The interests of the Citizens have always been a priority
of the Community's government. For that reason, certain sacrifices must
be made to ensure the security and stability of the area and its Provinces.
This includes the Evaluation, with its dangerous trials for the progression
of the Community.

-The Citizens' Purpose, page 99

~~~~~

"Come with me, Florence." The Director's cold grip on my arm sends chills down my spine as her press-on red fingernails dig into my skin. I try flexing so that her fingers are brought farther to the surface instead of puncturing my flesh.

The guards should make sure that Director Damon never touches me again, but there aren't any around, much to my astonishment and displeasure. Usually, they line the halls, watching anyone who passes like a hawk searching for prey. In school, we were given pictures of this place, and thus, my phobia manifested.

"Where are we going?" I ask, somewhat too rebelliously.

"Oh, just to your chambers. They're quite nice, really. I thought it would be a good idea to pamper the Candidates before the Evaluation."

That's the first pleasant thing Director Damon has done for me ever — the first pleasant thing Director Damon has done even for the Community.

Once she was elected, things started to go south. Rage and greed corrupted her heart, turning her to stone as she belted out outrageous laws to restrict the citizens from even moving a muscle. Hopefully, someone more proper will take her place next year.

"That's, um, kind." A hesitant smile grows on my face as I'm pulled along, but it's only for curb appeal, an affectionate outward appearance to keep her favorable, biased opinion of me intact.

After about ten seconds of walking, the Director stops, checking both ways for any guards (she's successful, as their absence is quite noticeable).

As the tall, wooden doors open, I gasp, taking in my surroundings of sumptuous fabrics and untouched robes, made from the rarest silk. The windows are drawn open, illuminating the vibrant room, creating a heavenly glow that makes my insides tingle with anticipation.

"You like it?" the Director asks, a small smile displayed on her face.

I nod vigorously as I step forward, unsure of where to go from there.

"Well it's yours for the time being."

"I want to know about the Evaluation. When will I meet the other Candidates?"

Director Damon glances at the marble floor, biting her luscious lips and contemplating my question. I'm merely attempting to push my luck — she doesn't strike me as the kind of person who reveals many things about her plan, yet, strangely enough, I'm confident in the fact that she has a very well sculpted one.

She notices the battered state of my flats and sighs derisively. I wish I could tell Pan what those two jerks did (if he were around), but he would probably giggle wildly at it, and I would be left to mark a tally in my mental journal of times Pan's been insensitive.

"I can't tell you anything about the Evaluation yet, but do not fear; there are other Candidates, I assure you. Besides, you'll discover soon." The Director speaks as if she has places to go, even if her instructions from the Evaluation Director were to provide comfort to the Candidates. Her hands twitch nervously, looking all around, once again, for the guards. It reminds me of the annoying habit of pulling my hands in odd directions, led by my fingers — Mrs. Curtis noticed and told me it was an effect of tight muscles, but the only medical experience she possesses is watching the nurse shove thermometers into kids' ears at her school when she worked as an assistant in her free period.

If I'm to be competing, or whatever it is that I'm supposed to be doing, then it's crucial that I understand at least something about the other players, supremely if they have an unfair advantage over me by being given more information.

I nod, somewhat displeased at the lack of appeasement, but I know it will be fine; I have full trust in the Community and their methods. That is what I have been taught, and that is what I shall stick to until the end. The Community is the key to happiness. Or...I suppose that's what school wants me to think; I'm finally forming my own opinions.

"Well I'll leave you to it," the Director says promptly, shutting the doors. She attempts to do so softly, but the heavy weight presses down and creates a deafening boom, shaking me from my trance.

"Right then."

~~~~~

My hands slide through my hair, trying to take away the knots in my rat's nest. Hitching my fingers in a bump, I unhook my fingers, annoyed at my lack of progress.

A sharp, quick knock erupts on the door, and I leap to answer it. I start, halfway through my journey down a lock of hair, kicking my legs off the bed and rushing to answer.

"Hello, miss." A short maid dressed in black and white curtsies, and I am at once taken aback at her politeness. "I've come to change the sheets, miss."

The sheets looked fairly clean when I came inside... Do they automatically feel compelled to replace them once they assume someone could've made the slightest contact with them?

"You really don't have to call me that."

