Outside the Box - Chapter 1

Outside the Box - Chapter 1

1

Tap. Tap. Tap. My fingers dance across the desk like miniature ballerinas. The key difference is that my fingers don’t wear tutus and that my fingers are shaking like leaves. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Why is it taking this long? Is there something wrong? It didn’t take this long with my sister, I think to myself, my thoughts racing so fast I can barely make sense of them. Fifteen years I’ve lived in  this city and fifteen years I’ve waited for this moment. 

But now it’s here and I can hardly believe it. 

Today I will find out the date of my death. Today I will be just like my parents and my sister and every single other person in this crazy world. 

Whenever someone turns fifteen, it is a celebrated day for that person. Not only have you reached another year of life, but you can finally see the day you will die. They say it is a choice, that you can say no. But no one ever decides not to peek, and the people who do normally end up in the asylum, never to be seen again. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

My parents are probably anxiously waiting at home. They’ll pepper me with questions the second I step through the door. Everyone will ask me what my Date is. Some of the girls at school think that if you meet someone with the same Date as them then you’re soul mates. I don’t believe that nonsense. 

No one knows how they figure out your Date. We were told that there are Calculators up in the highest floors of the government building. They use formulas and stuff to calculate the amount of days you have left. But it’s never enough days. 

The Calculators don’t tell you how you die, just that you will on a certain day. And that is what drives people crazy. 

Everyone always tries to prevent their deaths, but it never works. They always die - no matter what. Spend tons of money fireproofing your home? You’ll drown in your bathtub. Never walk alone at night? You’ll get hit by a car. And even if you take every precaution you can, there’s always diseases, murderers, bombs, and several other things that can take you out as well. In fact, I don’t know one person who hasn’t died on their Date yet. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. I wonder when it will be. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

And then a knock. I bolt upright in my seat, straining to see the man who will give me my doom. 

Dr. Marks steps through the door, his cold, beady eyes looking over me with disgust. I may not look like much with average brown hair and pale, gray eyes, but he doesn’t look much better. 

Dr. Marks is the leading science technology doctor in our city. Everyone knows his name because he’s the only Calculator who revealed it. He has a cold gaze and a sharp nose that looks like a beak, his graying hair is always the topic of discussion. He must be approaching his Date soon, the people say. He can’t live for that much longer. And yet he does. 

“Jacob Tristan.” In his greedy fingers is a white envelope, one that conceals the Date of my untimely death. My fingers want to reach for it, to snatch it up and tear it open. 

“It’s Jake, actually.” I mumble under my breath. Dr. Marks pays no attention to my comment. Instead, he takes the envelope and sits it on the table in front of me. He watches me with eyes that burn into my chest, as if waiting to see if I grab the envelope and tear it open. But I don’t. I don’t move at all. 

“You will be escorted out in fifteen minutes. The envelope and contents will then be burned. Please use your time well.” Dr. Marks smiles before walking out of the room and shutting the door behind me. 

I lunge for the envelope. My nervous fingers are slick with sweat. 

The envelope is not sealed. I undo the tab - the suspense is killing me. Fifteen years I’ve waited for this moment. 

Two months ago, my best friend, Andrew, got his envelope. His Date isn’t for another fifty-six years. That’s not a bad Date, although it is a bit earlier than some. A week later, my other friend, Laura, got her envelope. She has thirty-three years. And although that seems like not a lot, Laura was happy with it. 

A tiny slip of paper falls from the envelope to the table. I flip it over. My Date is on the back… 

This can’t be right! 

The Date reads for exactly one week from today. One week?! 

I almost run and knock on the door. I can imagine Dr. Marks throwing open the door and asking what’s wrong. Sorry, sir, but my Date must be wrong. It says next week, but that can’t be right. Maybe you meant like, one century or something? 

No, the Calculators never make a mistake. 

I will die in one week. 

My body is numb and rigid like a board. I gaze at the paper again, flipping it over and over, hoping maybe the tiny print will change. It doesn’t. 

