Chapter One

A Chapter by Danniimoir

Perfection. The highest possible degree in proficiency, skill and excellence. When I was younger my mother used to tell me that nobody is perfect. They are now.

Growing up in a world full of only faultless people that were impeccably dressed and lived in immaculate houses was bound to drive you slightly insane. And that's exactly what I was branded. I was regarded as the defective, unstable little girl who couldn't control her emotions.

The truth of the matter is, I'm not mentally incapable, I've just been through a great deal in my life. Watching your parents get brutally murdered in front of you isn't particularly my idea of enjoyable entertainment, and what kind of person would I be if it didn't affect me?

In the governments twisted minds, a society of people that didn't meet their perfection requirements were unworthy of living. Sixty years ago, back in 2025, three new founding fathers took over everything and began moulding the society's minds into thinking that anything less than perfect was punishable.

They saw defection as a disease, infecting people, a disposition regarded as adversely affecting the people of our society.

I, however, saw perfection as a disorder, an obsession so strong that it continually preoccupies and intrudes the government's sick minds and everyone else's who believes their crap.

They have such a compulsive preoccupation with their fixed idea of perfection it was disturbing.

People became afraid and cowardly. Others caused a rebellion, my parents being part of that.

Now in the year 2085, the population were practically robots, programmed to be perfect. That didn't mean people never slipped up. They did.

Slipping up had consequences, as did pretty much everything; Conflicts, driving too fast, bad grades, stained clothes, walking on the grass, and the list goes on. Even the disabled were punished.

I've never tried to escape. You may think that that alone makes me crazy, but I know better. Each person in the division has a tracker bomb inserted in the metal clamp, worn like a bracelet around our wrist. One step over the line keeping us in and boom! We were history. Sometimes I do think that's the healthier option. At times I think about what it would be like for my body to just explode, parts of my body flying everywhere, the pain, heartache and relief pouring out of me onto the street of this messed up civilization. But that would be the coward's way out.

I look at my reflection in the tattered and cracked mirror in front of me, my face is stern and my cheekbones stand out like little mole hills. My long brown hair twisted into curls, falling down my back and my icy blue eyes dart back and forth as I watch the other girls in the dorm from the mirror, frantically straighten their clothes, make their beds and polish their black slip on shoes. I just sit there feeling a loss of energy due to the lack of food we get in this hell.

Twenty seven other girls and I share one room at the 'Imperfect Family Home for Strays', a home created for those whose parents have deceased or are imprisoned. The majority of us are unable to live freely, well, as free as you could be here, because our parents were or are insurrectionist. In other words our parents took part in a rebellion against the constituted authority, in hope at improving the conditions we live in. We, the children of the insurrectionist, are not trusted to not turn out like our parents; therefore we are kept a closer eye on and treated without value, kindness or respect. They just sit back watching us, intimidating us and threatening us until we crack, giving them motive to label us mental, aggressive or dangerous.

Once you're labelled, there's nothing you can do. A meeting with the government is required and then you are presented with the option of lifetime imprisonment, death or in some cases, Empirical Island.

My meeting is today.