Mimorian

Eyes are the window to the soul.

I often thought that saying was bullshit but as I stared at the hazel eyes of the boy on the piece of paper in my hands, I could tell what his life was like without even reading over his file. Or maybe, it was just because I was used to it now.

There were more dead and homeless children than adults, so it wasn’t a surprise that the next Deceased I received was another teenager that seemed much better off dead. I looked at his date of birth.

December 25, 2037.

Christmas Day. I would have to say that he probably wasn’t a pleasant present to his birth mother since he had grown up in an orphanage, but then the bronze heart-shaped locket on his neck caught my eye. Maybe someone loved him enough to give him that, or maybe he stole it.

There were only a couple of months left until his birthday, but that didn’t really matter. What mattered was that my parents would be quizzing me on this boy by the end of the day.

Oliver Jackson.

He was my fifth Deceased. My fifth dead person that I would have to remember. Every year on my birthday, I received a Deceased to remember. It was a way of never forgetting the past. My sixth-grade history teacher stated this law went into effect fifteen years ago after the third World War so no one would be forgotten. The world had been torn apart during the war, and was still recovering, and this law brought some peace to those that had lost loved ones in the war, but when Deceased ones that past during the war ran out, the president thought it grand to have us remember lives lost before and after the war. Especially the ones that had passed away due to the radiation.

It sounded like a nice idea at first, but now it was just ridiculous, but every time I questioned my parents about it, they shushed me because questioning the actions of the government was practically treason.

Deciding that I didn’t want to continue to the depressing read of the dead boy’s file, I tucked it away into my bag and slung it over my shoulder. I made my way to the kitchen where I had expected to see my mom cooking up some breakfast, but it was empty.

Of course.

It was my birthday. My parents could remember to deliver me the files of my new Deceased but couldn’t remember to take a day off work to celebrate my eighteenth birthday. I didn’t know why they personally delivered the files to me when everyone else received them through mail.

I walked over to the kitchen table where a birthday card sat. I grabbed it and opened it.

Happy Birthday, Alex! We’re sorry we couldn’t stay to make breakfast! We promise to be home tonight! Love you!

I frowned. They were always called out to work, one of the very many disadvantages of having scientists as parents. I had a feeling that they wouldn’t be able to stay, but I was still disappointed. I grabbed the cash they had put in the card for me and walked out of the house, locking it behind me.

The air was musty, and the clouds were dark. Thunder sounded in the distance. Another rainstorm was coming. I kept my head down and carefully weaved through the crowded sidewalk. It was a Monday morning. Everyone was out and about, trying to get to work or school.

“The EBG finds the cure for cancer?” a man waving a newspaper shouted, trying to sell at least one, but everyone ignored him, trying to get to their destination before the rain droplets could hit.

No one has found the cure for cancer ever. I don’t know what rubbish you’ve been hearing.

My own parents worked for the EBG; a corporation funded by the government to find cures for uncurbable diseases.

It was ludicrous, but my parents worked there, so I couldn’t really express my opinions in front of them.

“Young miss, would you care for a—”

“No, thank you,” I muttered, brushing pass the man that had just been screaming about the EBG.

The faster I tried to walk down the sidewalk, the more crowded it seemed to get. It felt like I was doing a waltz at this point. People started to push me to get by, and I pushed back. Classes were starting in twenty minutes. I would be ten minutes late if this continued.

I pushed harder and harder until someone pushed me hard enough to knock me onto the stone-cold ground. I had been pushed to the side into an alley in between a bakery and bookstore. The person that had pushed me quickly apologized and reached his hand out to me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

I doubted that but took his hand anyway.

“Th—” my thank you was cut short when a bronze heart-shaped locket caught my eye. It was the same exact locket that my Deceased was wearing. I kept a hard gaze on it, not believing my eyes. Maybe it was a common locket.

I was still holding onto the man’s hand as I stood up and slowly looked him in the eye.

It was the same.

His sunken hazel eyes. The rugged dark brown hair. My entire body went rigid.

“Oliver Jackson?” I said without a second thought.

The man standing before me looked a few years older than the picture I had been looking at this morning, but it was definitely him. There was no way that it couldn’t be him.

When I had said his name, I could see panic setting in his eyes.

“You’re,” I paused, scared, unsure, and mostly confused, “you’re supposed to be dead.”

The panic vanished from his gaze, and before I could utter another word, Oliver Jackson grabbed a stun gun from the pocket of his torn jacket and shot me in the abdomen.