I Am More Than My Organs

Disclaimer: This story presents an imagined future. A horror story. It discusses the implications of the WHO's report if taken too literally and enforced. That was not the intention. The stances within are not representative of the report’s actual conclusions or aims. Some topics discussed may be triggering to some readers.

With a sigh of disappointment, I heave the large, black hiking pack off my back and onto the scuffed brown carpet. The heft of polyester slumps against the peeling, muddied cream wallpaper. The jumble of its contents clunk and clink together. The sound echoes down the empty corridor, attracting the attention of a pair of cloudy eyes. From behind a faded rose curtain, my neighbour, Mr Waterford, watches intently. I produce a lump of cold brass from my jean pocket and insert it into the lock.

A few minutes later, my warm beige soles pace across the icy hardwood floor of my kitchen. The space feels discomforting and unfamiliar after being empty for so long. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection on the refrigerator door. The hallmarks of air travel were all there. Wild, ebony split hairs sprout out in every direction. Dark circles pool below my sable irises. Exhaustion claws its way through every ounce of my flesh. I rub my dry fingertips over my puffy, hooded eyelids and decide that I need wine. Lots of it.

I rinse the gold-rimmed crystal bowl of an expensive wine glass underneath a running tap. Plunking it on the table, I retrieve a corkscrew and a bottle of Bordeaux from the wine rack beneath the island. I collapse onto the single bar stool and remove the cork. Notes of plum and cedar tumble from the bottleneck, the deep earthy aroma filling the musky, heavy air. The noise of constant traffic and wailing sirens seems deafening. I have grown too accustomed to life outside the city. I pick up the cold, damp stem and take a generous sip. The sweet, smooth fruity notes transform into prickly, dry tannins. I need a one-way ticket back to Reykjavík.

My consciousness drifts, consumed by nostalgia. The endless rolling emerald peaks. Picturesque wisps of cerulean cascade over the edge of a rocky cliff. A million waving tails of lavender. The violent geysers that erupt white plumes twenty-foot into the air. I imagine that I am experiencing it all again for the first time. I love the feeling of being alone, off-the-grid, surrounded by nature, with only my backpack to burden me. No expectations. It is beautiful. It is free. I cannot comprehend a life revolving around a husband, children, and a house in the suburbs. It does not feel right for me. There must be more to life than that. More to see. More to do. Freedom from conformity and complacency.

A deep yell rings out, beckoning me back into reality.

‘OPEN UP! POLICE!’

I jump to my feet, confusion washing over me. What has happened? Why are they here? Before I can even take a step forward, there is a loud crack. A slice of my wooden door catapults into a sand-coloured pot. The ceramic shatters and shrivelled remnants of dead plant matter scatter. Dirt tumbles out, soiling the pastel carpet. The death of my plant pot proceeds the intrusion of four burly, armoured police officers. To obscure their features, the four men wear black, protective masks. The first officer grabs me by the arms and thrusts me into the wall. My head smashes against the concrete, and a sense of distress engulfs me. He grips my hands and bends them behind my back at an uncomfortable angle. The officer proceeds to place silver handcuffs around my wrists. They are so tight that they dig into my skin. I open my mouth to protest, but he grabs the back of my neck, yanking me round to face him. I notice that the other officers are wreaking destruction upon the rest of my home. Cupboards are being torn open. Drawers are being emptied. Ornaments are being tossed to the floor.

‘Please. Stop! What do you want? What are you looking for? I haven’t done anything wrong’, I cry, my voice wobbling with anxiety.

They ignore me. One seems to locate something of interest in a drawer. He tears into a square blue box and pops out a single white pill. Holding the white circle between his index finger and thumb, he raises it up for the others to see. He showcases a single tablet of ibuprofen. Tossing the pack on the counter, he turns to the wine rack. He holds up an unopened bottle to examine before smashing it over the countertop. I stare dumbfounded as the bottle collides into my empty wine glass. Chips of marble, shards of glass and dozens of tablets scatter across the kitchen. Liquid as red as blood oozes its way around the debris, dripping off the side of the island onto the hardwood floor. The guard approaches me, pressing his masked face close to mine.

‘You disgust me, woman’, he spits.

His knee collides with my gut, and his fist connects with my brow bone.

‘Murderer.’

Everything goes black.

When I regain consciousness, two officers are dragging me by the shoulders. My bare feet drag along the floor of the police station, and blood trickles down my forehead. I find it hard to see through one very swollen left eye. Every inch of my body screams in pain. I do not understand. They have the wrong person. At the end of the corridor, they toss my body through an open door. The door slams behind me. With some difficulty, I clamber to my feet. I look around, peering through my unimpaired eye. I am in an interrogation room. The room is plain, except for a single table with three chairs and a two-way mirror spanning an entire wall. I limp over to sit in a plastic chair. All I can smell and taste is my own warm blood which continues to drip down my face. I stare at the red polka dots forming on the table, still stunned into silence. A man in his mid-thirties enters. He wears a standard police uniform and clutches a file in one arm. His other hand tosses a piece of torn, multi-coloured fabric into a bin.

