Prologue: Sincere Apologies

The start of it all.

When I had my first panic attack I was sitting on my designated patch of ground behind a hefty stack of hover boards. They provided substantial shelter and a great hiding place from the other kids. My long red hair was woven down into a thick braid that snaked its way over my shoulder and down my flat, 13 year old chest. I worried at a few split ends, trying to keep my mind off of anything but those pieces of hair. My knees were drawn tight into my chest as usual, as I tried very hard to exist only in my little world.           

"Scarlet!" All the air rushed out of my lungs and through my fleshy lips in a small yelp. I instantly dropped the braid and my legs fell down. "Are you going to come play with us?" It was Rata. I wondered if her parents decided to do a visual scanning to see what her features would develop into as she grew older. They must have because her name was eerily accurate when considering her appearance. Little, pointy teeth that were unattractively crooked and stuck out in places they shouldn't have. Beady, black eyes that darted every which way at the detection of even the slightest movement. I stared at her features for I hadn't really had the opportunity before, even though we attended all the same Teachings as everyone else. I was fairly deep into my analysis, already figured out my conclusion which proved my hypothesis correct. She was such a rat. "Hello? How come you never play with us? It's weird..." At this point her words just blended and mixed together into a buzz of white noise in my ear that I desperately needed to destroy. I smacked my ears with irritation, unable to focus my vision as a few other kids came up behind the black haired menace, egging her on. They all agreed, I was weird. I was a freak and this little meltdown I was having was only proving them right. I could feel the perspiration pouring down my face in buckets, the goosebumps on my arms raised to their highest. My heart was beating so fast I'd been frightened it'd burst right through the thick layers of my chest cavity and onto the ground.

Unable to handle the taunting, I clambered my way to my feet, tried my best to find the simplest way to breathe and raced inside the Teachings building, in search for a new hiding place.

I later learned that this condition I have is called anxiety. But I wouldn't dare come out and tell anyone about it. Couldn't threaten the laws of stability, or our way of life, as we knew it. So no, I didn't ask for help. I taught myself how to deal with this mental illness and avoid any other means of alienation. I wonder if I can blame my development of anxiety on the time of my youth were no memories are able to precede a certain mental barrier.

People my age should have memories from between ages 6 - 12 but for some reason, I didn't. Maybe during this time I endured some traumatic events that left me scarred for the rest of my life, left me with this lovely condition. Maybe I should've been worried by the lack of memories and asked my parents, demanding explanations about it when I had the chance, but it's too late now.

I can sense those past feelings of panic sinking in as I take a deep breath and step out onto the podium. All eyes are on me. All acid covered, malicious pupils targeted directly at my heart, boring holes into my soul, searing scars across spirit. The cool titanium, by appearance as solid as it should be, seems to mold with the natural curve of my grip as I hold the edges of the structure in front of me. The machine adapts to my present state, the bottom extracting to create a seat. I collapse in exhaustion.

This sudden physical defeat should frighten me, make me uncomfortable. I've never felt this way before, so hopeless. It makes me feel red. This must be anger. It seems to fit these circumstances, so I do nothing to stop it. My hands seem to clench and unclench the malleable substance before me, struggling to regain my previous-more or less- civil state. My "family friend" appears to notice. Glancing down at my hands, he uses my weakness to his advantage, a well prepared opponent. "We stress her with our worries of the sickness possibly coexisting in this young lady's body, yet we know from past research that it is not contagious." The crowd seems to rumble with animosity, individuals shut out in pure rage, "We know it is hereditary!" Others feed off these facts, "Yeah! What if she has it in her blood?! Must we wait for her to breed and continue to spread this fatal disease!" My brain slowly shuts down with every spiteful word they throw my way, their hate for me is a burning passion. It will not die but only grow, the fire will spread until it reaches my toes, crawls up my helpless body and slithers blisters down my throat. My words are lost, my eyelids grow heavy, my lungs seem to stop processing oxygen. My grasp on the titanium finally weakens, my wrists fall slack, arms following, down to my sides. My vision blurs as I slowly slip away...

I awake to the sound of machine driven beeping, I do not open my eyes, but I feel control seeping back into my appendages. The voice from earlier still haunts my ears, "Well where will you put her then?" No, not haunting, but present. Only a few yards away I hear my previous tormentor, mindlessly spewing words of my inevitable fate. Knowingly, yet still trying to fight for me, trying to make it seem like he cares. "Ah, look. It seems she has awaken." Someone hushes his eager voice, a hush of true concern, they whisper words of caution as I hear their careful footsteps approach me.
          "Scarlet? Why don't you open your eyes?" The same sound of admiration rings in my eardrums, automatically my eyes flutter open. I see a smooth ceiling, titanium of course, sterile yet still stylish. Appearance is everything in this world. Appearance, cleanliness.
          "Scarlet! Are you okay? You gave me quite a fright this morning!" I cringe at the contact of his hand on mine. Instinctively I rise up to a sitting position, drawing my hand into my body, supporting my torso with the other.
          "I'll leave you two alone." The helper in a white and green uniform of a tight white dress-how they perform their jobs effectively in that thing, I'll never know-and a mint green blazer paired with matching, still to par, sensible shoes. Her platinum silver hair is drawn up into a tight bun and she flashes me a set of perfect, pearly teeth, blinking her dip dyed teal eyelashes before she bows her head, then turns to walk away. I turn to the foe at the side of my resting place.
           "You are going to be taken to a place, Scarlet. A place where no one gets out once they go in. I've been fighting for you but it's just no use, everyone is so stubborn."
           "Well they should be, shouldn't they?" I interrupt, "everyone lives by the rules, right? Keep it sterile, stylish and stable. I haven't been following any of those rules." His eyebrows draw together in confusion, this hunter, hungry for the kill seems to realize I am not a suitable competitor anymore, a good prey for the game.
          "I don't think you understand, Scarlet. You'll never see me again." I have to giggle.
          "My sincerest apologies, but I don't see that as such a bad thing."

 

Author's Note

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