I wake up to a migraine, the sun’s blistering blaze slicing through my curtains, and the vague sense that I’ve been aroused myself from a euphoria. I think my name is Mara because that’s the name tattooed in cursive along the length of my pinkie. Somewhere in the depths of my mind, there is a voice, cooing softly. It’s so sweet and delicate that it reminds me of ruby red roses and a mother’s lullaby. It is insisting that I follow the standard routine, whatever that may be. I almost succumb to it, but as I stare at the name branded on my finger, a frightening revelation spits on the saccharine voice: Holy shit. I can’t remember anything about myself.
Hastily, I toss aside my bed sheets, streak across the hallway into the bathroom, and I nearly wretch at the sight of the foreign girl in the mirror. She has iridescent golden curls and crystal blue eyes that are shaded by lengthy, curvy lashes. Her complexion is also eerily scarless. She has sharp cheekbones that don’t have a trace of baby fat as well as a perfect bow-shaped mouth. It’s as if the person has been under the knife several times, resulting in this utterly flawless figure. Massaging my temples gingerly, I blink at my inconceivable reflection, waiting for the façade to melt and reveal the honest jungle girl underneath. Ten seconds go by. Thirty seconds. Sixty. She still remains, a look of stupefaction contorting her delicate features. Ruthlessly, I pull my cheeks, causing rouge blotches to emerge across the porcelain skin. I welcome them, for they make me appear human – make me feel more real.
After a whole half an hour of simply gaping at myself, I finally sag back, landing on the toilet lid. I burrow my tender face into the palms of my hands. My head is pounding like a lioness banging against the impenetrable bars of her cage. The cooing voice cunningly crawls out from the burial grounds of my mind where I temporarily silenced it. Once again, it attempts to seduce me into doing its bidding. I don’t fight it, for it promises me that yielding will make things easier. In relation to the distress I’m suffering, the offer is too good, too tempting to resist. As I submit, my worries begin to melt away into an obscure fog, blissfully filtering out through my body’s orifices. But then, I pay heed to a high-pitched, feminine voice summoning me to the kitchen for “my favorite breakfast.” A droplet of curiosity motivates me to latch onto any of more resilient thoughts and stay engaged in the investigation. What is my favorite breakfast? The voice in my head whines in protest, but the stupor also abruptly ceases, causing the fog to be vacuumed back. My brain is successively engulfed by various inquires. What is my favorite movie? My favorite band? My favorite type of music? My favorite animal? My favorite book? My favorite thing to do? Do I even have any favorites?
My nails scrape fervently into my scalp as the questions pile on top of each other, enough to build a skyscraper. Somehow, I am aware that, in the recesses of my mind, the flimsiest strings of memory are there, all tangled up and hard to distinguish. I try to pluck one free, biting down on my lower lip in concentration. Feebly, a strand unwinds from the cluster of recollections. It’s a snippet of (what I assume to be) the past: an image of my younger self riding a tricycle up a cobble-stone road. I sigh as the sensation linked to the memory encompasses me, making my veins pulse with dynamic invigoration. Although I urge it to remain so that it can grant me solace, the memory winds up receding, and I moan miserably at the loss. I call it back, but it does not oblige. Clearly, I’m not the dominant of my own mind. My brain has been tampered with, and whatever force exactly brought this confusion about has forbid memory accessibility as well. It wants me clueless.
For a few minutes, I merely stare at the hideous yellow and black tiled floor beneath my bare feet. Garnering the strength to stand on my wobbly legs, I strictly avoid looking at my reflection. I maneuver my way cautiously down the staircase, this persistent knot of discomfort sizzling in the acid my stomach. I’m nauseous. Every one of my senses are on high alert, perhaps even set on overdrive. By the time I arrive at the final step, I’m ready to erupt like a volcano.
