Arya & Twelve

“Dinner is ready,” a soft voice announces behind me. I nod so that the house worker knows I heard her. A small almost inaudible sigh slips past my lips. In the crease of my latest novel, I place a braided ribbon. I unfold my legs and climb out of my desk chair.

Elliot stands in my doorframe waiting to escort me to the dining room. I greet her with a tight smile and walk silently at her side. Through the hallways, we pass many closed doors. One day, forever ago, the rooms behind the forgotten entryways would house tiny feet bouncing off the walls, sick elderly being kept close, or visitors coming to celebrate. Now the spaces go unused-- cold, dormant, empty.

The sound of hushed arguing greets us before even entering the room. “...heard what she said. Do not make it so that we have to get more involved.” There is a slight pause as we round the corner. “Then, I’ll do it mys…”

My father’s eyes land on me as I sit in a chair perpendicular to him. He raises his dark hand motioning to stay quiet as if I didn’t notice he is on the phone. I stare down at the plate of grilled turkey, steamed vegetables, and roasted potatoes. All of which look duller than usual.

“Excuse me,” he clears his throat, “My daughter joined me for dinner. I’ll speak to you later.”

My gaze sweeps to the other end of the table. For a second, I can make out an image of a dark-skinned woman with a thin chain outlining her neck and her chocolate hair neatly woven into a bun. The ghost of my mother has been haunting me more frequently. She disappeared the day before my twelfth birthday. The week after her funeral I begged the house staff to still set her side of the table. Father dismissed the idea explaining the importance of moving on, not tethering myself to the past.

A shiver runs down my spine, gently pulling my eyelids together. When they open, my tortured eyes are met with a vacant chair. I blink, willing my mother to return. To the house. To the table. To me. She doesn’t. I peer at my living parent. He stares back, examining me with vexation. A moment later, the corners of his mouth turn up revealing a too bright smile.

“I haven’t seen you all day. I trust school was good.” I exhale, expelling stagnant air out of my lungs. Nodding along to his statement, I mimic his movements grasping the silverware. We eat with minimal conversation.

Time passes at a crawl marked only by the loud clinks of metal on ceramic. My father interrupts the silence, “That was work. I need to go into the office again tonight. By the time I come back, you will already be vaccinated and asleep.” I nod again.

The floor screeches as he urges his chair backward, leaving his plate on the dressed mahogany table. Before his wordless exit, he plants a firm grip on my shoulder-- how affectionate. Maybe, it means I love you. Maybe, it means sleep tight. Maybe, it means enjoy eating dinner by yourself.

Nevertheless, I savor the alone time. Somehow it's more comforting than the labored mingling.

♟

In my excessively plain room, I lay in bed-- arms neatly folded behind my head and staring up at the ceiling. Elliot dropped off my nightly injection several minutes earlier. She will not be back until sunrise.

Where would I be if I was born a century ago?

The question chases me every day, only catching up in moments like these. My teachers would argue unhappy and debilitated. The previous era encompassed disengagement, animosity, and injustice. One year, a plague came prematurely ending hundreds of thousands of lives. This only encouraged the resentment bubbling in everyone’s stomachs.

Rebels stormed the capital leading to a civil war. What was left of the other countries picked sides. War swept the planet. Death infiltrated. Reckless abandon spawned chaos.

A decade after the fighting began, less than two hundred people still walked the planet. Thaddeus Kirsley brought the survivors together by preaching the concept of “control what you can control.” He split the people into two groups-- “Sivs” and “Pims”-- and built a wall around the fleeting civilization for protection. There was a place for the “Sivs” to live and a section for the “Pims.” The land in between held the administrative buildings.

It’s been several years since Thaddeus. Now his great granddaughter, Celeste, governs with my father as her right-hand man. What’s left of my family lives with the rest of the “Sivs” in this spacious—lonely—house.

I’ve always been a bad sleeper. My brain has a tendency to race when I should be resting. When I was little, my mother would hold me and tell stories of when she was growing up. It focussed my brain enough to let sleep encompass me.

Instead of strong maternal arms wrapped around me and exciting adventures tickling my ears, I fixate on the history of civilization accepting its persistent invitation to slumber. Slowly, a fog blankets my mind, pulling me further and further away.

♟

“Arya… Arya… Arya.” The unfamiliar voice startles me. I peer around the dingy dank building I’m in. The structure looks abandoned. The sight is out of place in the land I’ve grown accustomed to. The few windows-- which draw in the room’s only light-- cast shadows. There is material from the ceiling on the ground in some areas, and it looks like something scratched up the walls. I can’t help but wonder where I am.

“Beyond the fence,” the voice whispers.

Dazed, I try to remember if I said that aloud.

This time, though, I’ve come to just enough to place the location of the voice. I straighten my body elongating my limbs in hope of some resemblance of intimidation. Leading with my head, I turn around with intent.

I’m greeted with the same full cheeks and doe-like eyes, surrounded by walnut skin. For a moment, I believe I’m in front of a mirror. Then, I realize how ridiculous the idea is.

“Who are you?” I ask in a voice like steel: strong and smooth.

“Your sister.”

Taken aback by her answer, my response wavers, “I don’t have a sister. No one has siblings.” Her face twists in indignation.

“Talk less and listen more. We don’t have much time, and as much as you think you do, you know nothing.” I try to interrupt, but she holds up a hand to stop me. Instead of trying again, I stare deep into her soul and fix my face like stone.

“Every piece of information fed to you since birth has been a lie. Do you really think all this surveillance and rules are for our protection? Our benefit? Have you never once questioned those 'vaccines' you inject every night?”

“You think ‘Sivs’ and ‘Pims’ live as equals. Well, guess what, they don’t. Your people get named my people get numbered,” she pauses, “I’m Twelve.”

For a second, her green eyes drop and a bashful look replaces her agitated one. Her veneer snaps back so swiftly that I question if I even saw a difference.

“Mom knew about the deceitful government and the group disparities. She was coming to save me. That’s why they took her.”

My jaw tightens, “I don’t believe you.”

Not missing a beat, she continues accelerating her speech as she goes, “And you don’t have to. But if you are anything like what mom said you are, you will. Her life depends on it. Meet me tomorrow before the ceremony next to the creator’s statue.”

My head spins trying to piece all this information together. It feels like fiction. None of what she says makes sense. Her words come to me with the grace of another language.

“And catch.” A necklace comes flying at me. My left hand instinctively grasps the cold metal. A silver locket dangles in the center. Realization hits me so hard my knees buckle. Memories of the heart shaped charm sitting in the hollow of mother’s neck fly through my mind. I swallow. As if hypnotized, the necklace keeps my gaze.

Absent-mindedly, I murmur, “mom.”

“She left it for you,” the stranger’s voice fades as she exclaims this. My attention jerks back, but now I’m alone. My heart races as I breathe heavily. Closing my teary eyes, I try to remain calm. The room spins and my head throbs.

Everything feels distant.

♟

I wake with a start, gasping for my next breath. I spot the four walls I’ve stared at my entire life. This time, my sanctuary doesn’t feel safe. Still trying to stabilize my heart rate, I sit up abruptly kicking away the covers. My skin is slick in a sheen of sweat.

In my panicked thrashing, my eyes zero in on the full syringe sitting on my bedside table. My hands tremble. Freaked out, I stare down at them desperately trying to halt their movements. Only then do I notice it tucked in my left hand:

The locket.