She's the only person who's ever returned my manners — ma'am and sir were always a favorite with the adults, earning me a respectable title among them. They would sometimes even invite me over to babysit their children for the night while they were at an event. I was almost the only one at school who did that. I've never been addressed in such a way, but it immediately feels awkward. I've always expected the sensation of the short words to bring great pride, as if it's like a coming-of-age trial, but I'm deeply disappointed.

"Okay, miss."

"I'm serious."

"But—"

"It's okay," I tell her, taking her rough hands in mine.

She jumps a bit, surprised that I could have such contact with her.

I frown, disappointed at her fidgety countenance. I wish she would become comfortable with me. "I am your equal."

What importance I'm making of this seems completely unnecessary and yet...

"You are very kind, m — Florence."

The fact that she took the time to learn my name, even if it's part of the ritualistic training the maids undergo, makes my heart swell with joy. I only hope I can reciprocate the generosity.

"Now that I've seen that you know my title, it's only fair that I learn yours."

Fear paints every corner of her rounded face, her eyes flashing with concern as she glances around the room to discover some cleaning job she will excuse herself to get off to — she finds nothing (the place is miraculously spotless.) Stuttering as she labors to select the right words, she finally stammers, "Kalila. My name is Kalila."

"Nice to meet you, Kalila." A smile curls on my lips, my eyes glowing for the first time in years — there aren't plentiful occasions where I gain the opportunity to meet new people without my nervousness crashing in and shattering my confidence.

I hope I've made her more free-moving, though she might be growing even more anxious on the inside — she's just been trained to hide it, which is quite the unfortunate truth; no one can tell if she's melting internally.

It's somewhat troubling that someone so beautiful could hide behind their hands quite like Kalila does. I envy her long, black hair, tied up in a tight bun atop her head, and also her eyes, a much prettier shade of brown than mine. Even her voice, thick with an accent I can only recognize as South American (the only reason I know is because of a brief explanation of the continents from my first grade teacher), seems to fill my ears with the sound of a sweet melody.

Nodding her head, the maid steps past me, gazing longingly at the elegant sheets that she possesses in her hand. She gives a small smile and sets out to work. I can tell I eased her worry, as she tries weakly to smother a growing grin overthrowing her meek demeanor.

"I can help with that," I offer, feeling bad that she must address and serve me in this way. I step forward, extending my arms to complete the gesture of compensation.

"No, but thank you. You are requested by the Director."

What could she want?

I wonder if she finally changed her mind about absolute secrecy that shadows my chance for knowledge. I don't even know the others' genders, or even their names, the most plain of things, things that are tackled when first meeting someone for the first time.

Thought swirl in my head, and a wave of nostalgia hits me like a cannon, stopping me in my tracks.

"Pan," I whisper, remembering how the tears had slipped down his worried face as I was dragged into the Community building...

He's gone, Florence. He's not coming back. But where is he now? Is he all right? What did they do with him?

"I'm sorry, Miss?" Kalila looks up from her chores of tearing the bedsheets from the mattress, watching as one end flings back from the far corner, her face alive with an unsure expression.

"Oh, nothing. He was just my friend from back home."

"You say that like you're long gone." Her face wrinkles in confusion, miffed as to why I speak so distantly. She collects the fitted sheet in her arms, tossing them in the basket nailed into her cart. "If it's my place to say so," Kalila adds, red-faced.

Her reticence shocks me. I come from a place where I could speak my mind and not be constantly mocked for it. I wouldn't have to approach a group with a flaming face (though my lack of certainty wills otherwise); I could express my true opinions without fear. One of the perks of living in the tiniest Province. To be fair, however, most of the locals are a bit...odd.

"You can say whatever you want in here. I couldn't honestly care less. I'm not from Epistylium or anything — I don't take informality to the heart."

In Epistylium, home of the Community's headquarters, everything is strictly business. The Citizens dress in fancy attire, clothes that I can only dream of possessing, usually complimented with parasols, magnificent hats, and lace for the women, and suits, ties, and top hats for the men.

Kalila sighs in relaxation, unfolding an unwrinkled sheet to splay across the bed. They bunch up at the end, flying back when she endeavors to slide them down the corners. When deemed unsuccessful, she shifts the mattress slightly and tucks it in fleetly.

"Florence," Kalila starts, still growing accustomed to the name, "you should be leaving to discuss things with Director Damon. I can take care of cleaning." She flourishes the soft words with a slight simper, blushing sheepishly against her golden skin. "Also, you'll be taking dinner in the dining room afterwards. You'll need to come back here first so we can get you dressed up. I suspect you'll be alone — I've been directed not to tell you anything about the Evaluation beyond that there simply is one, so the Director definitely won't let you converse with your fellow Candidates."

