elimination

I lie in the cold solitude of my station with my face buried in my pillow. It has been three days since Bump Nose chose to create his little group. It is killing me. I have worked so hard and gotten so close to making it to Level Three and now I am throwing it all away to be part of Bump Nose’s secret society of idiots. So far the group has been greatly subdued compared to the first day. We simply do our work in his classroom with the occasional shrill voiced, shaky handed, question. Bump Nose hasn’t failed to answer any questions yet and they have remained simple inquiries about our work in Past Events.

Meanwhile every day the trials of willpower have gotten more and more difficult. We have gone from math, to staying in the same uncomfortable position for hours on end, to applying a balm made from an extinct plant known as “poison ivy.” Yesterday we had to hold our hands in scalding hot water for as long as possible. Most people made it for about thirty seconds before pulling their blood-red hands out of the smoldering liquid. 12 only made it 15 seconds, but there were enough Titles who only made it 10 seconds that she didn’t face danger. The feeling was horrific. For half a second I experienced only ecstasy at relief from the cold, but then it started to feel a bit too hot until every inch of my hand was enveloped in pain. But somehow I kept going, the record had been 38 seconds and I had to break it, the stubborn idiot that I am.

The pain got worse and worse until it was practically blinding and tears started to seep from my eyes. At 40 seconds I pulled out a puffy, blood-red appendage with the skin starting to peel. I grabbed at it with my other hand in a desperate attempt to cool it and the upper skin moved as though not attached to my hand at all. I quickly rushed off to the medical station set up in the corner to get my outer skin peeled off and discarded and to apply a layer of an odd smelling, clear cream that will regrow skin within an hour. In Level Two medicine is only awarded under special circumstances. Scientists have the ability to cure just about every injury or ailment, from malignant tumors and cystic fibrosis to broken necks. However, they seldom do anything. People with health problems deemed genetic such as cancer are considered damaged goods and promptly disassembled.

As I was mending my hand, 14 sauntered over to the table beaming with smug-mouthed confidence. His hand was almost entirely stripped of skin, but you would never have known from his facial expression as he locked eyes with me, smiling subtly. With flawless grace he looked around quickly before putting his uninjured left hand on the edge of the table I was standing against, right next to my left hip and stepping forward as to trap me between himself and the table. My nerves froze with the warmth of his breath as he whispered “60 seconds,” down my neck and over my right shoulder. For half a second he stood a centimeter away from me radiating warmth, before disappearing, oblivious to my existence. He looked back smugly after fixing his hand as to appreciate the expression of shock and anger on my face at losing both my skin and my record. It was in that moment that I made the executive decision to hate him.

The buzzer goes off pulling me out of bed and into another shivering day. The early morning goes by in a mundane blur and before I know it I am sitting in Past Events typing away at a list on my wrist port, my forearm discretely hidden under the table. Bump Nose—having realized our intense fear at the prospect of asking questions on the spot—has asked us to create a list. Currently he is going on and on about how early humans started developing tools and using them to defend themselves, build shelter, and acquire food. It’s the same rhetoric we heard before about innate human tendencies no longer being of use due to advanced technology, people becoming lazy, complacent blah, blah, blah. He claims that all of these natural human behaviors are bad and that they yield only weakness. It makes I suppose. Yet I still I can’t help but wonder if all sources of unregulated dopamine are truly bad. The natural inclination of humans to be attracted to color or various forms of art, perhaps I am mistaken, but the correlation to weakness isn’t terribly clear here. Reluctantly I open up my wrist port and begin to type. “Do colors have any redeeming qualities?”

..........

I look up from my conversation with 12 to see Dagger’s ugly trademark pout hovering over her half finished sustenance. She is speaking in her usual encoded snobbery. “Ahh, the subtle nuances of willpower, how fascinating,” she says dryly with eyes boring into 12. “It’s interesting how much it varies from person to person,” her eyes look 12 up and down with disdain, fluttering her long light-brown eyelashes while the pawns at the table stare at her in blind admiration. I know she is referring to 12′s mere 15 seconds with her hand in the hot water, coupled with facial expressions and quickly subdued howling. 12′s face is turning red as she studies her nails, she usually would defend herself, but willpower is a touchy subject.

Dagger’s lips curl up in a smirk of pure narcissism as 12 continues to look down. My jaw clenches, along with my fists, as I pull myself into a facial expression that is calm, jubilant, and simply murderous. “Fascinating.” I say with piercing pronunciation, “Yet more fascinating than the variation of willpower between people, is the variation of perceived self importance between people.” I know I am pushing the talk about your education rule, but right now I am sufficiently angry not to care. Dagger’s pout grows, making her look even more ape-like than usual as she opens her mouth to continue with some “witty” remark, but I am not having it. I quickly cut her off with an obnoxiously loud question to 12 about the evolution of hunting practices in early human existence. She regards we with worried eyes.

Truth be told I have what you could call anger problems. Not just normal short fuse anger problems, but physical anger problems. For as long as I can remember every time I start to get really, really angry or really, really scared an odd thing happens: white foam starts to gather in my mouth. Then if I don’t find a way to calm down quickly I start screaming and almost get violent. It’s happened only a few times before, 12 claims it’s terrifying to behold. I’m good at repressing it though. I HATE when it happens more than anything. It’s like I completely lose control, also when it’s really bad the foam actually pools from my mouth which is truly disgusting. It hasn’t happened for years though, I am quite certain I have grown out of it. It happened for a few years right after I left the Dome but almost entirely ceased as I entered late adolescence. I get angry and scared, greatly so, but never to the point of lost control and foamy lips.