ONE YEAR LATER - 9 MARCH, 2174

If the Evaluation planned for a specific year
does not accommodate the needs of the
Community, next year's Candidates must
fulfill what has been ruined.

-Basics of the Evaluation, pamphlet back side

~~~~~

"Esther, what are you doing?"

"There's something stuck in the ground. Little bits of paper, I think."

Through the sand, Esther can see fragments of papery material sticking up, displaying their frayed corners as the tiny specks throw themselves at them.

"We don't have time for this. We need to get going."

"Hold on, Aislin. I'll just collect them and piece them back together later. Go back to Mimoza for the time being. Check on how she's doing."

Aislin has always been so timid, worried about any slight imperfection in something's quality, so she's always nagging Esther about getting things done quickly so she won't have to think about it any longer.

Esther tries her best to accommodate Aislin's persisting needs, even when they can be so tedious or uncomplicated, yet Aislin cannot seem to muster the strength to perform it herself.

On the contrary, Mimoza has the demeanor of a lion; she's fierce, strong, and unrelenting. However, with the sickness the Community put in her, she's becoming more and more like a simple house cat, an animal who sleeps sixteen hours a day.

It's a shame what happened to Mimoza — she is so beautiful, with dark brown hair spiraling around her head in those gigantic layers the hairdresser always asks about; her eyes are a lighter color of the night sky, but soft like milk; her eyebrows are medium sized, pointed at the end, resting on a texture the color of coffee with disproportionate amounts of cream. She doesn't think anything of herself, though Esther wishes she would.

Mimoza is also incredibly shrewd, always babbling about the newest innovations in science and the books she's read recently — it's a colossal list.

Mimoza could've had a bright future, were it not for the Evaluation. They're only here because they are required to clean up last year's Candidates' mess, achieve the obligation they were placed with, including no idea of the Community's motives.

There used to be four of them: Mimoza, Esther, Aislin, and Aeron. They were content, only having to deal with survival in the scorching sun, but after a few days, something changed and Aeron dropped dead to the ground unexpectedly.

After that, Aislin become completely stone cold. She wouldn't listen to Esther or Mimoza and rarely showed fervor for anything, even things that she had seemed so passionate about.

Gathering the scraps of paper by the tall building next to her and shaking out the sand from them, Esther stuffs them in her messenger bag for later use, along with the tape she handily sneaked into the Dome with her.

~~~~~

"You don't have to wait to piece it together," Mimoza says once Esther and Aislin return to her position on a stray log. "You can do it now. I'll watch. I've always had a knack for puzzles — at least that's what my mother told me."

"Are you sure?"

Esther's eyes widen in surprise, but Aislin's are growing to the size of the moon. Mimoza had pushed her limits, but she doesn't say anything — Mimoza is dying after all.

"Yeah. I'm weak anyway. It's not like I can move anywhere."

Mimoza laughs heartily, but Esther and Aislin don't even move a muscle.

Mimoza is so relaxed about her imminent doom, while Aislin rushes around, trying to find a cure, and Esther just tries to do her own thing while subconsciously dreading it. It makes Esther wonder if Mimoza is even...glad about her fate.

Esther removes the flap of her messenger bag, revealing the contents. She grabs the tape in one hand, the pieces in the other, and closes the flap by shaking the whole object until the momentum and force do the work.

Laying the fragments out on the log next to Mimoza, Esther begins to study them intently, Mimoza smiling like she knows a secret Esther doesn't.

"These two go together," Mimoza tells her, pointing to a large piece and a medium piece in the middle of the array.

Esther slides the pieces together, locking them as one as she glances back at the work at hand.

Aislin looks quizzical, folding her arms across her chest. Esther can tell she's thinking about solving the puzzle, but she doesn't dare to say anything, because she knows Aislin won't admit it out of her own free will.

After a few seconds of looking, Esther's shoulders shoot up as she selects two pieces, pushing them together slowly.

"These five fit together," Aislin finally speaks up, not bothering to uncross her arms until she's arrived close enough to examine the pieces.

She gestures to the fragments as if to ask Esther's permission before connecting all of them, using the tape to keep them all stuck together permanently. She does the same with the other matches, somehow knowing they're officially correct.

"Good job," Esther congratulates her, but Aislin ignores her as usual, only taking a step back before crossing her arms once more in indifference, a placid expression glued to her symmetrical face.

"Can we hurry this up, wayward children?"

"Aren't you even a bit curious as to what's written on the paper?" Mimoza asks, raising a pointed eyebrow defensively.

"Of course I am. That's why I helped you tots."

Aislin isn't very vehement about anything much, except for her perfectionist instincts being fulfilled properly. She mostly stands off to the side, scowling, as Mimoza and Esther complete other tasks that they find interesting and worth their time; they can usually judge it by waiting until Aislin calls it "wasteful of your days and energy".

After fifteen minutes, the final scraps are put in place by Mimoza, taping them down expeditiously, as if a hand would snatch her fingers if she didn't do so in that manner.

Esther peers closer to decipher the faded words on the page, though it's rather tedious — the paper looks as though they performed extensive surgery on it.

"Can you see anything?" Aislin inquires, even looking invested this time.

"The letters are messy and unformed, while the color is tattered...but I think I can make out a few words, but that's it."

"So what you're saying is we wasted thirty minutes on your pointless adventure just to find a couple of useless words?" Aislin exclaims, furiously shoving her hands on her hips.

"I wouldn't call it wasted. I think it's still a cool artifact. It's probably from last year's Evaluation. I don't know how they could've gotten the paper though—"

"No," Aislin snaps, snatching the paper from Esther and ripping it up indignantly, her fingers hitching on the adhesive tape. "I've had enough of those Candidates from the previous year. They're the reason we're in this mess."

"You do realize that if they had succeeded, we would've just been forced into another plan, just different? At least we know some of the things relevant to this experiment to help us. We wouldn't understand nearly as much if there hadn't been previous Candidates here, which there won't be in a new operation," Esther retorts imperturbably.

Aislin scowls, storming off only to return a few seconds later, once she's figured out that there's nowhere useful for her to go.

"Back so soon, are you?" Mimoza chuckles, coughing afterwards.

"You're useful to me. Especially after Aeron. He was actually funny, but I guess I'm stuck with you dimwits and your bathroom humor."