My heart sinks, realizing that Kalila, too, is sworn to secrecy. I was hoping at least someone would hint at even a miniscule fragment of the plan into which I am being forcefully thrown into. I feel that I deserve that much.

Smoothing back my hair from my interrupted expedition of untangling the frenzy, I pull open the door with great effort. I spot the tendon in my arm bulge out of my skinny figure.

A bony hand pats my shoulder, and I flinch slightly. Their touch lingers on my clothes, taking a lot of power to erase it from my mind.

"It's just me," the Director assures, but I still feel myself worry — I wouldn't try to calm someone down by telling them you're the head of the government; it means danger for a lot of people. "We've a lot to discuss."

"I do hope you've summoned me to explain why I'm here."

"Summoned?" she chuckles. "What interesting word choice."

Pan always reminds me of my strange dialect, my diction so bizarre and different from his, which consists of short, guttural noises and choked-out words being shoved up his throat by his laughter.

"Hardly."

She presses her lips together, now understanding my seriousness. Her attempts to spark a laidback conversation failed miserably. "Then let's get down to business."

Director Damon guides me down the long, winding halls, filled with ravishing paintings of the previous Directors, all gloriously poised, as if to strike fear and respect into our hearts, though somehow at the same time; it seems implausible to me. I cringe at their condescending expressions, however.

"This was Director Cadent, the founder of the Evaluation. What a gem he was!"

A gem? I wouldn't exactly describe him like that. I stare at his long, pointed nose, as he holds up his Community election certificate with such dignity. Something doesn't seem right about him, though I can't directly put my finger on it.

I ponder this as we meander through the endless expanse of wooden corridors, turning left, right, right, right, left and finally stopping abruptly in front of daunting, wooden doors.

"Ah, here we are."

Director Damon takes a small, golden key from her crisp suit and slips it into the lock. She seems to fumble with it for a moment, but she eventually gets the hang of it. With a satisfying click, the door swings open with great ease.

The pungent smell of apples fills my nostrils, and I relax immediately, regardless of my prior intent to be as keen as possible.

What a drag that is. Why don't I just... stay for a while?

It reminds me of home, baking pies with my mother during the holiday season. I would always plunge my hands into the flour, despite my mom's stern warning not to, or else I wouldn't get any of the dessert, but sometimes we would end up having a fervent battle resulting in a face as white as the snow coming down outside, totally abandoning our earlier idea of cooking treats.

As I advance through my journey into the room, the formerly delicious odor turns rotten as I take a look around her office, collecting information about the fraudulent scheme the Community seems to be planning.

This isn't what I expected it to be.

It isn't as grand as her office in Epistylium's headquarters, but it comes in as a close second. The walls are painted crimson red, like the color of falling autumn leaves that crunch under your boots. Figurines of birds are perched atop the shelves, scattered across the room to invoke a desire to count them all. Their markings and feathers are somewhat undistinguishable; they must be from the pre-Community days. Now, most of the winged creatures are kept in captivity to prevent extinction.

I only know about birds because of a zoo field trip I took in seventh grade. While in the classroom, my teacher had enthralled us with pictures and details about birds, and we could barely contain our joy when we found out that we'd be travelling to the Epistylium Zoo. The elation built from the mere prospect of allowance into the most busy and fruitful Province.

I continue on, realizing that Director Damon has made her way to the glass table, coffee mugs lined along the edge, waiting for someone to drink from them.

"Please have a seat, Ms. Mayfield."

A silent maid quickly steps forward and pulls out the chair for me to rest, scooting back to her post in the corner as soon as she's finished.

"Thank you," I whisper, but her eyes widen in terror. Confused, I glance at the Director, but she just shrugs.

"You don't have to talk to them at all."

I wish I didn't have to talk to you, yet here I am. I just want to get this over with and proceed to the actual Evaluation. Oh, and did I mention how rude you are?

"I quite like to. I don't understand why I can't speak freely to people, regardless of profession."

Considering I come from the Incipiens Province, where chatting is all we do (and without discrimination), my words make me seem like a hero to the Director, but I know I'm not — a simple fact that only my Province understands is that we never shut up.