There is an unfamiliar woman in the kitchen, sprinkling confectioner’s sugar onto a stack of fluffy pancakes. Her chest is flat, but she certainly has a booty on her. As I approach the lady with vigilant steps, I scrutinize her: short auburn hair that spirals just above her shoulders, thin lips smothered in pink lip gloss, and crystal blue eyes exactly like mine. Immediately, my brain identifies as Mother, and my tense shoulders slacken slightly.
“Hello, darling,” Mother says with a smile that could have been entirely lovely had it not been marred by the rippling wrinkles.
“Hi,” I reply, cautiously taking a seat at the table. She is your mother, the cooing voice informs me another time. You can trust her. I rub the side of head, groaning. Why are my insides still prickling with apprehension?
Mother places the delicious plate of chocolate chip pancakes in front of me, wiping her hands clean with a paper towel. “Your favorite,” she states knowingly, casting a wink in my direction before walking over to the sink and turning on the faucet. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“Uhm,” I say, watching her robotically grab a greasy pan off the stove and scrub it rhythmically with a sponge. Five inches up, five inches down. Five inches up, five inches down. I avert my gaze down to my breakfast and pick up a fork, though my appetite is nonexistent. “Not really.”
“That’s good,” Mother says nonchalantly. I shoot her a confuzzled look, a forkful of pancake mid-way to my mouth. When she swivels around to face me, that perturbing smile again is plastered distractingly on her face. I feel compelled to tell her to stop it, but I also have the strangest suspicion that she won’t really hear me. She seems unswayed by my staggered expression. “A girl needs her beauty sleep.”
Oh, yeah! I am thoroughly creeped out, and my uneaten breakfast dish is now starting to look like a very inviting place to retch. Mother then stares at me as if I am saying the most amazing thing into the world. My mouth is actually zipped up tight. The cooing voice persists, telling me adamantly, She is your mother. Trust her. Trust her. Trust her. Nevertheless, every part of my being screams at me to GET THE HELL OUT! Pushing away from the table, I jump out of my seat and mutter nervously, “You know what? I’m not that hungry, so—“
She bursts into a fit of hysterical, chirpy laughter. Frightened, I fall onto my butt, gracelessly like slipping on a banana peel. Mother bares all of her white teeth, doubling over exaggeratedly. My heart must believe that I’m in bad company since it is racing faster than a bunny’s when scampering through the woods, dodging a ravenous predator. Wiping away an imaginary tear from her right eye, Mother presses her free hand against her chest and shouts breathlessly, “Oh, Mara! You are too funny!”
Trust her. Trust her. I adamantly ignore the cooing voice. Using the soles of my feet, I slide across the polished floorboards and hurry toward the nearest exit. Next to the door, a black fur coat hangs on a hook, and there is an assortment of shoes lined up just below it. Clasping the doorknob, I clamber off the ground, ignore the heavy coat, but lodge on a pair of gray snow boots. Tentatively, I glimpse back at Mother, who’s regained her unnaturally formal composure. She beams brightly as she snatches my untouched dish. Apparently oblivious to the considerable load still left over, she dumps the plate into the sink, pancakes and all. Ecstatically, she yells, “Don’t forget to take your pills before you go, sweetie!” Not even a second later, I’m opening the door. The icy breeze of winter instantly nibbles at my flush cheeks. Daring one last glance back, I spot a bottle of sickly green pills situated at the edge of the kitchen table. I dart out the door in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding spewing out food that I don’t recall eating on the porch, but into a bush instead.
When I finish, I scrub my mouth against the back of my hand and turn my gaze to the montage of descending white speckles and hooded shapes roaming about the streets. Back straight. Hands at your sides. Be proper. Trotting down the steps, I take in my surroundings. Apparently, I live in the city in an area. As I inhale the scents of car exhaust and Italian spices, I am rattled by a peculiar discernment: unless they’re together, every single person walks either past or alongside one another, a stringent two-foot distance separating them. Everyone’s back is also very erect, their hands pasted to their thighs. There isn’t the slightest chance that these military bodies will collide, nor will their fingers accidentally graze. Even stranger is the fact that they’re all flashing that same unsettlingly jubilant smiled. Shivering, I force myself onward through the light carpet of snow.
