Chapter One

For the moment, my mind is my own. I have my own thoughts, my own sense of control, and I can feel my emotions and my emotions alone. Right now, I am feeling an odd sense of calm pulsing through my veins, cool and gentle as it rides the waves of my steaming bloodstream. It’s a strange comparison.
Tomorrow will be the day that I may die, or live to share the elements of my body. Tomorrow is the day where many lives will shatter, only to be rebuilt with stronger intentions. Tomorrow is the day of the Selections.
Strangely, I do not fear what tomorrow may bring. Years ago, people my age would have been crying into their pillows by now, or holding their parents or siblings for as long as they can before it is time to face their future. They mostly feared death. The Line Up is what terrifies the strongest of mankind, the soldiers holding handguns away from their bodies and towards the Selected, shooting down one at a time as they see fit. I am yet to witness this event, but I have heard on more than one occasion that there are more dead than alive.
I do not fear this.
I have to think about what is beyond the first stage, the Selections. I have to think about the next step, the Breakage. They say that the Breakage is what will either destroy you or make you unbeatable. Outside of the crumbling walls surrounding our intertwining towns and villages, known as the Segment, new lives are born, and for many it is as if life finally has a meaning. That is what I want.
I sit on the ground in the living room of our brittle home. My parents are in the kitchen, which is through the archway across the room. They murmur quietly to one another, and I know my mother is crying. I stare at the wallpaper that is peeling away from the wall before me, the old TV playing quietly in the corner of my eye. It was once a creamy coloured paper, making the room feel light and safe, but now it seems to be in disarray, its edges yellowing from time. We can’t afford new wallpaper, no one can.
We received notice of my Selection just two weeks ago, when a man with dark hair and a scarred face knocked on our door with a stiff hand. I had answered, and he’d introduced himself as Adrian Stalling, a soldier training in Sector Five. Section Five is for the most powerful beings, where most of the trainees go on to be our country’s leaders. No one knows where it is among the other four Sectors, which are all in different locations, some speculated to even be across stretches of sea.
“Miss Connie Harper?” he’d asked. He had no expression, no emotion in his eyes. I knew he’d been trained to hide any kind of emotion.
“Yes?” I’d said, feeling my mother come up behind me.
“I am pleased to inform you that you are one of the Selected. Congratulations.” He’d handed me a letter, leaving as quickly as he had come. While I opened it to read the location and time, mum broke down to a heap on the ground.
She’d been crying ever since.
Becoming one of the Selected is a somewhat privilege in this day and age; if you are to live, you will become a lethal weapon, but if you are to die, then you are doing society a favour.
Boys and girls between the ages of fourteen and twenty one are watched for the entire year, whether it be in school or out in public. Men and women, the Watchers, take stations in buildings that are popular with the younger population, with electronic information pads that has our data on them, from our date of birth to our favourite pass times. They make the Selections, first in a vast amount before narrowing them down in the final weeks leading up to the Line Up. Anyone who appears to be useless to our society will be the ones that shall die, and the ones that appear to be strong both physically and mentally will be the ones to move on to Sector One, the Breakage Sector. Those in between will be left to live in this dying society many call home.
I would like to go and live in Sector One, but death would also be a good option. My chances of surviving are of a balanced chance; I have a strong, determined mind, but my body is not built for brute force.
I stand and walk to the archway, staring at the two people who had raised me over the last seventeen years. My dad holds mum tightly to his chest, shushing her while he tries to blink away his own tears. For me, tomorrow is the day of my escape, but it is also the day when my parents inevitably lose their one and only child. I try not to let the sight of them pain me, as that may slightly crack the protective barrier of my mind I have built over the last few years. I need that barrier to survive this life, which means emotional attachment would end up being a terrible weapon against me. But I can’t help it. I let a croak escape through my lips and stumble towards them.
Mum’s arm instantly extends, pulling me between her and my dad. Dad encircles us in a strong, masculine hold, choking back his sobs while mum cries freely. I cling to their arms, allowing the tears to slip, letting the raw emotion of my certain abandonment poison a small section of my mind. I let their warmth engulf me, protect me, and I feel the hot tears fall into my hair and my clothes.
“You fight like hell, you hear me? You fight until that is all you can do.” says dad, his voice rough. I nod. He believes I will travel to Sector One. He believes it me, and I press my forehead to his arm that is level with my eyes. He pulls mum tighter into me so that it nearly hurts, but I simply feel intoxicated with a love that I will never experience again. I have to relish it. I have to!
“When you get to Sector One,” mum says, her breath on my neck. “try to live as well as survive.”
“I won’t try.” I say sternly, despite the thick lump in my throat. “I will live.”
Dad releases us, and he gently grasps my shoulders and turns me to him. His wise, watery grey eyes stare down into mine, and I see nothing but pride. He pinches my cheek, forcing a smile. “Do us proud.”
“I will.” I assure him, and he pulls me into a single embrace. He’s warm and solid, and it is reassuring. This is the man who had protected me since I was a child, the man who had defended me from the stronger kids that tried to intimidate me in the streets, the man who still calls me his little princess.
I turn to mum. She smiles sadly at me. “Be strong, baby girl, and show the world what you are made of.” she says, leaning forward to kiss my forehead before hugging me in a suffocating hold. I hold her just as tightly, breathing in so I can memorize her scent; lemons and with a hint of chocolate. This is the woman who taught me how to laugh in a dying world, the woman who would have a flour fight with me when baking cakes, the woman who is blinded by love for her husband and daughter.
I hold them. I breathe them in. I remember them.