"Florence... You are a high member of society now, and that means you are expected to do what is socially appropriate. Conversing with peasants" — the Director pauses, considering another word — "maids is not something esteemed people should be doing."

We were taught many fundamental ideals in kindergarten — and even before that — about the Community's social standards, and one of them is there are only Citizens. There aren't "high members of society". The Community strives to be equal in almost every aspect.

Her phrasing is especially brutal, but the mere audacity of it is so destructive that I am humiliated to be in the same room as her, though, by the looks of it, not as humiliated as the small girl shaking tearfully next to me; the maid's knees tremble as she looks at the floor, ashamed.

"Chin up!" Director Damon roars. "You will not look disgraceful, do you hear me?"

She nods quickly, lifting her chin up so that it's almost vertical, only to please the angered head of the Community.

"I do not want to see your Adam's apple!"

The maid is taken aback by this comment, considering her female status, but merely tilts her chin down to the perfect level, and the Director is finally content.

"Where were we?"

I look at my lap in silence, trying to forget the events that just transpired around me.

You were helpless, Florence. It's not your fault. I try to tell myself this, but it doesn't work. My will is too strong. That could eventually break me — I could crumble and fall away, with nothing left to prove I existed.

~~~~~

After an hour of listening to Director Damon blither about politics (also, something about "a bright future") and twirling a small strand of hair while pretending to be paying attention, the Director finally releases me, closing her folder and shutting off the projector.

I perk up at the clicking noise of the machine dying down until its next use. This means it's time to leave, perhaps consume foods packed with miraculously appealing nutrients and flavor soon after I return to my room.

"That's all for today, Florence. Thank you for your cooperation."

While I recognize the importance of being attentive, mainly because of my previous elation associated with the Evaluation and all its relations, I simply cannot force myself to remain awake while the Director spiels about what's to come in the Community, only stimulated — weakly — by the constant droning of the generator out back and the clicking of my fingernails upon the wooden surface of the table.

Releasing a prostrated sigh, I shove my chair back, flinging open the door before Director Damon can even stand. She opens her mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the booming sound of the door shutting in her face.

My stomach swelling with hunger, I rush back to my room to get ready for dinner alone, or so Kalila expects. Somehow, I managed to memorize the path we took to get to the Director's office, and I am able to return safely and without getting lost too often.

Kalila must've heard my hushed footsteps, for when I reach for the handle, it suddenly flies right open, a young face smiling before me.

"Hello, Miss Florence," she beams. It seems she's come to a compromise between the two titles. "Did you enjoy your meeting with Director Damon?"

Stepping past Kalila in a sliding movement, I chuckle, kicking off my shoes and flopping onto the bed. "You could say that."

"So...I'm guessing it didn't go so well?"

I shake my head in response, with my face buried into the memory foam mattress.

"Well it's time to get you properly dressed for dinner."

I lift my head from the bed, staring at Kalila in confusion. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

She takes in my ragged appearance, pursing her lips to contain the overflowing distaste for it. While it is her expected duty to dress me in the most luxurious items in her power, I can't help but consider her current expression as personal. "Miss Florence, I think you'll enjoy what I have set out for you." A mischievous smile plays on Kalila's lips as she pauses for a moment, then tiptoeing to the closet beside the entrance to the room.

Drawing back the two doors slowly, a smirk ever present upon her face, she pulls out a bright green dress, adorned with ruffles and a humungous hoop skirt. The torso section shines, the sleeves covering only the shoulders in two big poofs. The design on the bottom reminds me of the flowers I used to pick with my mother — roses as red as blood and as soft as my young cheeks.

"Do you like it?" Kalila asks hopefully, gathering her arms close to her chest as she waits for a reply. "I thought it would go nicely with your light brown hair."

Once again, someone compliments the thin strands of who knows what hanging from my scalp — I honestly cannot see the stunning aspects that they do; it's just so plain.

"It's beautiful," I whisper, stepping closer to examine the magnificent gown.

There isn't much royalty in Incipiens, but it's the closest to Epistylium (though, somehow, the two are incredibly diverse, acting as if they were the farthest apart), where most of the action takes place. A dress like this would sell for thousands of dollars in the market! It could feed a family for...who even knows how long; I've seen nothing like it.

"I was thinking I could leave my hair down, just the way it is," I suggest, to which Kalila nods steadily, her mind elsewhere.

Digging through the closet, Kalila stumbles upon a pair of matching high-heels and draws them out carefully. She holds them up to her face, as if to ask for my approval.

An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach from inexperience, but I oblige to her request to slip them onto my small feet — a perfect fit.

I've never worn high heels before, mostly because of the lack of luxury in my home, but from what I've seen on television, I can assume mastering the contraptions takes loads of practice. I never grasped the motives for wearing those torture devices upon something so mundane — and yet essential for movement.

Immediately, my ankle gives out, and I fall to the side, but, thankfully, Kalila is there to catch me, titling me upright again with a soft snicker. I thank her in a faint tone, righting myself before taking a deep breath for the path ahead.

Bracing myself for the journey to the dining room, I steady myself by outstretching my arms to balance the weight. Step by step, I inch towards the exit of the room, biting down on my lip in my struggle. I suddenly halt, slamming my hand into the wall to hold onto it as I sluggishly move by, removing my teeth from my skin.

Halfway through my voyage out of the door, Kalila stops, placing a finger to her lips and inspecting my outfit. "Would you consider settling for something a little more...flat?"

I nod desperately, pointing at the pair of shoes she holds up (black, with green buckles, showcasing my new white knee socks). "You're a life saver."

Kalila giggles, rushing over to remove my current footwear and replace it with the more comfortable selection. "I've been called that before."

With Kalila's gentle demeanor, a sweet simper a sporadic factor of her generosity, my heart only has sizes to grow. It strikes me that she could be the best Director the Community's ever seen. I just know she'll strive to eliminate all that is unjust in our grafting government system. She'll work into the late hours of the night to complete the draft for a new bill to be presented to the officials. She could turn things around for the better; it would be a misfortune if something were to happen to her in my absence.

"I think I'm ready," I announce, brushing my skirt to be devoid of wrinkles. "Thanks so much for your help, Kalila."

Kalila blushes at my use of her name, casting her eyes to the wooden floors to hide the fire blazing upon her cheeks. "It's nothing, Miss Florence."

Gathering my dress in my hands, ruffles poking out from in between my fingers, I twist the knob fixed on the door, stepping out into the crisp air of the hallway. For extra effect, I decide to speak her title once again to deliver an even darker shade of red to the maid's tan face. "Have a nice night, Kalila."

"You, too" — Kalila pauses, collecting her courage to utter one simple word — "Florence."