"To be fair, not once — not once — did I ever make a bathroom joke. Neither did Esther, to my knowledge," Mimoza says, putting her hands up in defense.

"I didn't," Esther murmurs.

"You can put your hands down, Mimoza," Aislin sneers. "This argument is over with. My original conclusion stands: you are blockheads."

Considering Aislin is the one who won't take any input from others, her head is more like a block than either Mimoza's or Esther's, but no one dares to tell her that simple fact that may have slipped her attention.

"If you say so," Mimoza replies earnestly, leaning back down on the log now that the puzzle pieces have been removed — yet shredded once more, though they now rest on the ground.

"Mimoza, we have to keep moving. We don't have time to be sleeping."

"What do you mean? We have plenty of time. Where are we supposed to be going anyway? Nowhere. The Community is merely observing the disease manifest inside me, that's all. You and Esther don't have to be doing anything. They just put you here as buffers."

Aislin seems taken aback by Mimoza's comment, drawing in her breath as she blinks in confusion.

"Buffers? We were chosen because we're the smartest sixteen year-olds in all of the Community's Provinces."

That's the whole point of the Evaluation — to select the most equipped children to participate in the Community's prerequisite tests for that year. They range from diseases, like this year, to testing genetically engineered food, like a couple years back.

"Which makes you the best buffers. It's like that one girl, Florence, from last year. She was a buffer — a buffer who received the whole test after she got out of here, but a buffer nonetheless."

"I told you, I don't want to talk about last year's Candidates. They were completely insane, probably more so than the one who got that part of the Outbreak."

All of the Citizens of higher society had learned about Florence, Calum, Peter, and Snow through the police officers stopping by their houses to see if they're all right, if the Rogues had injured one of them. Thankfully, none of them did anything tyrannical like the government told them they would.

The Community says there are no classes, but the Citizens all know that they treat the wealthier people better. Everyone tries to volunteer to obtain a higher class, but the government pretends like they don't notice and leave the surprises and protection to the richer Citizens.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with being a buffer," Esther interjects, awarding her a malevolent scowl from Aislin. "At least we don't have to feel sick to our stomach all the time, or even forget our sense of time as we lose our heads."

"We don't have time for this."

Aislin grabs Esther's bony arm and lifts up Mimoza forcefully, causing her to wobble on her feet as block dots surround her vision.

"We have to explore now, before it gets dark. Do you hear me? I'm not letting the same thing that happened to Aeron happen to you, especially Mimoza."

"You're just upset because you look like her, and you can't stand it, because your precious Aeron died because of her. You blame yourself for his death because you parallel her exactly."

"I look like whom?" Aislin flares.

"You know, Florence Mayfield."

Aislin's brown hair, falling to the end of her shoulder-blades, her brown eyes set in a medium-sized plate, and her small, curved nose resemble Florence like no one's ever seen before.

"That's enough, Esther!" she shrieks, letting go of Esther's arm and allowing her to fall to the ground in a heap as Mimoza comes tumbling down on top of her.

"Maybe you shouldn't have provoked her," Mimoza whispers discreetly, using the last bit of strength to remove herself from the body flattened under her.

"You think?" Esther quips.

She stands, brushing off her clothing promptly, biting her lip as she stares at Aislin, still fuming from the spiteful words.

"Yeah, we should get going."

Esther throws a disconsolate glance down at Mimoza, still looking helplessly from the ground. Outstretching her arm, Mimoza grabs it, using all of her few minutes worth of regenerated power to lift her legs to a standing position.

She and Esther start walking off into the distance, with Aislin finally content, sighing as the last trace of the shredded paper disappears forlornly beyond the horizon, never to be seen again — forgotten, just how the Community likes things.

But they never reallymade a difference, did they?

ONE YEAR LATER - 21 JANUARY, 2175

~~~~~

In the occasion of a corrupt Director, precautions
must be executed in order to protect the Citizens.
That includes a public execution of the Director
by guillotine, firing squad, or poison.

-Emergency Procedures for the Community, page 33

~~~~~

Kora Damon stares at the bleak, white walls of her cell. There's nothing remarkable about it, nothing abnormal, either, but it seems to be the center of her attention.

Dread roots itself inside her stomach, turning everything sour, including the only delightful memory inside her brain — her daughter, Snow, being able to be free of the Community's tight and controlling grasp.

That's why she was chosen, after all. Kora had always strived to educate Snow, help her to become one of the Evaluation Candidates of 2173. That's why she became Director — if only for one of the short one-year terms — to keep her only family safe.

Agony takes ahold of Kora, thrashing her around wildly to remind her of the date. She already knows. In fact, everyone in the Community knows.

Today is the day of Kora Damon's execution by guillotine.

The entire body of Citizens dressed themselves in the heaviest black they could find from their limited wardrobes, which had only been so because of Kora's laws she implemented as the Director — no more than seven pairs of clothing per Citizen, along with one set of formal attire.

A loud noise reverberates off the walls, causing Kora to slam her filthy hands against her ears, numb and black from untreated frostbite.

"Kora Damon?" a guard asks, unlatching the door with a rather large, silver key.

The lock pops open with a sharp click and the guard swings it open as it skids on the grey, stone floor of her cell, screeching like the howler monkeys seen on television — reruns of the old channels only accessible by the government and their family.

"Yes, that's me," she wheezes, looking up at the man standing in the doorframe, dressed in the most ridiculous suit she's ever seen.

Resting on his head is a black, fez-shaped hat, but with a white feather protruding from the center like a plant. The rest of the uniform is the same color as the hat, though accented with white trim.

"It's time for your execution out in the Gathering Square. I assume you know your charges, yes?"

Kora nods weakly, observing as the guard lifts her up — struggling to utilize his strength instead of hers — and leads her outside to meet her death.

"Personally, I think you still had a few years left on you. You're only, what, forty-two, maybe forty-three?" the man says, attempting to make small talk, though not at the most charming of times; he is, after all, bringing her to her doom.

"Sure," Kora spits, tensing her muscles to keep his fingers from sinking into her skin like they have been.

"You know, my daughter really looks up to Florence Mayfield. People say she shouldn't, that she's a criminal, but I think the circumstances you placed her in were unforgiving, causing her to accept that she has to do what she must."

Kora stares at the guard, hatred filling by the second. She glances down at his black, leather shoes, spitting on them defiantly.

He gasps at her sudden rebellion, opening his mouth to say something only to close it again when he finds nothing useful.

