By
A.M. Freeman
What if you were not alive, but the executioner was at your door?
Thirteen years. Only one year more and he would be thirteen. Finally he’d be considered alive.
The official papers would be filled out, and he could become his own person. He had only to wait one more year, then he would be Detached. He would officially choose his name, he could celebrate his birthdays, he’d have his own papers, his own rights, and his freedoms. He had been so sure, positive, that he’d make it.
Just like so many other kids at this stage, he dreamed and hoped for that moment. He imagined what it would be like to be a real person. He had even planned what he wanted to do: go to schools and learn new things, go on adventures and see the world, and be certain he’d have a future. All had been going well: Mother had been happy, he was being more of a help than a burden to her, freedom and humanity had seemed within his reach. But now, this broken arm might cost him more than just climbing trees for a while.
He wished he could be in a tree now, out in the woods behind his neighborhood. He liked it out there; it was much better than this cramped house. It was out there where he and his friends would meet—out there where he could say what he liked—out there where he kept his secret. He’d never told Mother, since it was something he shouldn’t be able to do, but he had learned how to read.
This had happened some time ago, while spending the day in the woods with his friends. On that day, they had found a vault half buried in the ground. There were many strange and old things in that vault, but most of all, there were books. Having not been allowed any formal education, none of them knew what the books said or meant. But over time, and with any information they could glean from home and the books themselves, together they learned to read.
Some of the books were boring, to him at least, but others were full of stories. Wonderful, incredible stories from times far past. And on these stories, he and his friends had thrived.
They were fascinating stories. But to them, almost unbelievable. He and his friends argued over whether such a time could have existed, where most children would have a mother and father at the same time. Or if it was true that back then, kids started learning in schools only four or five years after birth. Of course, there were rumors that richer families paid for private tutoring for their children—before they were fully developed. But there was never any evidence. They had enough money to keep things like that quiet.
Could there really have been a time where everyone lived like that? In a big family, going to schools, living and working where and how they wanted?
While he believed there was truth in these stories, not all of them could agree or decide what was real or not, and it troubled them. So together they’d built a dream and a promise: they’d make it to the age of Detachment, they’d learn, and they’d find the truth. He wanted to find the truth so badly; he hated being kept in the dark, pushed aside like he wasn’t even there. But he had ruined any chance of that. All because he’d climbed a tree a little too high, fallen, and now was stuck with this.
The crippled arm hung heavy against his chest in the homemade cast. It was something he’d learned in one of the books, something called a splint. However, having only one hand and the materials in his room to work with, it was a lot sloppier than the picture in the book had been. But with two sticks, thick paper, and some string, he’d managed to pull it together enough to support his damaged arm. Plus, the many hours he’d been stuck in his room had numbed it some.
He looked at the cast. With all the names crudely scribbled on, it looked like a grave yard. He had put them there himself, for his own sake. If he was going to have to leave, he wanted to remember his friends who’d gone before him.
Donna, she’d stayed out too late.
Ricky, he’d kept forgetting his chores.
Little Jim, he was too much of a stress and wasn’t healthy.
And then there was Emme.
Everyone said Dependents, like him and all his friends, didn’t really have life until they were Detached at puberty. It was said they couldn’t really feel or understand things yet. But if anyone had life it was Emme, and if there were any feeling to be felt, he knew he felt them.
Emme was the nicest, sweetest, kindest, most beautiful girl ever. Or at least, she was.
She had asked too many questions one night, when her mother had gotten home drunk.
But Emme was always like that, curious about everything. She’d been one of the first to figure out how to read. Then had been able to help the others, especially him.
Her mother owned a gun, so at least it was swift for her.
Sometimes he wondered where the kids went when they were Disposed. Can the un-alive die? He wondered, as his finger traced Emme’s name. He hoped he wouldn’t find out, but he had seen the look on Mother’s face when she’d seen his broken arm. He had seen that look before, when her career demanded she eliminate stress and focus on her work.
That stress happened to be his two-year-old sister.
She was on his cast too. Lucy the Cutie, that’s what he’d liked calling her.
Mother had that same look when she’d seen his arm that morning. But what scared him more was that it had stayed even as she’d left for work.
She would be back anytime now. He worried what she would say, what would happen next. Worried that his arm would never get a chance to heal.
He knew she needed rent, not to mention those shoes she’d had her eyes on, and he was already cutting in on expenses. He knew, he’d seen the bills.
If only he had been able to make it one more year. He was so close...
He heard footsteps. There was the clicking of heels, but also the stomping of serval pairs of boots. He froze, realizing Mother wasn’t alone.
His heart jumped in his throat as all his worst fears flashed before him. The rush of panic made him jump towards the window. But the sudden lurch sent a stab of pain through his broken arm. He bit his lip hard to stop himself from screaming and tasted blood in his mouth.
Tears filled his eyes and blurred his vision as he cradled his arm and looked frantically for an escape.
The footsteps were closer—he could hear voices. Something was happening to his head. He was suddenly hyper focused on analyzing the closet, the window, the door—looking for the best way out. Because all he could think about was running, escaping, not dying… staying alive.
But how can I die if I’m not alive? The thought cost him a precious few seconds, and by then it was too late. The footsteps stopped, keys jingled, and the doorknob turned.
Through the partly open door, Mother’s head poked in, a sweet smile on her face.
“There he is. Come on in gentleman,” she pushed the door open, and five burly man in white coats walked in. One of them was holding a brief case. Mother stayed outside.
He looked at the men. He knew what they meant, and this brutal realization made his voice crack as he asked, despite already knowing and dreading the answer; “Mother, what’s going on?”