~~~~~

A sour feeling painting the walls of my stomach, I trudge along towards the dining room, without a clue regarding its whereabouts. Every fruitful section of the compound seems to be located towards the back of the building, meaning I'll have to walk for a few minutes to the right of my room.

Fiddling with the skirt of my dress surprisingly eases my nervous restlessness, acting as a sedative to my wandering fingers that itch to pursue every inch of their surroundings.

A paper sign encased in a plastic shield waits before me, the bold letters, Dining Hall, printed directly in the middle, making it appear sophisticated; at least to my green senses.

My hands shake as I reach forward to grasp the handle to the ginormous doors presented in front of my small, timid form. I can't pinpoint why, exactly, I'm feeling so anxious, for Kalila told me I would be eating alone. I'm supposed to trust her.

Gripping the metal object bolted into the wood, I thrust open the doors to reveal an exorbitantly lit feast just waiting to be consumed. Platters upon platters of fruit, vegetables, meat, and varieties of bread decorate the narrow, shaded table running towards the back of the room. For each chair, there is a silver plate meticulously set out for guests to join the celebration, though I was assured they will not tonight.

Hovering my eyes over the sight, I saunter to a tall chair nearly in the middle of the spread, pulling it out with a screeching displeasure. I scoot myself in, taking a deep breath before I plunge into the bountiful dinner exuberantly awaiting my probing hands.

Just as I'm about to introduce a chicken leg to my shining plate, the room becomes alive with sound. I glance to the door to find a drunken figure stumbling in, a thin, green straw tucked in his fist — a bit old-fashioned, if I do say so myself.

"Is this the book club?" he slurs, falling over before he rights himself again.

"Book club?" I stutter, cautiously retracting my hand from the food.

"Yeah, book club. Can't you hear?"

Mrs. Curtis always warned me about drunk people ("Alcohol does strange things to the mind. I advise you not to down too much of it during one sitting."), especially men. They can become particularly aggressive, she told me.

But as I glare at the disheveled person wobbling before me, I can't dismiss the slight feeling of amusement at his altered gait and composure.