"And your own daughter?" he scoffs. "That's just cold."

"I did what I had to do to make sure she wouldn't have to live under the oppression the Community endows."

"Ah, so a case of motherly love? Never heard that one before."

Well you wouldn't understand. You raised your daughter to believe that Florence Mayfield is a hero, that people like her should be idolized.

The man is one of the loyal Citizens, jumping around to fit the standards the Community puts up. Of course he doesn't believe Kora.

"I don't suppose they have existent mothers that live in the same cave you do," Kora remarks rather dully, not willing to devise an adequate comeback.

The Gathering Square, always so full of pomp, now gloomily rests in its location, the Citizens covered in black against the grey skies, heads bowed in a solemn manner.

They seem as though they care, and a select few actually do, but the others are just putting on an act — Kora is well deserving of their revulsion, notably after trying their patience an unreasonable amount of times.

Lace parasols, top hats, and ladies draped with heavy, austere garments are just a few of the sights Kora views as she makes her way to the guillotine standing proudly on the stage, waiting for her head to be placed inside and the blade to be dropped.

Her arm clutched tightly in the guards' grip, he pushes Kora up the stairs on opposite sides of the platform, trailing behind her closely.

"Kora Louise Damon," Director Abrafo starts, a frosty expression formed to her face, heavy with black eyeliner and mascara, "you are guilty of the charges as follows:

"Placing kin into the Evaluation Candidate pool without any of the committee's knowledge of her status.

"Removing a Candidate from the Evaluation's closed environment, the Dome, to perform further experiments in the lab.

"Do you accept your charges?"

Kora nods, tears streaming down her face before turning cold from the frigid air of the Incipiens Province.

"Secure her into the guillotine," Director Abrafo instructs the guard who had dragged Kora to the Gathering Square.

This whole thing started with me, but now it's coming to an end with my beheading. All I wanted was for my daughter to be safe from the same force that's taking me down.

The guard takes Kora by the back, shoving her to her knees as her hands dig into the texture of the concrete of the stage. The man scoots her forward, reaching behind the machine to keep her head in place as he presses Kora's neck into the curved shape of the guillotine.

The Director turns to face the crowd, opening her arms to address them as their superior, or so it seems to most of the Citizens.

"Let this serve as a lesson to you all. Crime is not tolerated in the Community. Any rebellious behavior will be treated with severe repercussions."

Some of the Director's motives are original and well thought out, though the others are subconsciously following the ideas of Kora when in office.

Director Abrafo swivels to the guard, giving him a steady nod before he crosses behind her to join the other guard currently holding the rope.

She passes the string to the presumptuous man, who then hands it to Director Abrafo, clutching it tightly in her rough, calloused hands.

Kora's lips curl into a smile, for she acknowledges that she will see her daughter soon enough. It won't matter that she won't get a marked grave because of one of the laws she placed in order. She'll finally be safe with Snow, like she always wanted.

Stealing one last look at Kora, Director Abrafo averts her gaze to the waiting audience, pursing her lips as she lets the rope drop.

The blade cuts through the air, discombobulating Kora. Cries ring out in the air, some masculine, some feminine, most terrifying and earsplitting.

Kora's head rolls off the stage, Citizens backing up over each other's formal shoes, scuffing them up and screaming ever louder than before.

The Citizens in the front circle to the back of the crowd, attempting to be free of the undulating object approaching them rapidly.

"Citizens will act in an orderly fashion!" Director Abrafo declares at the top of her lungs, while maintaining a civil manner.

None of the Citizens seem to listen, and if they heard, they didn't care. They continue to shuffle around disorderly, tripping over those stuck on the ground.

Each time this happens, Director Abrafo's muscles seem to strain, causing her to look like a suffocating mess standing on two feet.

"Clear the square!" the Director shouts rather abruptly, throwing her hands in the air for emphasis and the peoples' attention.

Immediately, the Citizens start filing out swiftly like a mob of black smoke, practically tripping over one another in a rush to return to their homes to celebrate with a family feast, as is customary after an execution.

Director Abrafo sighs languidly, watching vehemently as the two guards slide the guillotine away from Kora Damon's severed body, picking up either side and transporting it elsewhere.

"Thank you," she praises. "I hate the sight of blood."

The Director draws the white gloves off of her hands carefully, finger by finger, staring down at the dismembered head resting in the audience space, a sight that caused her precious Citizens to flee.

Immediately, a cleaning crew made up of three Citizens enter the presence of the stage, equipped with mops, sponges, and various detergent products.

"We've come to take care of the blood, ma'am," the shortest one says, removing a brush from his pale filled to the brim with water and soap.

"The body baggers should arrive soon. For the time being, you should take care of the mess around Kora Damon."

Soon after the Director's words are uttered, four Citizens dressed in black from the earlier execution come scuttling in, carrying a long, white bag with a zipper running from the seam of the top section to the opposite seam of the bottom.

"You get the head," the one standing in the middle of the group instructs the one on the end closest to the audience.

"Why do I have to always get the head?" he complains.

"Because you have the biggest hands."

"Just get on with it already. We don't have all day," Director Abrafo snaps mirthlessly, drawing her lips into a fine line to suppress her annoyance.

"My apologies, ma'am."

The cleaning Citizens take their scrubs and suds and start right to work, getting down on their knees for a better approach.

The body baggers make their way directly to the headless body, three of them lifting it up and slipping it inside the pristine bag, while the fourth disdainfully takes the head with two fingers by a lock of curly, black hair.

The three baggers hold up the bag with the zipper open for the other drops Kora's head inside, shuddering after the process is finished.

Once the body baggers have exited, the cleaners shift to the spots under where the body would be were it not for the Citizens that removed it.

Dunking a sponge into his bucket, the shortest cleaner scrubs furiously at the splattered blood seeping into the grooves in the concrete.

Director Abrafo studies their actions intently, flinching with each pull of the cleaners' effervescent arms.

"That's enough. You are free to go," the Director instructs plainly.

"But we haven't finished yet," one complains, resting back on his haunches.

"I said you are free to go."

Director Abrafo's tone sharpens, shooting them a deadly glare to warn them about the consequences of disobedience as explained only an hour ago.

The cleaners exchange confused looks, but eventually collect their tools, shoving them into their buckets and clearing the area, bubbles still sprouting joyously from the ground as they mingle with the remainder of the dried blood.