One week. One week. One week. It’s like a chant in my head, throbbing with my racing pulse and bouncing around my skull. One week. One week. One week. 

The door opens ten minutes later and Dr. Marks asks me if I’m satisfied, if I know what the paper read, if I have the day I will die committed to memory. I nod silently, and he beckons to one of the security guards to escort me out of the building. 

The sun is bright today, seeming too happy for my dismal mood. There are people everywhere, all smiling and laughing. I wonder when they will die and how many of them are scheduled to die next week. Probably none, except for me. 

Sometimes, people tattoo their Date onto their skin. Most of the time, the end up murdered. 

Everything on the walk home seems to be taken for granted by me. 

I never noticed the patch of daisies growing from the sidewalk before. I’ve never seen the Ad-Boards float above the ground. I never paid attention to how the sun reflects off the silver buildings and paints rainbows in the mists from the fountain. 

My parents couldn’t afford to purchase an actual house. Those are super expensive and mostly located on the outskirts of town. Instead, we own an apartment in one of the buildings not too far from the center of the city. We own the entire 34th floor, the only way to access it is by fingerprint scan on the floor button. 

Our apartment may be located near the heart of the city, but we definitely don’t get as much traffic as the actual square does. I watch from the elevator as the tiny shuttles below race across the streets, darting their way around each other. The city stretches for as far as the eye can see. My parents have never left, I don’t know anyone who has been out of the city. It’s so big and everything we need is easily accessible. 

Immediately upon entering my apartment, my mother and father bombard me with hugs. 

Across the room, my older sister rolls her eyes. My younger sister doesn’t notice, she’s playing on the floor with a doll. My parents step back, admiring me. I notice how much I look like each of them. 

I have my mother’s light brown hair and my father’s pale gray eyes. My mom’s eyes are more of a hazel and my dad’s hair is blonde rather than brown. 

Bridget - my older sister - is seventeen now, and she resembles my father completely, although her eyes are a shade of blue that shifts from day to day. Bridget pretends to despise me, but I think that’s just what older siblings do. Next year, she moves out and I don’t have to worry about her again. She’s already looking at renting an apartment halfway across town. 

My younger sister, Juliette, doesn’t resemble either of my parents. She’s already growing dark hair (she’s four) and has vivid blue eyes. My parents swear she isn’t adopted, but… 

“So, how was it?” My mother asks me finally, breaking into a huge smile. 

“What did it say?” My father asks at the same time. 

I don’t know whether to tell the truth or lie. Surely my parents will offer support if I speak the truth. But if I lie and say my Date is in many years, they won’t worry about me. 

I decide to tell the truth and confess. I’d rather have my parents pity me now than think I’ll die in many years only to have me drop dead in a week. 

“One week. Exactly.” My voice is low, almost a whisper. My parents don’t move or speak. Bridget looks up from her seat on the armchair. Only Juliette doesn’t seem to her, she keeps playing with her doll on the floor.  

I glance at the calendar on our wall. The screen glows with an ugly white light, meaning that my parents opened it right before I came home. It’s a tradition in many families to keep the Dates displayed on the calendars so the entire world can see. My parents wanted me to enter my Date. I don’t think they do anymore. 

“Haha, so funny.” My mom giggles nervously. “That’s my Jakey, too hilarious.” 

I keep silent. My father wraps an arm around my mother and her nervous smile fades. “No, Jakey, you can’t be telling the truth. One week? That’s barely anything.” She pushes her head into my father’s shoulder and sobs shake her body. 

Bridget stares at me from her seat, her e-reader on the floor. Juliette looks up from her doll, but she doesn’t know what’s going on. Juliette is oblivious to literally everything, and because she’s four she’s the only one unaware of her imminent doom. My father rubs my mom’s back soothingly. I turn and run to my room. 

The smooth gray walls are dark when I leave the lights off. There is a singular window that faces the center of the city, and my bed is lined up against the wall. It isn’t much, especially now that Juliette has most of my old stuff. There’s some books and a desk, but other than that my parents don’t really buy me things. Junk and stuff has been getting rather expensive because of a shortage of trade, but my parents told me not to worry. We still have the essentials. 