"My maid, Kalila, she's called," I start, reminding myself of the kind girl currently cleaning my chambers, "informed me I'd be seated at a table of just me, but" — I gaze at the abundance of nutrients resting in their glory — "there's enough to feed a whole village. How would you feel about joining me?"

The boy simply stares at me, his grey eyes hopelessly blank. "Listen, lady," he drawls. "I don't have time for this. I have...to get...back to...chess..." He collapses, falling to the floor in a mess.

His motives for playing chess while throwing a whole lot of alcohol down his throat must've escaped me, for I can detect nothing logical. Chess is a game of strategy and concentration, not pushing pieces around and hoping they fit. That isn't what real leaders do, though I don't suppose the Community has had many of those lately.

Sighing, I meet him, lifting his body to acquaint itself with the chair nearest me. It takes a while — and a whole lot of effort — but I manage to seat him comfortably, albeit his head still hangs off the side of the furniture.

The dimwitted Citizen's eyes flick open abruptly, whipping his head around as if his hands are bound together with no way of escape.

"I believe it's time to behave," I remind him, tearing a copious amount of chicken from its bone and washing it down with lemonade from the pitcher in front of me.

"I'm Ezra, what about you?" the boy states bluntly, shoving an outstretched hand in my direction for me to shake.

"Florence," I reply, curling my lip upward in distaste as I take his clammy fingers in my own.

"Ooh, is this wheat?" Ezra exclaims, dropping my hand into my empty plate with a thud as he snatches a roll from the basket.

"Do you have some sort of wheat fetish?" I question, annoyed at his indisputably childish, ferial behavior.

Ezra glares at me, his mouth twisted into an odd shape. "Stop asking so many questions. You're starting to get on my nerves."

I scoff. His nerves? He's the one who crashed in through the doors in a drunken state, clutching a green bendy straw like it's his most prized possession, then proceeding to caress "a product of wheat".

"Go enjoy your chess game, you peasant," I quip, throwing the remnants of my strawberry back onto the plate where it swims in its own juices. "Try not to hurt anybody while you're at it."

I rise, tossing my napkin into my chair and storming out of the Dining Hall. I wish I could've seen the appalled expression painting Ezra's face, but I'm so engulfed in rage that I don't dare ruin my streak of dramatic exits by turning to face him.

Once I've made sure I'm out of hearing distance — though the density of the doors would prevent much audible contact — I laugh; I simply laugh, slamming my back against the wall. It feels nice to do that, to let all of my emotions fly free without the imminent fear of being judged looming over me.

Knocking on the door to my chambers, Kalila answers, beaming as she blocks me with her body from observing the farther portions of the room.

"Hello, Miss Florence," she spouts, trying her best to keep her giggles inside.

"Kalila, why are you shielding me like that?"

Her face contorts, searching for a plausible explanation as to why I'm still standing in the hallway, my heels aching from overuse. "Fine, I'll tell you."

Kalila shifts so that she's parallel to the open door, uncovering a large tray of sweets of every kind parked at the foot of my bed.

"Did you do this?" I ask, my breath being swept away into a shaking waltz.

Kalila nods, blushing furiously. "I worked something out with the kitchen staff while you were off partying. I figured you needed some extra treats to calm you for tomorrow's big day."

Without intending to, I had completely forgotten about the Evaluation. Even though I've only been here for a few hours, I feel that I've assimilated into the regal lifestyle of the building's inhabitants. What seemed like the centerpiece of my life is now a mere side thought, only reflected upon when brought up in conversation.

"Thank you," I gush, enveloping Kalila in a warm embrace. "I love it."

Scurrying over to my bed, I select a rectangular box of assorted chocolates, removing the lid and taking a delighted whiff of the sugary delicacies. I sense some peanut butter, some coconut, some nuts, and many more things that make my nostrils tingle with jubilance.

"Come join me," I invite, patting a spot on the bed next to me.

Kalila's face grows shadowy with hesitation, but after an encouraging smile, she obliges, smoothing her skirt as she sits.

Hovering her fingers over a dark chocolate candy, she plucks it out, wiggling it to remove the wrapper without using her other hand. Without warning, Kalila stuffs it into her mouth, her eyes alit with bliss.

"Do you like them?" I tease, popping a peanut butter flavored one between my lips (I was never one for coconut.)

"I should be asking you that question, Miss Florence!" Kalila asserts. "But yes, they're fantastic."