The Director usually isn't susceptible to violence, mainly attributed to her sovereign blood phobia, though she must do what is best for the Community and its Citizens, and if that includes beheading a corrupt leader, so be it.

However, during these times, Director Abrafo can become rather brash, making poor judgements and snarling at those who oppose her.

These occurrences have turned some of the Citizens against her, protesting with signs that appear as though they were formulated in five minutes or less, but they're nevertheless harmful.

The clock loudly blares four times, signifying the twelfth hour of the day.

The Director turns, ambling off the stage from the side exit, the same way Kora had been brought.

Small, dirty footprints are clearly visible from the beheaded prisoner, some overlapping and smudged from haste, along with a matching set of boot-prints from the guard.

Director Abrafo smiles sweetly at the snow covering the green grass off to the side of the asphalt paths.

Something of a sweet disposition like snow is marked to bring jubilant connotations of holidays and playing outside with your family, building snowmen and creating snow angels with your back shoved into it, but it brings the Director something else entirely.

That reminds me of that little girl who died in the Evaluation. It was quite hilarious watching Kora Damon struggle as I made the decision. She barely had any control over her own government.

Two years ago, Director Abrafo maintained the position of Evaluation Director, second in command to the Director figure, though the Director at that time would never wish to engage in those types of activities — they'd usually leave the responsibility to the Evaluation Director, as stated in their job contract.

By some mistake, Evaluation Director Abrafo held more power over Director Damon and the committee decided to make the cut — Snow was to be the Candidate to receive the final death portion of the Outbreak.

Only one Candidate, excluding Florence, was destined to die at the hands of the Community, and that was the Death Candidate, Snow. Because sickness and insanity are only parts of the entire disease, neither were presumed to be fatal, like the Candidates had so fearfully expected.

Reaching into her pocket for her crisp, white gloves, Director Abrafo slides them onto her hands, pulling them up to her elbows to be free of wrinkles.

She turns the handle to the door once she's made her way to the Community building located in the middle of the Incipiens Province — every Province has one of these, built for Community officials and the Director herself.

It is rarely put to use, only about three times per year for each Province, but the celebrations are grand when it finally is. Citizens decorate the street in the Community's official colors, blue and white, and stamp the impresa of a pelican on their clothes, windows, and other items to show their support and welcome of the Director.

Swinging open the clean glass door to the compound, Director Abrafo steps inside, removing her gloves to perform the handprint ID swipe required to enter.

"Hello, Director Abrafo," the secretary greets, a bun perched atop her head shifting ever so slightly as she smiles.

"Hello, Janice."

Janice beams, noticing that the Director has finally learned her name after two months of repeatedly questioning her.

"Did the execution go well?"

Janice has always been so invested in the Director's improvements to the Community, asking how things go after they transpire, trailing after the officials like a puppy.

She aspires for her pleonastic phrasing to match the laconic and peroration-formed speech of Director Abrafo, excluding the ribaldrous behavior, though she hasn't been proceeding very successfully.

"As well as an execution can go," Director Abrafo replies frankly, abruptly shoving her fingers back into the silk gloves clutched in her dark-complected hands. "I do believe everything has been taken care of, the punishment condign, if that's what you mean."

"Yes, ma'am," Janice amends, shambling over to catch the Director's falling fleece coat in mid-air.

"Oh, Janice," Director Abrafo begins, tucking a loose strand of brown hair behind Janice's ear, "you've always been so loyal, so perspicacious."

Janice's pink lips curve into a smile, revealing her polished teeth, suspecting her work has finally payed off.

"Shoot her," the Director instructs the guard standing at the back of the room.

Janice's face fills with worry as a bullet lodges itself into her chest, blood pouring out rapidly as the light leaves her eyes. With her dying breath, she glares at the guard, pleading for mercy, but he cannot deliver.

"Now that Kora Damon is out of the way, it's time to make new arrangements!" Director Abrafo exclaims, twirling in a circle with her arms extended.

Settling her gaze on the guard who had shot Janice only moments before, his eyes lit with fear from just killing a woman, her expression twists into a wicked sneer, tearing all of the optimism in the room to shreds.

"Let's start with PanKraven Endo, our young Evaluation assistant from two years ago. You know ofhim?"

TEN YEARS LATER - 7 OCTOBER, 2185

~~~~~

Though the Community is a safe environment,
we cannot assure you that there will not be
abnormalities. However, if one of these aberrations
is caught, a memory wipe will be conducted
to protect the Citizens.

-Emergency Procedures in the Community Manual, page 8

~~~~~

Gentle wind weaves through the lobed, green leaves of the delicate white oak beside the rickety wooden porch on which a wicker chair rests, swaying with the slight pulls of my legs.

The leaves will soon turn orange from October's presence, then eventually fall to the ground like a vibrant blanket of the fallen.

The pages of my book flutter softly, as I gaze down at the blue cover, with the title written in beautiful, shimmery, golden type.

A knocking sound reverberates from the fence and I immediately look up to see a meek, black-haired boy appear behind the uneven fence that I've been wanting to change for a while now.

"Excuse me? What can I help you with?"

His eyes widen with surprise.

"Florence?"

"Yes, that's me," I reply, shifting in my seat.

"It sure has been a while. Desolate, dreary years burdened with — well, you don't want to hear about that, do you?"

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

Normally, I don't get visitors often. After Pan had a random outburst when the lawn mower wouldn't operate correctly, the neighbors and their friends were terrified to come over to even ask to borrow our table salt.

I stand, facing the man with a more equal approach, a tactic I learned from one of my teachers to be more assertive after she had noticed how submissive my demeanor was.

"Your memory faded quite completely. My name is Calum Zabel and, well, we used to be what you would call acquaintances."

Like I go outside to meet people. This is a joke, isn't it? I bet it was Mrs. Flora from down the street who likes to squeeze my cheeks whenever I see her, but this time, she finally has a plan to draw me out.

"I'm twenty-nine, Mrs. Flora," I had told her as she grasped my cheeks tightly, as if she would never let go.

"Age is but a number," she replied. "You're still adorable."

"Memory loss?" I stammer.

"You're bursting with inquiries, aren't you? And you live with Pan?" He snorts. "You obviously forgot too much."

How he obtained this information is beyond me, for Pan has been dead for ten and a half years. The Community took him for crimes that they wouldn't explain to me — they said it was too dangerous, that it could cause my mental health to be reversed, whatever that means.

