Polycarbonate

SECURE YOUR FUTURE—REGISTER TO THE BIOSOCIETY TODAY

I stare at the poster, nailed to a decrepit wall of some back alley where practically no one passes by, and read the words slowly. I know it's a waste of time—the slogan long ago embedded its claws into my back and sunk its teeth in my neck—and will, at best, bring me nothing more than an opportunity to test my patience. For some masochistic reason, I still read it as though it's the very first time.

When common sense catches up to me, I rip the piece of paper off the wall without hesitation and examine it more closely. The edges are curling inwards, the paper discolored in a sickly shade of yellow, the ink used to type out words in bold smeared across the page—it's been there for a week at the very least, and the fact that I haven't noticed it until now perturbs me more than it probably should.

"Piece of shit," I mumble to myself, the sound so dry it nearly triggers a coughing fit.

I crumble the poster in the smallest, tightest ball possible before shoving it into the bottom of my backpack. From this perspective, it feels like I can do anything—crush down even the most daunting source of my nightmares if I so wish. There isn't much muscle in my boney arms, but I've always found anger to be a better source of strength, anyway.

For a fleeting moment I almost believe the lie my own mind has constructed to appease me—but then I reach the end of the alleyway, and the almighty infrastructure of the BioSociety appears in the distance. It's a reminder as violent as a kick in the gut.

The massive, sky-high sphere that nearly touches the clouds. Through its glass-like material, I can see so much—too much. Trees, climbing plants and abundant fertile soil make up gardens and agricultural land. Small cobblestone roads meet before branching off in different directions, leading to the children's school, the health clinic or the main hall. I spot the microscopic silhouettes of a few people; a woman harvesting produce I've probably never tasted myself, a man carrying a briefcase, an elder walking hand in hand with a child, most likely heading home to the endless rows of identical, cubical houses.

So much life put on display for us to watch, envy, dream of. Sometimes though, it still feels like we're the ones stuck in a cage, watched over by the omniscient society that has been touched by the gods, as my mum used to say.

I tear my eyes away from the sphere and keep on walking, but it's too late. The feeling is back—it rushes up my spine and makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise like soldiers at attention. Hatred boils my blood, as malnourished as it may be, and makes my heart race. I raise a hand to my chest and touch the heart-shaped locket that's been sewn onto my skin for as long as I can remember—on an impulse, I flip it open, revealing my own damned number on the waiting list.

Even though I wish I could rip it off me, wash off the memory and run away from everything, I know I won't ever be able to forget the number that holds the value of my own life. The sutures may have healed years ago, but the wound is still as fresh as the day the locket was first stitched on, still burns my skin as though it was never meant to become a part of me. I've long realized I'm no better than the tagged cows from my books; unwittingly waiting for my turn at the slaughterhouse.

Hot tears sting my eyes but I blink to chase them off, then release the locket to zip my vest back up. The sky above my head turns a twisted tone of grey, and when the first drop of rain trails down my cheek, I pull up my hood and head for the cemetery.

Mum's voice rings in my ears louder than the rainfall.

"Charlotte, for god's sake! How many times did I tell you not to play in the rain?"

Probably a thousand times, I answer as though she's materialized in front of me. She would usher me inside, lecture me about the dangers of acid rain as if I wasn't already painfully aware of it, as if the peeling paint, weathering buildings and corrosion of our house weren't enough of a reminder. As if witnessing her coughing up blood in her handkerchief every morning when she woke up wasn't an image that would stick with me for the rest of my life.

"Mum, what happened to the flowers?" I asked her one night, clutching a book titled 'Fauna and Flora' I had found at the black market. "And the birds, where did they go?"

I remember the look she gave me, as though she was going to start crying and never stop.

The sight of the cemetery pulls me out of my inner loop of torture—I glance around and realize Billy, the land’s self-proclaimed caretaker, isn't here. No sign of his hunched back sweeping the dusty ground, or of his raddled newsboy hat praying by his wife's grave. It's not surprising; even though the rain is no more than a drizzle, it still works wonders to drive people away.

It's a matter of minutes before my feet lead me where I'm supposed to be. I drop my backpack to the ground and sit in the dirt, hugging my knees to my chest as I greet my family.

Or what's left of them, anyway.

Josie Hart—loving mother

Mathew Hart—loving son & brother

My mum's wooden cross is eroded, perhaps a little crooked despite Billy's skillful woodwork. My little brother's cross, on the other hand, stands freshly painted and nearly untouched by the weather. It is only then that I allow the stinging tears to fall.

When I was younger, I couldn't understand why Billy was so adamant on maintaining this graveyard alive. I couldn't understand why, corpse after corpse, he carved out crosses and set up individual memorials, and I remember thinking it was like a collection of old books that had been turned to ashes—it served no purpose.

Now, I understand. Because whichever gods touched the BioSociety decided to walk past us—to leave us naked under the acid rain, desiccated during the drought season, starved without any soil to grow food and fill our bellies. They decided to leave us to die, the least we can do is make sure we will be remembered.

As sobs begin shaking my body, I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my face in the dampness of my sleeve. The locket burns even hotter above my sternum, practically begging to be ripped off and thrown across the world, far enough so it will never, ever be able to retrace its steps back to me.

"I can't do this anymore, mama." My voice breaks as I clutch my stomach. "I can't do this... not without you. Not without Mathew. I can't."

I’m overwhelmed with the sudden need to scream, to pull out my own hair and denounce the injustice we are doomed to witness every single day, but instead I swallow the scream as I would a cup of unfiltered well water. It doesn't change the fact that I want to get up and shout for my brother's life, stolen from him before he could even begin to live it. I want to cry out, loud enough to feel my vocal chords tearing up, loud enough to fissure that fucking sphere open, to see the glass shatter into a thousand pieces, to hear it crack under the weight to my foot, to—

A sudden voice interrupts my thoughts like a knife plunged in my chest.

It takes a moment before I realize the voice is coming from my locket. Leveled, automatic, robotized.

"Number 3588946. Name of birth: Charlotte Hart. You have been selected to enter the BioSociety trial program. Please confirm that you have heard this message. Further instructions will follow."

My blood goes frigid as I snap my eyes open. My breathing halts like the tears do, as though time has stopped.

"Number 3588946. Name of birth: Charlotte Hart. You have been selected to enter the BioSociety trial program," the voice repeats. "Please confirm that you have heard this message. Further instructions will follow."

My vision both simultaneously spins and sharpens, unnaturally so. Without a word, I rise to my feet, then turn on my heels until I can see the sphere of the BioSociety in the distance. From here, it seems like it would be so easy to crush it with my thumb.

At last, I scream. I scream until my throat starts to bleed and my lungs catch on fire. I scream until I have nothing left in me—no voice, no tears, no will.

The silence echoes in my ears, and then:

“Thank you for your confirmation.”