She is awakened by the buzzing in her head. Not painful, except insofar as it means work is just moments away. Another day in the heat of the sun.
Baking.
Digging.
She throws her legs off the cot and stands quickly enough to make her head swim. Better that than another of the humming reminders that her time is not her own.
Her life is not her own.
She stumbles a bit as she slips into her labor uniform, the same color as her leisure jumper, the same color as the underthings she slept in, the same color as the dirt she will shovel all day. “A Sisyphean task” her father had called it, and told her the story of a man condemned to roll a stone up a mountain only to see it roll back down forever.
But that was long ago, when her father still lived and stories were still told.
She feels her face redden with shame – or is it only fear - and her eyes flick involuntarily toward the closet. She looks quickly away, composing herself. This is no time for dawdling. If she is not at the Sanitation Center by her scheduled time, she will receive a more unpleasant zap from her implant than the wake up signal. Worse, she will invite scrutiny, and while being noticed by the powers that be is never a good thing, such attention now could mean her death.
Opening the door she presses out into air hotter and more stale than that inside. The massive square filtration factories that span the horizon like teeth in a surrounding maw can do only so much. The smaller, in-home, filtration systems the government has graciously provided the laborers in order to extend their life and usefulness to the community keep the air within cooler and cleaner.
Arriving at the Center with only moments to spare she elbows her way to a privacy stall. Loading a fresh lancet into the Identi-Slot, she pricks her finger and waits to be recognized. When the gleaming metal lid of the toilet recedes with a screech into the back wall, she urinates a pitiful trickle. It is enough for the sensor, which spits out a day pass from a slot, labeled with the grid location to which she is assigned, as well as the ounces of water and number of nourishment capsules she is entitled to at the labor site. She removes the pass and a robotic voice addresses her with eerie sensuality.
“Humanity thanks you for your service! Enjoy a productive day!”
Weaving through the throng – silent except for the rustle of clothing and clomping of boots - she hops onto one of the transports heading in the direction of the site. She stands, a plain woman among plain people, and passes the time imagining what it would be like to close herself up in the secret place and emerge in color. To enter as a dirt-brown caterpillar and emerge a shockingly colorful butterfly.
What would these dull-eyed crowds see in the scarlet drapery of a dress, or the sparkling jewels of a barrette, a broach? She likes to believe she is not alone, that at least some of these people would see a life they could have had beyond the stifling blandness of the world they suffer in. Surely some would remember their own fathers or mothers speaking of times gone by and a better world.
One with color and choices. And a life that was their own.
The transport lurches to a stop at the first work site. It is not hers, but as several passengers disembark she notices some are staring at her with unkindness and suspicion. Panic blooms in her chest and she feels the blood drain away from her face.
She'd been smiling; always suspect in a place where there is nothing to smile about because all are equal and should feel equally miserable. It took no effort at all to wipe the smile from her face, the problem now was how to not look guilty or afraid. Adopting the perfect facial neutrality best suited to avoiding suspicion was difficult at the best of times; nearly impossible now as her heart thumped and a bead of moisture her body could ill-afford to lose trickled down her spine.
To be continued in Part 2
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Good story. I enjoyed reading it. Upvoted and Followed! Looking forward to the next part! And this is Steemit! We don't encourage people to mock others here! Keep up the good work!
Thank you! I'm really looking forward to being part of the fiction community here :)
I think this story hits all the right notes. Writing dystopia with a voice of sincerity can be both difficult and the most natural thing to do. It can give words to our deepest hopes and fears, but there have been so many examples it can be hard to steer clear of cliches and pull out those original sentiments. I think you do that well here. On to part 2!
Thank you for the thoughtful comment and for reading on!
very beautiful i like
Thank you so much! I can't tell you how much more nerve-wracking it is to put up my fiction than to put up anything else, lol. I really appreciate the support :)