See My [Creative] Spark Saturday is a new feature every week here at The Undercover Book Lover. It's a feature when I post an original written piece; either a short story or a poem and you guys can comment and give me constructive feedback on them =) You get a glimpse of my [no matter how minuscule] creative spark!
Today's Spark is a short story called:
Inspired by Lauren Oliver's Delirium
I am trapped. In a place of which only knows hunger and poverty. Trapped in a world with a black, empty, bottomless void that leaks darkness and hate.
The bloodied, grime-infested creatures; kids, just like me. But not. They hang limply against the blood-stained, gray brick wall; like immovable mounted trophies, except for the fact that they are sixteen year-old teenagers, just like me.
The animal trophies would be better to look at than these rag dolls.
“Hey you! What are you doing over there?!” I am suddenly pulled away from my disturbing, but nonetheless very real and very present thoughts.
“You stop dreaming why don’t you? You know it’s against the rules!”
I simply nod, absent and tired.
“You best do what he says. We all know what’s coming and it’s useless to fight...unless your as pigheaded as me. Ha! All they do in that room is torture you, then they bleed all of your thoughts out of you,” the boy next to me whispers, motioning to the big wooden door towering over us; even from ten feet away. His sweaty, dirty brown hair covers part of his deep, chocolate eyes; mysterious and mischievous.
I am not surprised of this. I’ve heard of the many things they do here in the Society; especially rumors of the Illusia Process. At the age of sixteen, everyone must go through it.
Here in the Society, they do not allow thoughts, dreams, and aspirations to flourish. The Society turns us into mindless robots, bleeding us of our very own thoughts. The Illusia Process is a cure. Or so They think.
“When is it your turn?” I whisper in reply, afraid that the guards will suspect us of escape.
The boy is grabbed, a guard pulling his filth-ridden shirt, tearing it to reveal a multitude of scars. The boy fights and resists, “I will not go! No! No! No! Ahhhhhhh!” His screams of resistance are futile as the doors close behind him and the guard.
His screams echo. And echo. And echo.
Suddenly, the screams stop.
The door is slowly moved open. In he walks, quiet with his head bent down, facing the floor. He sits beside me in his place and I notice the fresh cuts and raw bruises he now bears; deep and painful.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t reply, but looks up for just one moment, the mischievous glint in his eyes is gone.
“Are you okay?” I ask once more.
He doesn’t reply. This time, his eyes stay down and apathetic; empty.
I then realize that this is what will happen to me when I go through those dreaded doors.
I will be stripped of my soul.
The guard approaches my fetal-positioned form. “Are you going to fight?” He asks, ready for resistance.
I hold my head up high, “Yes, I will,”
I have Illusia.
I have the dreamer’s disease...And I do not want to be cured.Author's Note: Constructive Criticism is welcomed =)