A Dystopia by Ruth Evans
I’m shaken awake to the dull morning light. Devin looks down at me. His usual excited and defiant look is replaced by hollowness.
“Liz, follow me” he whispers in my ear. I roll back over, eyes heavy with sleep ,”please” he whispers, and something about the urgency in her voice gets to me. I jerk out of bed and strap on my too-small boots.
We’re off--silently running in the shadows. Faster, faster. Sweat drips in my eyes, but I know I can’t stop. And then I see them. Looming trees, dark eyes, I’m frozen in terror. This is where the monsters lurk. Genetically engineered animals roam about. They say, if you get too close, you won’t come back. You’ll be torn apart by the ferocious creatures.
“Trust me, Liz”, but I can’t.
“We’ll die.”
“I won’t let you die.” he grabs my hand and we’re off again. Deeper into the thorns. Closer to the monsters. I’m shaking. Devin stops. He helps me climb high in the rough branches of a bushy tree, up, up, up.
He looks at me, eyes wide, and lays a hand on my hair. “Stay here, don’t forget what you see.”
“Devin, you shouldn’t--”
“Trust me, ok? And make a difference someday.”
“Bu--”
“I love you.” His voice cracks. And he’s climbing down the tree. He runs out a little ways. I’m frozen with terror, waiting for a beast to tear my sister, my life apart. Bang. Bang. Bang. Three bullets imbed themselves in his chest. That was no genetically engineered tiger. That was no wild beast. I could scream. I want to run out and grab him, make him wake up. But I don’t.
I run. I run and run and run and run until I can’t run anymore. A hysterical giggle bubbles to my throat. His words echo in my mind. I won’t let you die. But he never said anything about dying himself.
I can’t remember getting there, but I find myself back at home, in my parents room.
“Mom! Dad! It’s Devin, he’s going to die if you don’t help!” I’m tearing the comforter off them, shaking them awake.
“Wha--what are you talking about, Lizzie?” Thats dad.
“Dad, please--Devin went to the forest, and he’s been shot, and you need to help me get him!”
“Sheesh, Liz, you talk to fast. What’s this all about?” Mom calls out. he could be dead by now, he’s dying.
“It’s Devin. He went to the edge, but it wasn’t wild animals that killed him...it was a man, a guard who shot him. I need you to come. I need you to save him.”
My parents exchange a look. “Are you sure this wasn’t a nightmare of yours...?” mother asks. I glare at her. Dad rushes to Devin’s room. Starts shouting his name. Nothing.
“Liz, why did you go to the edge, and how are you not dead...assuming I even believe this story of yours!”We’re wasting time.
“Dad! Believe me! He just woke me up and ran with me and that’s where we ended up and I hid in a tree and he ran out and he was shot and--”I’m crying now “--and I could have saved him!” Finally, they can tell I’m not lying.
“Where was he shot?”
“His chest.”Mom screams.
“How many times?”
“Three.”
“liz, he’s--” and I know what he’s about to say, but he’s wrong. I saw his eyes before I ran. They were open, open and alive.
“Don’t.”
“He’s dead.”
“No!Dad, you can save him!”
“Liz...”
“You COWARD, y-you’re just scared!” I’m screaming now. Tearing my hair out. Frantic. But deep down, I know he’s right. I know there’s nothing we can do.
My perfect dad, with strong arms and strong hands who used to run around with me in his arms and Devin on his back. My dad, who always carries duct tape with him, who can fix anything. But when I need him the most, when I really need him to fix something, he can’t.
I suck in a sob. Remember when Devin took me with him to the ice cream shop and we--Remember when I tied him up and put toothpaste in his ear when he was--Remember when he-Remember whe--Remember. Voices, stories, crowding my head. Now I won’t see him--I’ll remember him. I wonder how long it will take me to forget his face.
I stay lock myself in my room for days.
I remember one day in the summer. We were lying in the grass. I was making a bracelet out of dandelions. School had just gotten out and Devin wanted to go somewhere. He said he wanted to travel. He said he wanted to escape.
“From what?” I had asked. She laughed.
“You’ll see,” he said, “nobody likes to talk about it but” he breaks off. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of Clive!” he yelled. I shushed him. “See? You already know,” he said, shaking his head, “and you don’t even care”. Then he ran off. I spent a few hours trying to figure out how to get home. I think I know what he meant now. So instead of wanting him to come back, I’m aching to follow him to that strange, unknown place
I go to school again, but I don’t care anymore. I’m not scared of Mrs. Mackintosh, who is said to hiss children that act up, or Mr. Kent, who gets so angry when you aren’t working fast enough he rips up your papers. No, I bullshit my homework, and spend the extra time roaming the woods.
It’s like a game. I see how far I can get to the edge before I’ll get shot. Every day I get a tree closer, I’m itching to see what is really at the edge.
The nights get darker, the days get duller, the house gets colder. It gets so cold I can’t sleep. I try to take a blanket from my parents room but they won’t let me. They tell me they need it.
“Can’t you guys turn up the heat?” I ask one night when my toes turn numb and my pajamas turn stiff with cold.
“Your mother had an incident at work.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You see, she talked to her boss--the mayor’s assistant about the guards at the edge and, it didn’t go down well.”
“So they took away are electricity?”
“Well, some gas, some fuel...we’re doing what we can, we’ll make it sweetie.” He tries to smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Mother leaves the room.
“This is ridiculous!” I yell.
“Eliza. In a world where gas is sparse, people need to earn their fuel. Imagine if every lazy person got the same amount of gas as a hard working fellow.”
“But, this wasn’t about laziness, was it? It was for questioning, dissent.”
“Clive is doing the best he can.” Clive. Our mayor. Who refuses heat to families who seem a threat. Who positions guards on the edges. I wonder...what could be out there..past the edge?
It gets even colder. Dad buys firewood and matches but taxes are climbing. Today at school we learn about city jobs and sign up for apprenticeships. A government worker lists off the job options--entering taxes, mining, mayor’s assistant, designer....and when she’s done, suddenly I’m angry. I raise my hand and am called on.
“What about guarding the edge?”She raises her eyebrows.
“What was that?”
“Guarding the edge of the city? With guns? Shooting anyone who gets too close? That is a job.” I get a few gasps, the class is looking at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am.
“No. I’m afraid it is not, miss...?” Damnit. Why did I say that?
“Woods. Eliza Woods.” I say, heart pounding in my ears, face turning red. This is worse than my mother’s incident, and judging by the way she scribbles in her notebook, it will not be forgotten.
Later that evening, I go to the store to buy coal and wood for a fire. When I get to the counter, a man asks for my ID, and I pass it to him.
“Sorry, Miss Woods, but all heating products are being withheld from your family for the time being. Food products will also be limited.” He doesn’t look sorry. He just looks at me like I’m trouble.
To be continued...