"Pan is a caring friend! I demand to know what you're talking about, showing up here and acting in such an offensive manner."

"Your 'caring friend' watched as Peter Sparrow died."

"Yeah, that's right he did. That evil man, Peter Sparrow, murdered my parents when I was a child! No one should have to endure that."

At the age of ten, that murderer burst through my house, rushing past my bedroom as he searched for my parents. He entered forcefully, knocking down the door in the process, gliding maliciously to the bed, where he soon stabbed them in the chest.

"Memory replacement," the boy notes. "Pretty devious story as well."

"This isn't a joke."

"You knew Peter. You were pretty close, from what I could tell. He said you might even be friends."

No, I'm friends with my co-workers, but we don't get all gushy with one another, or even invite each other over to our houses to exchange stories about our lives and eat crackers and cheese by the dozen.

Friend is a casual term, thrown around when someone's met another person they don't absolutely despise. Now this stranger comes to my house to say that I might even be classified as friends with Peter Sparrow, the person who rendered me an orphan at ten.

"I didn't know him. Not directly."

"Then where do you think you got the scar under your eye?"

Calum gestures to the area below my right eye and I reach upward to touch it, feeling the texture.

"I was gardening and a tool raked through my skin. It's simple."

Twelve years ago, I was planting new flowers in the bed of the front yard. They were roses, bright red, sticking up from the ground as their stems slithered through the air.

I had an itch on my forehead, so I approached it with my fingers, still clutching the small shovel. Suddenly, the dowel I was using slipped as I lowered my hand, creating a gash in my skin.

"No, he attacked you with a knife," Calum says matter-of-factly.

"And you said I was a good friend of his?"

Good friends don't attempt murder on their significant other. Good friends don't kill their acquaintances' parents. Calum's just a load of malarkey.

"Peter asked me to tell you something if you were ever split apart." Calum raises an eyebrow, waiting for approval — the only polite thing he's done since he arrived here. I nod. "Consider me a messenger of the dead." He laughs, amused with himself clearly. "He wished for me to tell you that he's sorry for all those things he did to you, to all of us. He said before he pulled the trigger, he wanted you to know that he doesn't hate you. He just doesn't want you to get hurt, that's all." Calum's eyes soften as he finishes the last sentence and he casts his gaze to the grass.

A black and rust-red bird circles above our heads, chirping softly as if to alert his buddies to his location. I had always aspired to have such a relationship with someone — to just say the word and have them respond immediately. It wouldn't be selfish, just a profound bond between two or more individuals.

"Eastern Towhee." Calum straightens his sky blue button down and runs his hand through his hair while observing the bird, keeping a steady gaze on its shifting form. "Always was his favorite. Peter's, I mean. Feathers black as night, their call sounding like 'drink your tea'. Those Brits and their tea."

He laughs nervously.

"You were friends with him then." The stranger nods slowly. "I don't like friends of killers on my property."

"But—"

"Get out."

He stares at me for a long time, then turns his back to leave.

"You cared for Peter. I know you did. You were like a mother to him, always helping him discover things, guiding him through the ups and downs. Maybe if you had your memories, you would know it, too."

A mother to Peter Sparrow? Because of him, I don't even have a mother anymore!

Trembling on the edge of my rocking chair, I look down at my lap, suppressing the anger.