Suddenly, I hear the vexingly soft voice state, Go to Nuts 4 Nuts cart on 2nd Ave. Roasted nuts. Yum-yum. Roasted nuts? Are you kidding me? Screw that. I try to repress the voice, but it is less susceptible to my demand. In fact, with each success I have at temporarily shushing it, the softly cooing voice seems to come back stronger. It’s more aggressive and authoritative. I can’t ignore the voice that commands, Roasted nuts. Yum-yum. Yum-yum, Yum-yum. Gripping a fistful of hair, I tug, jerk, and wrench to the extent that tears slither down my face, and a clump of golden hair rests unhappily in my reddish hand. Yum- yum. Yum-yum.
’“Oh my God! What is going on?” I exclaim, stomping through the slush. I shut my eyes and feel my heart beating turbulently; the effort ricochets to my arms, legs, neck, shoulders, elbows, knees, and ankles, leaving my whole body shaking uncontrollably. I’m tipping over, unable to support my own weight anymore. Obviously in its way, a firm surface clashes against my teetering frame, and my back smacks the frosty, concrete sidewalk. My lungs relinquish any lingering breath.
When I risk easing my eyelids open, I see an older man lying on top of me. He’s lean, muscular, his lower jaw dressed with five o’clock shadow. In addition, he exhibits a wide set of very crooked teeth. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought that he was intending to pin me down and force himself on me. He says nothing, his glassy eyes giving no indication that he’s cognizant of my presence. My gut squeezes in shock as he continues to stare unresponsively into my eyes. White puffs emit from both of our nostrils. Veering my neck achingly to the side, I swallow down a lump in my throat, along with any shred of calm. I yelp at the astonishing sight before me.
Just seconds ago, there’d been hundreds of feet trudging through the snow; however, at this current moment, I only pick out two pairs within the mile radius. They belong to a woman and her awkward-footed toddler. I twist my head to the other side. No cigar. So, either everyone grew wings on their shoes like the messenger god, Hermes, and flew away, or… I can’t think of another brilliant alternative.
Deciding that he has spent ample time smushing me with his large physique, the man swiftly stands up and adjusts a button on his coat that was unfastened. After, he resumes marching mechanically down the block. I can’t comprehend this. Right then, it was like there’d been a massive bubble enclosing the man and me, quarantining us from the rest of the world. As soon as he departed though, the bubble popped, and the population of blithe city folk returned to my vision.
The cooing voice has converted into something reminiscent of a bear’s horrifying growl. Go to Nuts 4 Nuts cart on 2nd Ave. Roasted nuts. Yum-yum. Yum-yum. YUM-YUM! My ears are church bells, ringing thunderously. I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, craving the sight of blood simply to reassure myself that I’m not dead. Reality is furious with me. It yearns to drive me mad with this deceptive voice and these illusions.
Snowflakes casually bed themselves on my eyelashes as I sit up, petrified. I get a fleetingly glimpse of the older man catching up with the woman at the crosswalk light. They kiss gently while the child sucks on its wee thumb. And then, as if watching a child rigorously suck its flesh was the very thing I need to stimulate my intelligence, I understand. I contemplate why Mother did not respond appropriately to my sentences or notice my confusion at her absurd behavior; why the older man discerned no one except his wife and child. This city – maybe the world – must be living the same day on a loop. There is a specific routine that every human is being assigned to follow. The softly cooing voice acts as a narrator, telling them who to trust, what to do, and how to act. If there are changes to the standard course, the voice probably just instructs them how to move forward and proceed with events as usual. It also appears as though these people have had their brains rewired to only perceive those that are essential to advancing their day. Dear God, how long have we been strolling along like this? How is this even achievable?