He didn’t take his eyes off the men. He hardly even blinked, and his feet started backing him towards his closet. He had a distant hope that maybe he could hide in there until he woke up from this bad dream. He hoped this was a dream. This couldn’t really be happening.
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” Mother said, still hovering in the door way, “and now is just not a good time. That arm will only cause you pain, and it would be better for my health and security if I didn’t have to support you with that. It’s for my health and wellbeing, darling, and yours.”
“And the money,” the words slipped out before he could stop them. Something strange was happening to him: his heart was beating faster, he could feel the blood pumping through him, and he had a heightened sense of the danger he was in. She was going to have him Disposed of, he knew she was. She’d just said it herself, in a roundabout way. There was no way he was going to get out of here now; not with this arm, not against five man twice his size and strength. But something bubbled up inside him, an anger and defiance he’d never felt before, and he realized something. They were liars… they were all liars. But they weren’t going to take him—not without a fight.
“I’m sure they’ll give you a lot of money for my body. Just like you got that fat raise after you killed my little sister!”
“Honey, you know better than that. Lucy was never really alive, just like you aren’t, it won’t hurt.”
“Lies!” he shouted. Mother looked startled, but he didn’t care. She wasn’t his mother, not like the ones in the stories. She was an imposter, a sick mockery.
The men made a semi-circle, trapping him in the corner. He ran back and forth, looking for an escape and shouted, “You didn’t hear her scream! You had your daughter murdered and you were too much of a coward to stick around and hear her scream!”
Mother’s face grew red with rage, “That is enough child! Don’t make this harder than it has to be. This is for me, don’t you love your mother?”
“You are no mother, you selfish witch!” He could no longer feel the pain in his arm, and his eyes blazed as he ran back and forth, sweat pouring from his brow and his heart drumming in his ears. “Why should I love you when you don’t love me?! You are not a mother, mothers don’t kill their own children!”
Mother’s face was a mask of total insult and horror. “I gave birth to you! Do you know how hard that is?!”
“You mean how they doped you up on drugs and cut me out of your stomach so you could parade me around until you got bored or I become too much stress? You mean like that? Just like you did with Lucy?!”
His hands shook as he stopped pacing and looked at her. Anger and disgust settled in his stomach like a boiling fire. He felt the pain from all those times she’d rejected and neglected him when he needed to be held. The despair he’d endured when the only times he had received her affection was in the company of others. All the unjust acts and fake love she’d given him boiled and writhed, burning away any faith he had left in her.
His voice, hardly more than a whisper, came out like sheets of ice. Every word trembled with venom as he stood still and clenched his fists, looking at her with a gaze that turned from pain, to hatred.
“You may have grown me in your stomach, you may have even let me have your food and shelter, but you were never a mother to me.”
Mother was beyond speech. Her eyes bored into her son, but her rage had no affect him.
Her anger was inflamed by his resilience to it, and she snapped her fingers. The men started moving closer.
But he didn’t stop. He started pacing again, then sprinted back and forth, his blood racing as he shouted, “A real mother loves her children! She cares about them first! She holds them when they’re crying! She doesn’t go out late and leave them without dinner! A real mother doesn’t Dispose of her children! Because I am alive! And Disposing is killing! Don’t kill me!”
The men had grabbed him. Each of his limbs were held by one of them, and they lifted him up in the air. Sudden panic hit as they trapped him, and he struggled and yelled,
“I’m alive! Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me! I’m ALIVE!” He thrashed in their arms, blood pumping in his ears. His breath came hard and short, and his mind raced.
As he struggled, he saw scenes from his short life flash before him. Little Lucy, and her death, and friends he’d lost in the same way. He remembered his friends, the books, and Emme. And he wondered: If he could think, he could feel, he could reason, if he could do everything the adults could, how could they think he wasn’t alive?
For the first time, his mother looked unsure, watching the boy struggle and scream with such intensity. And she glanced at one of the specialists in their white coats.
“Don’t worry ma’am, it’s an underdeveloped reaction in the brain. This happens sometimes—nothing serious. You just go relax; this won’t take long.” The man set the brief case on the bed and opened it.
When the boy saw it, he began to thrash harder and scream louder. The man pulled a long white cloth from the case and tied the gag in the boy’s mouth. He stared at his mother as she slowly turned from the door—his eyes wide and truly afraid.
He tried to scream her name, to get her to come back and see what she was doing. He had no love for that woman, but maybe if he could get her to turn back, to see what she was really doing, maybe he could break the cold bubble she lived in.
But in the end, he knew she wouldn’t. He’d seen her do this before, and too many like her had done the same. Now it was his turn to be condemned by her. Condemned by this whole damned world. This world that was so different from the one in the stories he’d read. This world that so easily excused life not its own. This world that had no love.
She didn’t love him—she hadn’t loved either of them. It was only a status symbol to look like you cared about your children.
He heard his own voice screaming inside his head, then the man with the brief case was pulling on white gloves. He strained his neck to look at the doorway. Mother was gone. He felt a stab of pain as all hope suddenly drained from him.
The man in the white gloves picked up a long, curved needle and began walking towards him. The boy’s terror was beyond measure. As he fought for his life he managed to get the gag out, and his screams were shrill and horrific, “NOOOOO!!! I DON’T WANNA DIE! I DON’T WANNA DIE!!!!”
As he jerked and screamed, the pain in his broken arm became unbearable. He looked at his cast, now twisted and falling apart. His eyes focused on Emme’s name as the needle went in, and a last thought lingered in his mind. Maybe, maybe I will see her again. Then the pain hit, and a split second later, the numbness. He threw back his head and screamed one last time, then went completely limp.
The money was paid; his body put in the back of a cold van to be cut up, used, and distributed; and the mother put on a short dress and went out for a drink.