"Maybe they spared you the pain."

~~~~~

Calum treads along the gravel path back to his own home, observing how the rabbits scoot furiously by, their small legs thrusting their bowl-sized bodies a couple inches closer to their desired destination.

He fiddles with the latch of the fence lining his particularly meager lawn, with patches of dirt sticking up amongst the dark green grass barely keeping itself upright.

Two wooden slabs stand upright in the yard, prominently marking something sentimental of Calum's. He steps closer to read the words engraved in the material once again, reminding himself every day why he should never forget.

Peter Lyndon Sparrow

14 May, 2156 — 19 March, 2173

The second one reads:

Snow Abishag Leclerc

2 September, 2156 — 5 March, 2173

"This was your life they took from you. Now how are you going to get it back?" Calum sighs, tracing the letters of Snow's grave.

Just by touching the object, memories flash back of him visiting Snow's house to have a chat with her mother, telling her that her precious daughter is gone forever.

"I'm terribly, sorry, Mrs. Leclerc," Calum had said.

"Oh, dear, it's not your fault," she replied between sobs, reaching up to wipe her nose. "I'm glad you came to tell me."

"Your daughter was truly amazing."

"Yes, she was," Mrs. Leclerc agreed, stuffing her hand in a nearby tissue box to find it empty. "What a great smile she had. And she was always so nice, volunteering at the animal shelter, though she couldn't stand guinea pigs. A phobia, she called it." She laughed half-heartedly. "I just can't believe she's gone."

"I know," Calum whispered, tears pulling at his eyes.

Stricken with grief, he tears his fingers away from Snow's grave, trudging inside to brew coffee, a substance that he only recently found enjoyable — in his opinion, it helps cure the tired feeling that insomnia brings.

"You're not healthy for my body," Calum mutters to the coffee machine, slipping an ingredient cup inside the compartment.

Recently, Calum hasn't had the energy to care about his health, though he realizes it's important to do so. Without his friends, life is dull. Even his one friend from school has left him in the dark.

The coffee maker sputters belligerently, signaling that the drink is ready for consumption. Calum turns, clutching the mug tightly in his hands so that he won't drop it.

Lately, his hands have been shaking, regardless if he's holding something or not. Calum assumes the cause is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the most logical conclusion, but currently his bipolar disorder symptoms are at their peak.

He can't think straight, he talks rapidly aloud to himself. Euphoria tricked him into believing that he was fine, but it's yet another astringent symptom.

Calum even had the fleeting delusion that he was a knight of the world, so he marched through the streets searching for dragons to slay. An old lady from the next neighborhood told him to go back inside, that he was disturbing her mirthless game of cards with her new boyfriend that she met in the park.

Calum pours the scalding coffee down his throat, not bothering to remember that it could hurt him. He drinks half of the cup before realizing that the heat had peeled some skin from the roof of his mouth.

Why do I do this to myself?

Finishing his beverage, Calum slams the mug down on the white, plastic surface of the sink. He turns the cold water knob, watching as the clear liquid pours inside his cup, swirling around to clean it.

He dumps out the excess water and coffee down the drain as it sloshes against the sides of the pipes, making its way to another destination far away from Calum's house.

It's Friday, he remembers, hope filling him up.

Opening the cabinets — parts falling off like tree branches — Calum selects the first box of many inside, containing macaroni and cheese, along with packets of the nostalgic, orange cheese powder to mix in after cooking.

He turns the cold water nozzle of the sink, filling the pot of pasta up half way to the brim with water, tainted by the macaroni. Calum twists the different colored buttons on the stove, creating a perfect scene to cook his dinner.

After a few minutes of absently staring at the wall and waiting for his meal to become soft and the water to diminish, Calum removes the pot from the blistering cooker, setting it on the counter nearby to allow it to cool down, the steam to disappear — he abhors hot food.

Replenishing the mug with plain tap water, Calum takes it and makes his way to the couch in the living room.

It's okay. I'm okay.

The cup begins to rattle in his clammy hands, like the sound of rain pounding against his roof.

But I already told you that.

Calum slowly descends to meet his sofa. Green, just like the one he had seen many times inside the building of the Dome.

But I think I'm holding on too tightly.

He takes a prolonged swig of his water. It tastes distorted, like salt had been thrown carelessly inside.

To those things I think about nightly.

Calum glances at the pictures of Peter, Snow, and Florence, framed inside a class casing, perched atop his mantle.

But I already told you that.

Tears spring to his eyes and begin to search his skin for remnants of the past, weaving their way downward.

I should've thought about that before I wasn't alive.

Calum takes a deep breath, allowing the familiar air of his home to fill his lungs that have breathed the oxygen of so many dark places.

Before I close my eyes.

The cup continues to pound around in his clutch, his hands shaking vigorously, but he can't stop it.

Before I say my final goodbyes.

Calum knows he can let go, that it seems so simple. He just wants to give up. It's easy to give up.

Before the warmth in my heart shrivels up and dies.

The mug falls to the ground, shattering into a million scattered pieces upon the floor, spiraling into exquisite shapes that remind him of what he lost.

But I already told you that.

Calum's words plunder all rationality inside my mind.

You cared for Peter Sparrow.

But I didn't.

Maybe if you had your memories, you would know it, too.

My memories are as clear as day.

I remember swinging on the tree branches before I could read, my small legs dangling above the brown dirt; my parents were too lazy to plant grass.

I remember punching Pan when he made fun of a boy wearing a skirt. Blood streamed down his lips as I sat in the principal's office smirking, because gender roles are overrated and useless to society — counterproductive, as I had told anyone who would listen.

I remember the hot summer days when I indulged in my favorite drink on the back porch, squeezing my mouth together when I swallowed the liquid form of sour lemons.

I remember standing outside in the rain, waiting on the lawn for my parents to come back from their seemingly endless journey, when I felt so much pain, so much loss when I heard the news.

I remember the times when I couldn't continue, when life was a dark cloud and I was struck by lightning.

I remember the pounding, the constant noises in my head, pulling me under, those voices telling me that I was an abnormality — an aberration.

I remember the good, the bad, and the ugly, no matter how hard I wish to forget.

I remember letting go, how I never found myself and how I know I never will, because I've always viewed myself as a concept, apart from others, untouchable, like I was different from everyone, and how I saw that as broken.

Don't tell me I don't remember.

I jolt upright in bed, sweat gleaming on myforehead. I glance at the journal on my bed stand with a dubious curiosity.Gingerly placing it in my palm, I turn over the cover to the first torn page,sucking in all of the adventures that are to come.

~~~~~

TWELVE YEARS LATER - 10 FEBRUARY, 2197

~~~~~

The Directors each serve a term of one year,
but can be elected again. However, each time
they run for office, the contestant pool will
increase by five.

-Duty of the Directors, page 3

~~~~~

"Hey, I'll catch you later!" Raven waves to her departing friend, turning her back. Once she knows they're gone, she dashes up the lane and stops by a fairly small house, remote in relation to the space between other houses on the block.

This one must be pretty old.

Indeed it is. Raven notices the chipping paint peeling off the sides of the building, curling in rolls at the bottom and lets out a deep sigh, as if to say, "This is going to need a lot of work."

She checks her wristwatch carefully, sighing at the display of numbers. Squinting, she finally uncovers the time. "I have thirty minutes."

I should really stop talking aloud to myself. If I wanted to have a grand chinwag, I would've phoned Mum and told her about my day, remembering to leave out the part about the bullies.

Raven approaches the fence like the adventurers she reads about in her fiction books that her teachers discourage thoroughly ("Fiction is pointless for the mind. Try catching up on your history textbooks, dear.")

Truth is, Raven already learned everything there is to know about the Community's history, after poring over millions of famous manuscripts and lengthy pages when she consumed far too much coffee and was forced to live through the repercussions.

Jumping over the white pickets, the structure comes crashing down on her with a loud bang. Raven hops to her feet, dusting off her dark blue cardigan sweater.

"Well I guess that was coming down anyway."

She shrugs and continues on.

At the edge of the yard, Raven endeavors to find four wooden rectangles sticking up from the messy soil strewn around in bits across the lawn. She kicks the clumps elsewhere and smooths the object with her fingertips.

Three of the gravestones have beautifully written carvings on them, but the fourth appears as though it was done in a hurry, with only a knife and without stencils, perhaps scrawled in a drunken state, or one teeming with unmedicated hysteria. They read:

Peter Lyndon Sparrow

14 May, 2155 — 19 March, 2173

"I've heard of you!" Raven exclaims, squinting to get a better view. "My parents said you died a few years before that date though..." Her brow furrows in concentration, trying to recall how this observation could evolve to an entelechy.

"I'm hoping for a foison of theories," she says, placing a finger to her lips, eyes agleam with possibilities. "I'll think about it and it might turn to more."

Snow Abishag Leclerc

2 September, 2155 — 5 March, 2173

Florence Victoria Mayfield

4 July, 2155 — 30 May, 2186

Calum Lucio Zabel

30 April, 2155 — 7 October, 2185

They were all criminals! They were the Evaluation Candidates who escaped the Dome and attempted a malicious putsch, almost succeeding, as well. If it hadn't been for the bravery of Pan Kraven Endo (Raven took the liberty of learning his whole name), their plans would have been delivered.