***

I cannot sleep, naturally. Instead I am listening to the voices that drift through my slightly ajar window, all male and sounding confident. I know who they are. They are the rebels in this area, the few who dare to stay out after curfew, lurking in the darkness like predators hunting for the weak. One voice I recognise belongs to Tony Pierce, a boy in my Unit 2 History class.
“Sector One is where I belong. Tomorrow I finally escape this hell hole!” he booms, sounding as excited as a child receiving a new toy.
“We’ll show them b******s what real soldiers are. The one that gave me my notice was skinnier than a twig, how pathetic is that?” says another boy, who I believe is Ant Halls.
“Did you hear? The twig is in the Line Up. She doesn’t stand a chance.” Tony laughs, clearly not caring about keeping his voice down. He hates me, I hate him. We have made our feelings for one another perfectly clear in the past.
“It will be hilarious to watch her go down.” A third voice says, one I do not recognise and have no desire to identify.
The others laughed. “She won’t know what hit her.” says Tony, and then his voice goes louder. “Hear that, bones? Tomorrow you’ll be put out of your misery!”
I get up. Grasping my one prised possession, a black zip-down jumper that was once referred to as a “hoody”, I slip it on and zip it up as far as it will go to conceal my chest, which is protected by a flimsy white vest that is a size to small. The hoody was given to me as a gift three years ago, sold to my dad for a fair price. He gave it to me for my birthday, and even though it had been two to three sizes too big, I had never been so happy. It made me feel like what I should have been; a teenager.
Pulling the hood over my head to shield my face in shadow, I open the window wider and leaned on the frame. I smile, and the three boys instantly recoil, but only slightly.
“It would be a nice way out.” I say softly, cocking my head. Tony stares at me for a moment, although he is almost invisible in the shadows below along with his black clothing. His face, though, seems pale, which makes my smile turn into a grin. He is trying to swallow back his fear.
Tony Pierce and I have never got on. During our first day of high school, he pulled my hair and tossed me to the ground. He pointed and me at laughed when I started to cry, and then started taunting me about my imminent death a few years down the line. However, after a further several years of cruelty and taunting, I fought back. One afternoon on my way back home, Tony followed me with his friends. His intention had been to frighten me by throwing me against a wall, with the added goal of touching me.
He never anticipated that I would be carrying a knife around with me. Just as his eyes roamed hungrily over my body, his friends laughing behind him, I’d dug the knife out of my pocket and sliced his arm. The wound had been deep enough that he’d needed stitches.
That had been about ten months ago, and even though Tony gave me a wide berth for a while, he soon got back to his old tactics. The thing is, during the time of his retreat, I’d gained new strategies of my own.
Tony crosses his arms and frowns. “Not scared then?” he asks.
“No. More like excited.” I say.
“Why the hell are you excited?” Ant demands, clearly not liking the reaction I am delivering. I smile again.
“Imagine that I survive tomorrow along with you. Then I have the pleasure of training alongside you... or preferably against you.” I smirk, and before they can respond, I lean back and close the window tight. The idea of fighting against Tony thrills me. A part of me hopes he survives tomorrow, because then he will have the further challenge of surviving my wrath in Sector One.
Should I get there.
I climb back into bed, only to climb back out a second later. I can’t sleep in here, not on my last night. Slowly, I creep out of my door and into the dark hallway, feeling the wall as I search for mum and dad’s door. Once I seek it, I slip it open and step into the gloom, where their steady breaths float into my ears. I know they’re awake. I climb onto the bed and slip into the space between them, and instantly their arms encircle me.
Moments pass, and I think we all fall asleep together for the first and last time.

Reviews

[reeyce smythe wilder]

Wow. Nice. The idea for the book is a good one to be sure. I loved your flow - everything just merged to make a whole. If you write like this at seventeen, one can only imagine great things for you in years to come. Excellent job.

[Angelic_Dreamer]

for a newbie you sure are a heck of a writer!Good job so far....i like how you put your raw emotion into it, thats the most interesting part!xD

[Joshua]

I'm quite pleased by this so far. It's good; really, really good. A lot of people would not have put the exposition and background in nearly as subtly or gradually; even though I feel like I now understand a lot more about the world in which this story is set, it didn't come with the feeling of being overwhelmed that so often goes hand in hand with the infamous exposition dump -- because it wasn't a dump. It fit so naturally into the story, furthermore, giving me hints into the protagonist Connie Harper's motivations -- a strong will to survive, and as you demonstrate later on in the chapter, a rivalry with a peer. I feel that the world in which you set this has a good balance of real-world elements, to be more relatable, and a dark, gritty setting ready to host an adventure story such as the one that is surely unfolding.

I did notice there were a couple places where you mixed present and past tense in the same sentence, really not a big deal at all though; I suppose that falls under what you said in your author's note about spelling and grammar mistakes, too.

I'll be reading Chapter Two soon!

[Helene]

your writing style sounds like prose poetry to me. There is a rhythym, a beat. It is musical and pleasing. I haven't finished reading yet, but so far I appreciate. Even your about you writing is lyrical. I like to read, life long dream.

[Larry Dyson]

spot on write....reading chapter two...your style reminds me Of- Heinlen-"Stranger in a Strange Land"..