DISASTROUS REMINISCENCE

It's hard to live in a world where every inch of you is being violated by disastrous reminiscence. Where Memories are being raped away and used as a determination for the worthiness of life, can we really question morality when death is already imminent? Or should we sacrifice our own beliefs to establish a society of elites willing to resolve the damage?

It started years ago when the higherups announced the devastation ravished by overpopulation. The world, which was focused on monetary status over sustainability, suffered massive droughts and excessive pollution.

The dark clouds became regular until all we knew was darkness- until we forgot what the sun felt like and every ounce of sustenance was eradicated. People began to starve, and a once vibrant country collapsed into survival of the fittest, where people played games with each other at gunpoint, often for a simple taste of a spoiled good.

After decades of anarchy, the unbearable nature of the world brought forth a new kind of government where eleven hand-chosen individuals from the highest up deem who is worthy of survival by their ability to provide reconstruction. The rest, known as the undesirables, are disposed of to control the food supply. However, since the implementation over a century back, starvation, hunger, and disease have nearly dissipated, and the individuals who remain work desperately to aid in the constructive processes.

The selective process occurs on the eve of an individual's 15th birthday- no surviving members can remember the details. But after, a person is assigned one of the four imperative jobs contingent on physical phenotypes: birther, mechanic, control, and intellectual.

DO NOT FORGET.

I was 14 years old and about to undergo the selective process. I was standing outside a boxy, greyish oak building, which sat on metallic stilts. The Building, which had a spiral staircase reaching up to double mossy iron doors, had a picture of a black heart-shaped locket printed.

Was that the symbol for the higher-ups?

Outside was a screen that displayed my name and timer in a violent sea-green: TEN MINUTES. My nerves started to race up my spine, and my stomach began to churn; my ears rang until she noticed—my best friend, Alexis, whose beauty alone was almost enough to guarantee her survival.

"Do you think you'll be assigned to the birthing unit, Jackson?" she said, mocking me.

"You know very well that's impossible." I was choking on the air. The skin around my face was tight, and my body resembled glass.

SIX MINUTES. I didn't realize how fast time crept away.

"Well, when you pass, what do you think your assignment will be" she whispered.

"I don't know. I don't think I can talk"

She looked at me; her glassy eyes resembled a high clarity seafoam crystal, and her face covered with deep creases sat without ease. I felt like I had all the time in the world to analyze her features: her tiny button nose, short stature but exaggerated extremities. Alexis was the pinnacle of beauty, a light in a plain society established on just the necessities for survival.

FOUR MINUTES

"Well, when you get out, remember to find me, recognize my face, and remember all of the Beautiful reminiscences we share. Don't let passing ruin your hospitality, your relationships. Don't allow for the test to seep into your brain and exploit those gears or destroy the disposition I admire". At this moment, Alexis's eyes had become transparent as tears raced down her salmon cheeks.

"Please don't leave me like the rest of them. I can't afford to lose another person I love. Please don't die" Tears were streaking down her face, but I couldn't respond, and that was my last memory of her.

0 MINUTES.

I walked in.

The room was covered head to toe is a fuzzy emerald carpet. In the middle of the room, there was a plastic chair engulfed by silver electrical equipment. There were no signs of life other than my scattered breathing. I sat down and heard a distant voice over an unnoticed intercom: "Please take the headpiece and place it on your temples; someone will be in shortly to check your work."

The memories of the preparatory stage dissolved with shock. The rest, including the sounds, emotions are etched into my brain like a name on a tree. A dark figure gripped my forehead and dug a nail into my right eyebrow. Their face completely blank, as if someone took the back of an eraser and distorted all their features. They didn't have a clear voice, and I couldn't make out any gender identifiers, but they had curling painted fingernails.

They took the nail in my head, coiled a thick wire around the body, and attached the other side to a stadium-sized screen. That's when I noticed them, eleven figures sitting in chairs directly in front of me. Their faces blank, and their bodies completely gender dysphoric.

They watched the screen as my dreams, aspirations, emotions, and fears lit up like a cinematic masterpiece. They were utterly violating my inner demons and assessing my disposition based on my choices. They whispered, almost entirely unintelligible- but I could make out one phrase:

"Should we let the boy live?