The four Evaluation Candidates of 2173, Calum Lucio Zabel (KAL-uhm LOO-see-oh zah-BELL), Florence Victoria Mayfield, Peter Lyndon Sparrow, and Snow Abishag Leclerc (SNOE AB-ih-shag leh-CLARE) were notably the most famous criminals in the Community's history, Raven's history textbook had said.

Criminals don't get marked graves. Director Damon ensured the Citizens this formality as the first thing she implemented once elected into office.

Things are different now that Director Ulrich is running things. She came from an outlying country called Peru, through great struggle. She even hopes to rebuild the countries that have been destroyed.

Raven's watch beeps wildly, causing her to cringe from her sensitive ears. Slamming her hand down on the snooze button, she dashes out of the yard, flying over the rubble of the broken fence.

A silver school bus zooms by, wind weaving through Raven's hair like a basket-maker — an old process that she had become fascinated with in Chapter Twelve of her pre-Community textbook — as it passes. The kids wave and smile, elated to be free from the torturous confines of school and venture back home to bake cookies with their family — Raven, of course, has no idea what families do normally; hers is exceptionally strange, milling around everywhere, pondering the credibility of everything they pass.

~~~~~

When Raven returns to her house, she stops in front of the stoop, turning her head to the ground. Scuffing her shoe on the pavement, dread knots in her stomach.

Should I really tell them?

With a startling click, Raven's mother opens the door, a worried expression plastered to her face.

"Raven, honey, what seems to be the matter?"

"Nothing, Mum." She bites her lip, letting it go when she sees the prying stance of her mom. Smiling in reassurance, she adds, "Really, it's okay."

"Well you should get inside. Don't want you to catch hypothermia."

Her mother wraps her sweater tightly around her body, ushering Raven inside with a beckoning hand, waiting until she's through the door to place a guiding hand on her back.

"You finally remembered the difference between hypothermia and pneumonia."

"Hypothermia is cold, pneumonia is bacteria," her mom clarifies again to make sure Raven understands that she knows.

The sweet aroma of pumpkin spice fills Raven's nostrils. She breaths it in welcomingly, allowing it to wrap around her like a blanket and remind her of home, instead of the dingy facility that the teachers still have the audacity to call school.

"So, Mum," Raven starts carefully, walking her fingers up and down the kitchen table's length. "I was walking around one of the neighborhoods close to school."

Her mother slowly looks up from her activity of pouring milk into a tall glass. "Continue."

"And, well." Raven pauses for a moment. "I saw a grave that, I don't know, had a person's name on it — a person I believed to be dead a couple years before the date."

"Wren." Raven's father, Lark, scoots out of his study on his wheeled chair, pushing his glasses off of his worried face. "What's she talking about?"

"It was Peter Sparrow."

The cup of milk previously in Wren's hand comes crashing to the floor with a loud, shattering noise, making Raven cringe. The glass lies around in miniscule fragments, stricken with brief lamentation as they skid across the wood.

"No," Wren whispers, not even bothering to clean up the mess, or even glance down at it. "That's not possible." She narrows her eyes, approaching Raven slowly. Raven leans back away from her mother timidly.

"Could've been a mistake," she shrugs, attempting to be rid of the mad glare of Wren.

"He was always the deceitful type," Lark comments, jaw clenched, absently swinging his legs, while jerking the chair back and forth.

"But Finch said..." Wren trails off. "Finch Kerry Stillman!"

"I don't know much about Peter Sparrow. Were you mates?"

"He was the biggest jerk I've ever met," Wren blurts out, before slapping a hand to her mouth with wide eyes peering over the top of her fingers. "Language, sorry."

"Mum, I'm thirteen; it's okay."

"Peter screwed with our lives, ripped our relationships to shreds. Then, he just turns around, moves to the Community, and suddenly, Finch comes around saying he's dead." Wren's words reek with dysphoria.

"Wasn't that what we did? I liked our flat back in Cambridge."

Wren's eyes flash with apprehension, pinning Raven to a chair with only the look.

Three years ago, Lark burst through the door of their apartment, fear dancing across his face, running with water from the pouring rain. He closed his umbrella, darting up to his bedroom to collect his belongings, earning confused stares from the rest of the family.

Soon, he explained that it was imperative that Raven and Wren evacuate their cozy home in England and flee to the Community across the ocean. He remained vague, but was insistent enough to draw them outside and onto an airplane.

"We were nothing like him."

Silence fills the room, casting an eerie shadow over the whole house. Raven sits with her hands in front of her, concentrating with an atrabilious fixation on them to appear occupied while the cloud passes over.

"So volatile, that one," Lark pipes up, rubbing his eye with the flat of his hand, returning them to the conversation. "Never knew where he was going, where he was coming from."

"I was actually glad when he left." Wren sighs. "I know it sounds horrible, but his demeanor trumped my tolerance."

Wren's feet brush the fallen glass, snapping her back to reality.

"I need to sweep this up. Lark, where is the broom?"

Lark shrugs half-heartedly, eventually pointing to the dining room.

Raven pushes the chair out from behind her to fetch the broom, awarded by a winning smile from her mother. Returning with the object, Wren snatches it from her hand, quickly sweeping up the broken shards, carefully avoiding making contact with her toes.

"Sorry, Mum," Raven apologizes, smiling with one half of her mouth.

"It's okay, sweetie. Just...try not to go back there. It could be dangerous for you."

Wren cups Raven's chin in her hand, pulling her into a warm embrace.

However, Raven had no intentions of following instructions. After all, she only had a D put down on her report card for it.

~~~~~

The screen door closes with a bang, making Raven jump, as usual. Her black fleece jacket had gotten caught in the door, so she slowly pulls it out from under the wooden structure.

The wind greets her face with a cool blast, chilling her nose. Slipping on her mittens, she dashes up the driveway, recklessly jumping on her bike.

Raven begins to pump her legs, gradually gaining speed as she goes, the breeze turning to the wind speeds of a hurricane — though kids tend to exaggerate a bit.

On Saturdays, no one visits school, regardless. It looks like a scene from one of those zombie movies in the middle of nowhere, a small town located smack dab in the center.

Coasting and letting her muscles relax, Raven turns the corner into the neighborhood containing the four gravestones.

Kicking the stand forward, she leans the bike on its side to keep it upright against the thin piece of metal.

The fence remains torn down, the pieces of wood clashing with each other and sticking up in random formations. Raven giggles, recalling the event which had caused the destruction.