‘Possession of multiple illegal goods, travel without state permission, attempted murder. There are a lot of charges here, Miss Richardson’, he recites, looking down at the open file.

‘I don’t understand’, I reply in bewilderment.

‘It says here that you have been out of the country for around nine months. Is that correct?’

‘Yes’, I stutter.

I hesitate, then ask, ‘Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights first?’

He scoffs.

‘Miss Richardson’, he continues. ‘This may come as quite a shock to you but since you have been out of the country, there have been some major law changes. Many of these laws you appear to have broken in the few hours that you have been back on British soil.’

‘What law changes?’

‘The Human Rights Act has changed to enhance the protective rights of all unborn and potential children. Anything that would cause harm to any future or potential child is murder. You will face severe penalties for such crimes. We must protect those most at risk and who are most vulnerable.’

He passed me a thick document, which I can only assume contains the full legal information. I look down at the paperwork, then back up at the policeman.

‘Potential?’ I ask, voice wrought with further confusion.

'The possession and consumption of drugs, such as wine and ibuprofen, are forbidden for all women over the age of thirteen. The same applies to travel unless permitted by the state. You will report to a mandatory exercise class every morning and...’ he pauses, looking me up and down. ‘I am also going to contact your local physician. You will need to attend the mandatory ‘Starvation Program’, so you can lose some of that extra berth. Could provide potential problems for your future children. Do you work?’

I stutter, unsure how to respond. I settle on simply shaking my head.

‘Good. You will never work again. With that, I am letting you go. I told my officers not to file your report as you were unaware of the new laws when you arrived back. Miss Richardson, other officers will not be as kind. I have done you a massive favour here. Remember that. I saved your life today. Now, get out of my station.’

With that, he closes his file and waves a hand to order me out of the room. I was almost sure that his eyes spoke slivers of sympathy. As I stand, I notice the rag crumpled up in the bin. It was a flag with purple, white and green stripes, covered in bright red blood. I gulped and stepped out of the room.

The following morning, I trudge back from a tiring exercise class. The policeman's words weighed heavily. My hair hangs in sweaty clumps, having not brushed it this morning, and my left eye remains swollen shut. A painful purple hue tints most of my battered face. Women are now valued for what they can provide. I am only valued by the usefulness of my reproductive organs. Organs I don’t even plan on using. Fury and grief burn through my insides. It wreaks destruction on the very foundations of my existence. Thoughts had not stopped buzzing around in my head. How am I going to get money? How will I eat? How will I pay rent? Where will I live? My stomach grumbles. The last time I had eaten was on the plane.

The sweet smell of pastries, freshly baked bread, and roasted coffee wove around me, luring me in. I approach the bakery and gaze through the window. There were lines upon lines of perfectly iced desserts. I look lustfully at a lone slice of chocolate gateaux. A row of uniform piped peaks of smooth buttercream line its edge. Saliva fills my mouth, and I give in.

I approach a young male barista with multiple facial piercings and bright green hair. As I lean forward to point at the slice of cake, he tacks a sign on the other side of the glass that reads ‘MEN ONLY’. He crosses his arms and scowls disapprovingly. I swallow my disappointment. I turn my gaze to the various coffees scrawled in cursive across the board behind him. I turn back and am met by a firm shake of the head. He slams a bottle of water on the counter. I nod, reaching into my pocket to retrieve a five-pound note.

‘Where is your husband? How do you expect to pay?’ he barks.

I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. My stomach continues to roar in desperation. It is so loud that it has begun attracting disapproving looks. I start to panic and back away, out of the shop. Then, I notice the newspapers.

‘WOMAN TO BE EXECUTED AFTER TRYING TO DESTROY HER OWN WOMB IN SELF-HARM ATTEMPT.’

‘WHEELCHAIR USERS WILL NOT BE EXEMPT FROM EXERCISE CLASSES. CAN’T STAY? THEN WE’LL TAKE YOU AWAY!’

‘MURDERER BLAMES “INTERNAL INJURIES” FOR THE DEATH OF HER BABY. R*PE DOES NOT EXCUSE ILLEGAL MISCARRIAGE.’

It is disgusting. How could they treat us like this?

‘Murderous b***h’, a man to my right responds, peering over my shoulder. ‘Don’t you agree?’

There is a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. Too frightened to say anything else, I agree. My stomach groans again. The old man places a crooked hand on my arm. His eyes trace over my body. I feel sick.

‘How about I get you a nice female-friendly, low-calorie salad, eh, darling?’ he purrs through yellowed teeth.

I shiver, but the beast inside my stomach growls yet again. I do not know what else to do, so I allow him to lead me back inside.