“Here we have Roger Taylor, our beautiful piece of art. He’s about 17 years old. We rescued him from his abusive parents 3 years ago, so all we could do was alter his vision a bit and add night vision powers!” I told the crowd, reciting the exact speech I practiced in front of the mirror many times. “He’s sassy and will fight you, so we ask that he goes with someon...
“I would first like to welcome you all to today’s auction! As you all read in the invite, this is a secret trade and anyone who dares says a word, you will be prosecuted, understood?” The audience of 30 clapped and grinned. “Bidding will go up in 10,000 dollar increments, highest gets the child…”
“No- stop!” I heard Allysa say to the guards. They were moving ...
Im not mental. Im not mental. This isn’t who I am. Did I make it clear?! My eyes twitch in the dark. I can’t sleep again, insomnia is too much, but also the least of my problems. It must be about 5 in the morning and I’m counting the squares on the roof. Every day I get a different number and it drives me insane- I mean no it doesn’t!
“How did you guys get here?” Abbys question burns through my mind. Alyssa is busy telling her story about being a clone and all while I float here trying to come up with an explanation. I’m not a cool soldier like Alyssa, or a mental patient like Darius, heck I don’t even have birth parents like Ella! At least her parents loved her.
I woke up from another bad dream last night. I was tossing and turning in my metal cage and making a huge mess with my water bowl. I hear one of my friends- Darius, insanely rocking against the bars from insomnia.
“Allysa, are you ok?” Kates voice said coming from her cage next to mine. Ok??! Am I ok!? No, I’m a prisoner, a test subject, just like my other 5 fr...
“So we don’t have all the victims anymore?!” Dr. Burt grabbed his soldier by the neck. “How could you let this happen?! The auction was set for tomorrow and now we’re missing an experiment!” In the meantime I, Abby Archer, was sitting in Dr. Burts lab chair listening in. Dr. Burt is my uncle who took me in when my dad died in a car crash. He loves me, I think.
In this little community, our doors define us. The colour of our doors are painted according to who we are perceived to be. All our privacy is exposed as soon as someone looks at your door. The city council comes around to paint new colours once they find new information about you, and you are forbidden to take it off.
As I walk through my neighbourhood at dusk, I glance at the doors I alway...