I wish I hadn’t told my parents about my Date. Yes, it will be hard for me. But what about my other and my father? How does it feel to lose a child? And Bridget is old enough to understand. Juliette will grow up without me, but I’m sure she’ll remember me nevertheless. 

I wonder how I’ll die. The Calculators can never actually tell you, which is why so many people go crazy trying to prevent their deaths. 

If you’re rich enough, they have centers on the edge of town where to can spend your final days, months, or even years doing insane things like skydiving and spa baths. It costs more to spend a day there than it did to buy our apartment, but for the rich it must be amazing. Imagine having warm water or getting actual books to read. 

But for others - the ones who go crazy - there are other places too. There’s the asylum for those who don’t look at their Dates, but there’s also a center for those who go insane trying to prevent their deaths. There’s even a place where they kill you on your Date so you don’t have to worry about the pain. But still, why would you want to die if there’s a chance that you don’t have to? 

I said that the Calculators are always right, but there was a scandal a few years back when a girl jumped from a building prematurely before her Date. The Calculator who gave her Date was fired and probably executed, but the girl was never seen again - not even the body. 

There’s a knock at my bedroom door. “Come in.” I mumble. 

It’s Bridget, and her eyes are a bit puffy. There’s a twinge of anger in my gut because part of me feels that no one else has the right to feel emotion about the situation. It’s my Date, my death. Bridget still has how many years to live. 

“I’m supposed to tell you that mom is taking you to the doctor’s tomorrow. She says that dinner is leftovers tonight and she understands if you don’t want to eat.” Bridget explains. 

“Thanks,” I sigh. “And she couldn’t tell me this because?” 

“Because we have the right to be sad too, Jake.” Bridget says grimly, her voice cracking. “I may pretend that I despise you, but you’re still my brother. And mom is just upset because you’re her son. That’s why she’s taking you tomorrow. She wants to see if there’s anything she can do to save you.” 

“I can’t be saved. My Date has already been given. I’m just glad it wasn’t sooner, like tomorrow.” I shrug, pretending that it doesn’t bother me. But it does. 

Bridget doesn’t say anything, she simply gets up and leaves. I flop down on my bed. 

No one dies before the age of fifteen. It has never happened before - ever. Sometimes, children will go missing. But there also gangs underground that tend to kidnap kids. Some say that by killing someone you gain their years left, but I don’t think it’s true. 

At least I have time to say goodbye to Andrew and Laura. Although that means my mom can’t hold me at the doctor’s all day. But then again, medical attention isn’t cheap. 

I take one of the books off my shelf and hold it in my hands. There are only eleven books approved for household use. There are about 100 if you visit the library and get an e-reader, but it costs money. Bridget normally buys some, but she can only have them for a week. 

The only books I own are manuals for the house, the standardized rule books, textbooks, and a single book on the history of the city. Unless, of course, you count the book hidden inside the textbook for math. Then I would have eleven and a half books. 

A few years ago, there was a rumor of a man who smuggled books into town. He was a very odd man - he went by the name Turnip, and no one knew if that was his real name. He had a contact in the city who used her head to write things - something that seemed purely based on imagination. How could anyone make things up and put them on paper? 

Andrew and Laura didn’t believe in Turnip’s source, but I was curious. What if someone actually could write things besides the words required for school? I was the last customer for Turnip apparently. I bought his last book for about 300 Muds - which are bronze coins that are tiny and easily concealable. Although it was quite expensive, I took the book home, cut a hole in my math book with a steak knife, and placed my new book inside. 

I’ve read the book twice, only because there are a lot of words that I don’t understand. I tried to use one of my dictionaries to translate, but because I can’t write anything besides math and simple words, it was too challenging. The book is a story about a city elsewhere with magic. I know magic isn’t real though. If it was, it would’ve changed by Date. 

