rubs at the clear gel slabbed over my stretched skin. Indifferently, though; a cold glob remains in my belly button.
“Any questions?” the doctor recites.
Tag - dystopian
It’s a girl.”
The pull made Noyer strain against her ankle cuff. The purple bruising beneath it twinged comfortingly.
She was safe. The ocean couldn’t drown her yet, so she listened to its thrum through the story of an old stormer.
“It was a glorious city, and they broke it,” he was saying.
Theresa plopped into a chair and plugged her ears; she couldn’t help herself. But it made no difference. The sound came from within.
A hand squeezed her shoulder. Her husband, Malcolm, studied her, his forehead wrinkled with concern. “The ringing’s back?”
“You could go see another doctor—”
The tears arrive in a vial of see-through metal foam: 100 ml, 800 Alu-dollars, and very hard to come by. Unless you know Miso. Miso knows the black market like no other.
“Whatta ya want ‘em for, anyway?” he says, scratching his artificial eyelid.
“Brecca. I miss him.”
What I keep to myself is that,
There’s always my reflection in the red puddle.
But tonight, there’s more. Tonight, there’s a man standing over my best friend’s dead body, and the barrel of his gun swallows me up.
He pulls the trigger, and I scream.
My eyes fly open, and the first thing I register is the rain plopping softly into the pot by my bed.
My cubicle door opens.
I hope it’s Nira, my favorite Facilitator. Instead two authorities burst in.
White suits. Masks. Blue gloves.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“You’re being removed,” the authority on my left growls. They grab my arms, squeezing
until it hurts, and haul me out.
“What? No!” I scream. “Nira!”