My short story… 

This started off as a writing exercise, and I got the prompt online. So I ended up turning it into a bit of a “short story”, although it comes across as more of an excerpt from an unfinished book or something. It was inspired by The Hunger Games mainly, and a little bit of Delirium and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Don’t be too harsh on me, please.

Prompt: You walk into your house and it’s completely different — furniture, decor, all changed. And nobody’s home.

I step onto the threshold of my childhood home and sigh as I take in the strange sight.

Change, is the first word I taste on the end of my tongue when I see the government’s dream laid before me. I taste the word with disgust, as I realize that their sick little plan has hit me right where it counts, my old safe haven is no longer safe. Despite all of my years of running, they’ve still managed to make me a slave to their plans. I’m still a pawn in a game with a predetermined winner, and the score is finally being counted. The Beast:  1, me: 0

I step across the door frame into the front hallway, my thick boots gripping firmly onto the government-issued black tiling, where the scratched oak flooring of my childhood should be. The wall next to me has been doused in several layers of beige paint, no doubt to censor the anti-government graffiti crafted by the Undesirables in an effort to spread the word of rebellion. I hesitantly step into what was once the living room, taking in my surroundings. The government has been here, it’s obvious, but I cannot be sure how in-depth their tampering has gone.  The Government Regulation Squad is sure to have bugged every crack and crevice of the home, leaving no stone unturned.

My mind wanders onto the idea of someone, somewhere, up at the government offices watching me in the control room at this very moment with their beady, gray eyes; analyzing and calculating my identity and motives. I shudder at the thought, and grasp the hood of my leather jacket making sure to pull it squarely over the top of my head. My face is now obscured by the shadows cast by my hood. At this point, I can’t afford to take any risks, the longer it takes that person in the control room to identify me and place my identification number into the system, the longer I have to snoop around and make my escape.

 I could use this opportunity to pull my hood off, let my guard down and smile menacingly into the camera; I could scream words of the rebellion right back at the government and show that I am not afraid of their iron grip. Today though, is not the time for such an act of outright defiance, once they place my name to my face my throat will be as good as slit.

My feet are still in contact with the onyx tiling, and it appears for a moment as if I’m standing in a shallow sea of oil. The tiles cascade into an endless pool of black, surrounding every inch of the floor.

For a split second, my mind wanders off into the past. I’m reminded of my old history classes, where every year we would learn of a time called the Black Panic. It was same story each time, our teachers would recount the beginning of this time period- when a gigantic oil tanker mysteriously capsized in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and nearly killed off an entire ecosystem of fish and several countries’ impressive economic ratings. Of course, this was the government approved lesson plan the teachers were forced to recite. In reality, the oil tanker’s demise was caused by a small-scale bombing attack planned by a diminutive group of rebel fighters. The government panicked and began fabricating the stories, fearing the act would be just the spark needed to set off a full-scale rebellion.

To my right, I notice that the ratty sofas that once occupied most of the space of the living room have been replaced with the standard government-issued couches. The cushioned arm rests are instead polished metal rails welded to an exposed support frame, and the cushions have been completely replaced by a thin black mat that provides little comfort. These sofas, much like the rest of the government-issued furniture look ugly and plain. Everything is sharp, and jagged. The colors are a muted palette of black and beige that seem to endlessly blend into one another. It’s no longer about comfort. Our government could care less if we want a comfortable setting to stay in while we drift in and out of this hell. Comfort is a luxury, a luxury we lost. Now it’s all about convenience, to remind us that they are still there and that everything we have now was all hand-picked and provided to us by their manipulative and calculating hands.

All of the trinkets and cozy wall fixtures have all but disappeared. The naked beige walls stare back at me, enveloping me in their ugly gaze; they mock me. I glance towards the only unchanged fixture of the house, the fireplace. The white painted fire place once stood out proudly in the grand living room, drawing the attention of guests and the pride of my parents. But after the government’s makeover, the fireplace just as everything else in the house blended into the ugly sea of beige.

I do a quick inventory of the remaining furniture in the room, and my eyes finally land on the only personal mementos left over, the family photos. The government in recent times has frowned on items of personal or sentimental attachment; these captured memories of family gatherings and close friends are no exception. As much as they mean to me, I realize I must burn the only staple to my old home-life. I also come to the realization that by returning to my old haven, I have put my family in even more danger than I had by leaving them. If the beady eyes behind the surveillance camera identify me, they’ll release the officiators to come and arrest me. Of course, they won’t just leave it at my arrest, they’ll make sure to identify the names of the smiling people in those photos and detain and kill them. If I’m lucky enough they won’t make me watch.

After emptying the decorative frames of the memories they once held, I light a match and start a small fire. I take the opportunity to carefully shrug my heavy pack off my shoulders, and onto the floor next to me; this is the closest to comfortable I’ve been in the past twelve hours. I quickly sort through the pile until all that’s left of the pile is ashes, and the only picture that’s left is one of my parents. The picture predates the uprising. I’m able to easily identify it. My mother still has long cascading locks of auburn hair and green eyes that twinkle, a confident and sly smile takes up her face; meanwhile, my father ‘s black hair is long and unruly, but his smile is even bigger. These people seem like strange caricatures of the people I know to be my parents. I feel an all too familiar twinge in my chest. I reluctantly let the flames devour the image.

After taking a careful inventory of the whole house, I finally find reach the secret hiding place of my laptop. The government had completely cleaned out the attic, but they hadn’t taken into account the carefully created hole in the woodwork of the attic. They’ve taken almost everything away from me, but I’ve got the upperhand on them now. The score has finally evened up a little bit. The beast: 1, me: 1.

After worming my way out of the attic, and wordlessly make my way through the rest of the top floor, I find myself back in the living room.  The silence of the room works over me, as I debate my next move. No doubt someone back in the government building has figured something’s up, and the hounds will be at my throat any minute.

 It’s just as I’m finally deciding to crawl out of the nearest window to make my exit that I hear it, a noise. It’s so brief that I don’t even have a moment to register the exact noise I’ve heard, but it’s unmistakable.  I quickly turn on my heels, and sling my pack over my shoulders. I try my hardest to tiptoe as silently as possible, but my boots make it nearly impossible; if there is someone else here they probably already realize there’s an uninvited guest in their presence. I lay my body flat against the wall nearest the front door and peek through the window panels surrounding my front door; my neighborhood looks completely untouched. Nothing but a ghost town is left over, and I begin to think I imagined the sound.

I cautiously turn back to the living room and swiftly make my way back to the window; it’s just as I’m working the dust covered contraption open that I realize the one potted plant left behind, untouched by government hands has been knocked over and the dirt is strewn across the black tile. It’s at this moment I know, I’m not alone.