Turnip was executed the next day, and no one knew if it was actually his Date. The next day, there was a big stink when some woman was killed. They found writing utensils in her house. I remember the screams as the gun was placed to her temple… 

Juliette shrieks from the living room, and I check my clock. It’s late now, Juliette is just heading to bed. That means Bridget will be watching her shows in her room and my parents will be putting Juliette to bed. The perfect time to sneak into the kitchen for food. My stomach growls and I remind myself I haven’t eaten since lunch. 

Food is growing short here too, but I don’t know why. My parents are pretending it’s not a big deal, but it’s becoming harder to get enough food for the five of us. 

I grab a packet from the pantry and stick it in the Processor on the counter. The Processor opens the packet, makes the food, and bam, your meal is ready. Except, they’re hardly working anymore either. Andrew said the other day his Processor broke and his parents can barely afford a new one. Our own Processor hasn’t been making nearly enough food as it normally does. 

Maybe it’s good that my Date is in one week. 

I take my food to my room, but on the way my vision goes black for a second. 

I can feel the hallway around me, the walls aren’t far. But I can’t see a thing. 

A message flashes in front of my eyes, just long enough for me to read it before my vision returns. I stumble and fall over, hitting the floor hard. 

My plate spills and my parents come running from Juliette’s room. 

“Are you okay, sweetie?” My mom asks as she lifts up my arm. 

“I’m fine, just slipped in my socks on the floor.” I blush picking up my plate and piling the food back on. 

Juliette wails from her room and my parents share a worried look before rushing back to her. I slip into my room, sitting my plate on my desk but not touching a single piece of food. I’m not hungry anymore. 

The message was only seven words, but they seemed threatening. Times are changing, you need to escape. I rub my head, my stomach growling again. I devour the dinner and go back out to the kitchen to place my plate in the dishwasher. My parents are sitting in the living room, talking in hushed tones. I stay hidden in the shadows of the hallway, waiting to see if I can hear what they’re saying. It’s probably about me. 

“What if he has a seizure or something? What if it’s something medical? Will the doctors fix it?” My mother whispers, her voice high and wheezy like she’s been crying. 

“It might be something as simple as a car accident. But we can’t prevent it no matter what. It’ll just get us shipped off to the Insane Society.” My father sighs. “He’s had a good life, and I know it’ll be hard to lose him. But there’s nothing we can do.” 

“We could run. Take him to the edge of the city and flee. The Calculators won’t have predicted that.” My mother suggests. 

“And what? Get us all killed?” My father sighs. “Listen, Mandy, I know that you’re worried about Jake. But no one has ever come back who has left the city. It’s best we help Jake live the best week he can and then order four of the serums. We won’t even remember him.” 

My parents are ordering Amnesia Serums? Those things are crazy expensive, at least 500 Silvers a pop. And for four? Our Processor could be fixed with that money! 

“What about the Processor?” My mom asks, reading my thoughts. 

“Listen, the city will handle it. Somehow, we always make it through with something new. There was that fire twenty years ago, remember? In the end, we got these nearly fireproof houses. And forty years ago we had the murderer on the loose? Now we have trackers that stain the skin of a murderer.” My dad explains, trying to be optimistic. “Maybe now we’ll get fresh food for once.” 

“I don’t know, Frank.” My mom sighs. “I need sleep. I plan on getting whatever is wrong with Jake from that doctor if it’s the last thing I do.” 

My father chuckles. “Good luck getting him to cooperate.” 

My mom laughs too, but there isn’t humor in it. They both stand and head back the other hallway towards Juliette’s room and their own room. 

I quickly drop off my plate at the sink and hurry back to my own room. 

Tomorrow, my mother plans on finding out if there’s something wrong with me. 

I can only hope that there is, because my mother will go crazy if I’m okay. She’ll end up with the other insane people. There can’t be a place worse than that. 

I guess that’s my Date getting to me. A week to live and I think an insane asylum is worse than death. I laugh to myself, dismissing the thought. A week to  live. A week to live. A week to live. 

I’m almost asleep when I swear I see a pair of eyes staring at me from the shadows of my room.
A week to live. A week to live. A week to live.