“Miss! Miss!” Something grabs me by the shoulders and barks into my face, “Miss, please! Contain yourself!” This creature – outfitted in an elastic, white body suit – covers my mouth with a gloved hand. There are metal pads on its shoulders and knees, silver disks covering each square inch of its chest, and a full-face helmet that shrouds its eyes, nose, and mouth. It towers over me, breathing loudly, and static noises come from a diminutive radio hooked to its belt. By the growing raw sensation in my throat, I realize that I’d been screaming, which is how I captured this beast’s attention. I catch the words, “Take care… do what is necessary, soldier.” I think it’s a person beneath the mask – a man, specifically, due to his deep pitch – but I’m not sure. Regardless, eyes widening at this unknown creature, I begin to thrash my limbs around. My fist punches something solid, causing my knuckles to throb in agony from the harsh blow.
“Did someone neglect to take their pills?” the soldier asks with an ominous chuckle, clicking a little green button located below his chin. The black mask becomes temporarily transparent, revealing the skeletal, intimidating face of a man. I don’t know what to feel: overjoyed that someone’s regarding me or unnerved by the man’s cynical grin. “Well?” he snaps, making me cower back. Consequentially, the man snatches my ankle, yanking me closer, and snarls. Unnerved, it is. He grabs my chin roughly, forcing my face left and then right. He scrutinizes me.
I remember Mother calling out to me before I ran outside, reminding me to take those disgustingly green pills on the table. It’s evident, as the man looks into my eyes, that he’s scrutinizing me for signs of the drug. My expression, absent of a smile, was most likely the first clue that I hadn’t taken them. Screaming was my downfall. As he observes me, the man’s eyes disclose the truth: the pills are pivotal. They are the key to this malicious operation.
He takes in a big inhalation of air, and I cry out as the black of his pupils completely devours the color in his eyes. Hissing maliciously, the man seizes my second ankle and drags me down the city block. Of the hundreds within the vicinity, no citizen takes notice of the wailing girl, her face diving in and out of piles of dirty snow. The cement abrades her once handsome skin until the sidewalk is adorned with sticky red blood.
We tunnel through a musty, abandoned alley, where the man finally releases my ankles. I shrink against the freezing brick wall, panting as well as inefficiently nursing my wounds. Leisurely, the man snakes a hand into his pants pocket, taking out a handkerchief that’s notably wrapped around a cylinder object. “Don’t you worry,” he murmurs with a cruel smirk. “In no time at all, you’ll be back to living your perfect day.”
Perfect day? Briny tears slide down my cheeks. I feel like I know what’s coming, and I’m terrified. Perfect day, my ass. Living isn’t going through the motions on repeat. I hardly manage to utter my final question. “W-Why?”
“Because this is how mankind can live harmoniously. Years ago, we were killing our species off with treacheries like slavery and war. We were in dire need of a more concordant way of life, and we came up with this: an unproblematic day arranged for every single individual. In other words, a day that is completely devoid of aggression, frustration, envy, sadness and lament; a day where you encounter only those who are most precious to you; a perfect day! No one can be anything but happy – every second of every minute of those twenty-four hours. We are all human, but we haven’t always acted humanely. By teaching mankind how to think and behave, morality will become second nature to us. And someday, we’ll be able to proceed without conflict as well as successfully thrive on this planet.”
A syringe with yellowish liquid is thrust into my neck. I shudder, my eyes rolling back, the energy oozing out of every pore of my abused body. The man sweeps my golden hair back from my face and says, “Live life peacefully.” Peering at him through my fatigue, I recognize the conviction in his voice. He truly deems that this operation will better humanity. Before I fall unconscious, I find myself mulling over the expedition toward obtaining peace. How gloriously demented it really is.
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What’s going on? Where am I?
Go to Nuts 4 Nuts cart on 2nd Ave. Roasted nuts. Yum-yum.
Oh, what a sweet voice.
I shall oblige.