"You did a good job, Kalila," I praise, moaning in satisfaction when I bite into the creamy, delicious center of my chocolate. The flavors swirl around on my tongue, coating the roof of my mouth in a blanket of sweetness.

As we dive deeper into the candies, Kalila and I giggle until our sides hurt. Exultancy hangs in the air like a halo around us, blessing our two forms with everlasting glee before the sun rises in the morning.

~~~~~

The pages of the book tempting me on the table beside me flutter gently from the breeze flowing from the window, calling me towards it. I slide my hands out from under the soft covers of the bed to reach for it.

The hard cover brushes the cool surface of the plaid material of the comforter, blue flecked with green, as I open to the first page. I take a deep breath before entrancing myself in the journey of someone else.

After a while, I find myself dozing off, so I return the book to its original place and nestle my head into the pillow, filled with delicate goose feathers that poke out in a few places, irritating me, which was obviously not the intention.

Maybe you should stop taking feathers from these geese — or my blood from the sharp edges. Get some better pillows!

I am quite the personality in my head, aren't I? How quaint.

Tossing and turning for what seems like a century, I relax into a suitable position for my erratic resting patterns.

Soon enough, the stray thoughts collide with my mental garbage can, and I drift off to a sleeping state, perilous dreams clouding my perception.

Nothing matters here. Not anymore.

~~~~~

I awake to the brilliant sun flooding my bedchamber, and I appear to be a squinting mess. My hair is a birds' nest, though lacking the thorns, and I can only infer that I'll look like a vampire again once I gaze longingly in the mirror, as if some aspect of my appearance had shifted overnight.

A deafening screech reverberates around the room, and I clutch my ears defensively, closing my eyes to block out the sound in whatever way I can, however illogical.

Suddenly, I hear a clicking noise spring from the door, and a metal tray slides out speedily, containing a neatly folded outfit.

Unsticking my legs from my mattress and its billowy sheets, I amble to the door to see what the platter has brought me on this eventful day. I lift the fabric to my face, studying it intently. It's a black outfit and jacket set, possibly used to capture the sun.

It must be cold there. I hate the cold. Though it's the first day of March, so it might be warming up.

Along with the clothing, a tan messenger bag lays loosely on top. Its contents are currently unknown — I'm too lazy to check. I can only infer that they're essential for life in the Evaluation's trials.

Perhaps it contains food, water, and maybe even a lucky rain poncho for when life gets rough — or the sky. One of those compact tents made last year could be inside, tucked away neatly just like the advertisement had promised.

I slip into the garments, somewhat loose on me, and I venture out of the room, where I will have to interact with other humans — marvelous.

The icy hallway appears to be empty. I take a look around and decide to keep on my way, attempting to discover the cafeteria.

It must be here somewhere. I don't suppose the Community is trying to starve me before they set me loose into whatever trials they have planned. I hope.

After wandering around hopelessly for ten dreadful minutes, I eventually find the desired destination.

A glass dome towers above the structure, casting light everywhere, but no one seems to be alive anymore — I haven't seen anyone.

Are they purposefully avoiding me? Were they so disgusted with my shoes that they made a note of eating earlier and locking my door so I couldn't join them?

I fling open the doors carelessly, though sealing them behind me carefully. The facility is completely vacant, except for my small body standing like a deer in the headlights.

A cooler rests at the edge of the room, stocked with milk, orange juice, apple juice, and water, all submerged in ice. A stack of trays lay lackluster on the metal panel used to slide them along, waiting for someone to load it with food of every variety — bagels, doughnuts, fruit, pancakes, waffles, eggs, and bacon are all supplied in front of the tray pile, like they're illuminated by my loudly growling stomach.

Walking forward in the strong belief that I'll be able to obtain the adequate nourishment I need through food and water, I soon pause, noticing a slight chill in the air.

I rub my shoulders to keep the goosebumps at bay, but it's never worked very effectively for me.

A gloved hand reaches out, cold and made of leather, with rough stitching in the sides, and cups it to my mouth, and my heart stops for a moment, until the figure drags me along. My breathing sharpens, and I grow faint as I breathe in the anesthesia, a mask pressed against my face.

"How...bout...you...don't," I drawl, growing weak as the medicine sings me to sleep like a deadly lullaby in the arms of a murderer. I mumble hopelessly, but it's no use.

~~~~~

A/N: oh look a terrible cliffhanger I'm sry

if you enjuiced pleaes vote, comment, share, etc. thanks, sweaty babies

~Dakota