Proceeding with caution, she steps over the pile of debris to get to the tombstones. Raven lets out a slight gasp, expecting the graves to have changed, for whatever reason, but they only remain the same, monotonous figures.

"You're not even intimidating," she says, flinging the dirt around with her foot.

The crunching sound of leaves catches Raven's attention. Whirling her head around, she spots a dark figure standing in the corner of the yard, green eyes gleaming.

"Excuse me? Who are you?" Raven inquires nervously.

Oh, this is it. She's going to kill me, isn't she?

The girl only points to an object atop the roof, indicating the direction, as the sun pulls its way from behind it.

North, West, East, South? What does she mean? Is she telling me I'm going to be burnt by the sun pretty soon?

Possibilities fly through Raven's mind as she hurries back to her bike, pedaling furiously back to her house, soon realizing that she should've listened to Wren.

She peers upward to find a dove and a sparrow flying by, flapping their wings in unison as the sun chases them to the horizon.

~~~~~

Wren lies awake, blinking every thirty seconds, attempting to extend her record to a few minutes. However, her plans are foiled when an arm comes flying into her face, which she shoves back into Lark's half of the bed.

"Yes, hello, it is I," Lark exclaims, still groggy after being woken up a few seconds earlier.

"I can't stop thinking about what Raven said yesterday," Wren prompts, placing her hands by her sides and staring up at the ceiling ambivalently.

"It doesn't matter, honey. He's been dead for a long time."

"But still. What did he do during that time when we thought he was buried deep in the ground?"

Wren sits upright in her bed, throwing the covers off of her and pulling her legs from under them, stepping into her plush slippers and treading to her dresser.

"What are you doing?" Lark questions, propping himself up on his elbow, struggling to make out the image in front of him. He clicks on the white lamp beside him to get a better look at his determined wife.

"When Finch delivered the news, he also palmed me a letter, telling me not to read it until we found someone named Raven, which, as I'm sure you remember, was Peter's greatest goal in life. He was a freak about closure, desperately needing to complete the set of bird names."

"There are many more names than Raven. What about Kestrel or Gale?" Lark corrects her, rubbing the bits of crust out of his eyes.

"He just really wanted that one," Wren replies matter-of-factly, sifting through her shirts until she reaches the small, wooden box she keeps hidden under the mountain of fabric.

Running her palm across the bottom of the drawer, she finds the key, clutching it tightly. She enters it into the hole, awaiting the assuring click of the box springing open.

Placed in the middle, a pristine, white envelope rests, untouched and unworn over the years. Sliding the letter into her hands, Wren carefully tears it open, nostalgia threatening to throw her off her feet.

Lark waits anxiously, shifting with every second that anticipation damages his sleep state.

Wren pulls the paper out, unfolding it stagnantly. The familiar smell of her old Cambridge flat swirls all around her, tipping tears out of her eyes.

Wren Carmen (though I suppose it's Wren Meremoth if you followed the directions the way I assumed),

By the time you read this, I will be dead. I know, I know, a stunning actuality, but nevertheless true. I hope you were successful in your endeavour to find Raven, though I suspect you named your daughter such a name — that, or you're incredibly impatient and opened it before the requested date.

I hope you've forgiven me for those things I did. It can be extremely difficult to convey my actual feelings, considering the fact that I keep them locked up inside. Lark was pretty rattled, from what I could tell.

But I don't pretend to know what you feel, because tears in the bathroom sink are too often confused with tap water. Personally, I tried to act like a strong person, but I realised no one ever asked me if I was okay, exclusively when I needed it. On the rare occasion that I injured myself playing croquet (I really like croquet, as you've seen), everyone rushed to my side. Somehow I feel, however, that the scars left in my mind are much deeper than the ones left on my knees.

No one ever understood what I meant when I told them that, just brushed it off after a few worried stares. Scars to them are not scars to me. I won't get into too much detail about this, as I can guess that you just woke up, having an insightful epiphany after a tiresome existential crisis.

I wanted to let you and Lark know that you were always terrific friends to me. You drew me from my asocial world of textbooks and daydreaming and brought me to a place where I could be myself — I know it sounds like a stereotypical speech written by a gushing teenage girl, but stereotypes are somewhat based on truth.

If you get the chance, tell every one of our teachers in freshman year that I didn't go insane. At least not yet. I know they were betting money on that ("That Peter Sparrow lad — he's a bit of a tosser really. I'm putting down money that he'll go mad before he goes off to college.") Go and collect your winnings; buy a creepy doll to put in your daughter's room. I bet you guys were the ones who started the bet though, correct?

Interesting question: Have you ever noticed how children hold cups with both hands, pouring the liquid down their throat rapidly, but as they get older, they learn to hold it with only one hand, like they're more relaxed? I've always found that intriguing and I was hoping you'd think the same. Don't answer; you'd interrupt my magnificent soliloquy. I can't see how this relates, but I'm sure you can find some way to connect it — a tragic discovery by Peter Sparrow.

On a more serious note, don't believe any of the things the government says about me. I am not a criminal. I know this is being written by my fifteen year old self and that it seems improbable that I would know anything about my future except the name of my next dog, but I can sense that I'll be doing some pretty bold things.

The media is twisted. It won't get my story right. It'll tell the world that I died like a savage, deserving the fate I was so ruthlessly forced into. But don't let anyone else tell you I died like a hero. I did not. I died out of my own accord, because I've always been so terrified of commitment.

Go back to your daughter. Tell her that there is someone looking after her and that she is loved. Tell her that she will never have to worry about being alone, because you will be here. That was an obligation that I was deserving of, but unendowed.

Tell her that monsters aren't real. Tell her to step off the scale. Tell her that there are a million things to be done, but she doesn't have to worry about a single one of them. Tell her that she is under no pressure to do well in school. Tell her that she doesn't have to conform to society's standards of beauty. Tell her that she is a blessing to this world. Tell her that it's okay to let go, that she shouldn't be forced to stay in a place where she is unwelcome. Tell her that she can love whomever she pleases. Tell her that she is not a burden. Tell her that she is worth it.

Because I was never told those things. And, well, you can see where that got me.

~~~~~

A/N: peace out I'm done

also if you look up dates, names, etc. then it reveals stuff from the past or their personalities okay bye

if you angloosed, please vote, comment, share, etc. thanks, wet rats

~Dakota