Alyssa Abed, Period 8, 12/6/22

Modern Mythology 2022

Creativity & Fiction

 I wake up at exactly 1500, as usual, to the harsh fluorescent light that characterizes the world I live in. Yawning and squeezing my eyes tightly to shield them from the light, I watch as the little colorful shapes dance across my field of vision. As much as I hate the bright lights, the colorful blobs are familiar—and in familiarity there is comfort. Once upon a time the world was brightened by another source of light. Unlike the cold, bright bulbs that light the whole world, they say this light was different; they say it was warm, natural… golden. Those some are executed. It may seem extreme, but here, where being late is a punishable crime, death is one of the nicer of consequences. Speaking of tardiness, I’ve spent too much time staring blankly at the bright light situated above me. I silently curse my wandering mind, rub the sleep from my eyes, quickly get ready, and run out the door. I don’t bother with breakfast, I have no time. 

    I concentrate on my work, carefully using the wrench in front of me, number 252, to tighten a set screw onto the piece of machinery in front of me—a tangle of wires, screws, and metal-like pieces I can not name. Like everyone else, I have only been taught my part in this process and will never see the final product. Only a select few, marked by their white robes, have the knowledge as to what is actually being built. I repeat this same tightening procedure so many times that I lose count, not that it matters, I must continue as long as the assembly line moves. The long stretch of line before me is filled with alike workers, wearing the darkest of gray uniforms. We are the lowest class, the least informed. Here, I am lost in a sea of gray, indistinguishable and unknown. Just as I like it. With less than 20 minutes left of work, I hear the familiar sound that signals someone has made a mistake. 3 quick beeps followed by a long one. I’m surprised it took this long. When “mistakes” are considered, but not limited to, asking questions, performing a task incorrectly, talking, stopping, laughing, speaking to a different shade, and mishandling materials, they are, unsurprisingly, a common occurrence. Beep, beep, beep, beeeep. There is no room for mistake, the beeping is a familiar sound that has been pounded into my skull. Perfection is demanded, failure is expected. I hope it’s not someone I know.

 It wasn’t always like this, as we’re taught in school, before the installation of A.L.S (the advanced lighting system), everything was dark. Chaos ruled the streets, crime rates staggered, and horrible acts against humanity were committed. A.L.S.C saved the world, lighting the path for change and order—literally. This new, strange cooperation promised to bring stability and peace to the people, in exchange for their cooperation. After the agreement was finalized, new laws and strict schedules were implemented. The new lighting system was installed everywhere. True to their word, crime rates dropped. Light had finally been brought to the whole wide world; no street, alley, house, bedroom, bathroom, bench, park, car, or building was spared from the intense glow of the A.L.S.C’s revolutionary never ceasing light. “24/7, 365, weather proof, and unbreakable! It’s sensational!”, had been a favorite advertisement slogan. 

A loud shrill sound pierces through the air snapping me back into the present and signaling the end of my first work shift. After following standard closing procedure, I briskly walk through the sea of gray, impatient to get to the meeting spot. I shoulder my way past others, earning myself a couple of glares. He’s not there. I press my face into the glass doors and watch the raindrops slowly trickle down the cool surface while I patiently count down the seconds.

“Brawn” a familiar voice says behind me. 

I spin around and grin at the tall, lanky boy with the intense blue eyes in front of me. 

“Lucy”, I move forward to embrace him tightly.

Through an outside viewpoint you’d think we were friends, or perhaps even lovers, but in reality we’re siblings—as different looking as can be. He’s always stood out in crowds with his blonde curly hair, blue eyes, and freckles. I, on the other hand, have always blended in with my black straight hair, dull brown eyes, and forgettable face. With only a three year age gap, we’ve always been very close, always following each other around and taking an interest in the same things. One of the first memories I have of him is when I came home one day from second grade, bawling my eyes out because I had gotten in trouble at school. Distracted by the koi pond, I had been late to class (a level 2 infraction); I had been mesmerized by the swishing tails and shiny scales of the fish and lost all track of time. My teacher of the time, a sour-faced man, decreed that the consequence would be to do away with the cause of my distraction. That day I was forced to eat one of the koi fish I had admired so greatly, a cruel and unusual punishment, especially for a child. This was when I first grasped the severity of law and the wickedness festering in those with power. Luke had asked me what had happened, listening intently to my story, his blue eyes clouding. He comforted me and took me to the pet store, where he bought me two fish, one red and one blue. “The law is hard, but it is the law, let these fish be a reminder that good things can come from bad events, one is blue like my eyes and the other is red like the hot blood that courses through your fiery being”, he told me that day, chuckling. 

 We walk to the air tube together, laughing and chattering about trivial nonsense. We arrive home to our older sister Heather, typing away on her laptop. Her rigid posture and tight bun are a familiar sight. As soon as we walk in, she shuts her laptop and rises stiffly to greet us. I smile timidly at her. She smiles back, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Even though she is 6 years my elder, we too, were once close. But that all changed when she was promoted to light gray color status. Her whole demeanor changed; she had always been a rule follower, but the promotion has taken it to another level. She sports dark bags under her eyes, frown lines, and a pasty complexion. I worry for her. 

“So…what's the prodigal light gray working on now?” I teasingly ask, trying to make conversation. 

 “Yeah whatcha workin on now sis” adds Luke. 

To my puzzlement, she glances at the A.L.S. light fixture besides me. Her eyes flashing with an emotion I can’t place. It’s gone so fast I wonder If I’m imagining things. She smiles at me again and flatly states law 50 section 19

 “Speaking of work related topics between citizens of different color statuses is off limits”, and more patronizingly adds,

“You should really know better by now Branwyn”. 

And even though I know the law, I can’t help but feel hurt.

“Sorry” I mumble, kicking off my shoes, and pushing my way past her. 

The rest of my day passes by uneventfully. Hours later, Luke finds me in my room,

“You alright there Brawn?” he asks with concern, “You’ve been quiet since… since recreational time.” I force a smile, it’s true. I’ve been sulking, perhaps more so than necessary.

“I’m just tired”, I lie.

Luke looks at me with his bright blue eyes—seeing, knowing. 

“Shut up” he says, “Listen, don’t worry about Heather. She’s just tired.” He hugs me.

“Goodnight Luke”

“Night Branwyn”.

I go through my night time routine. When I’m done, I plop myself in bed and stare at the ceiling. The bright light I’ve grown so accustomed to doesn’t bother me, better light than darkness, I think before drifting off to sleep. 

I wake up disoriented, goosebumps run up and down my arms and I’m acutely aware of the hairs on the back of my neck. Something’s off, something’s wrong. It takes me a minute in my groggy state—the light is off. Instead of the familiar harsh white light, my room is washed in a muted, red light that flickers and casts animated shadows that dance across my walls. A dull hum rings through the city, rings through my ears, filling me with dread and apprehension. I run down the hall, throwing open Lukes bedroom door… he’s isn’t in there. I try Heather's room next, but her room, too, is empty, her things thrown haphazardly about. My sisters have always been the organized one in the family. I open the front door, only to find the world completely and utterly dark. All I hear is the dull humming and occasional crunching of glass. Hundreds of questions race through my mind, but fear takes dominance. I retreat back inside, back to my room, back to my bed, back under my covers. I feel like a child again, confused and lost. I count the seconds, huddled under the comfort and safety of my blanket. I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear the sound of the front door softly opening. My heart beats aggressively and I try to force my haggard breathing into silence. I hold my breath. 

“Brawn” a soft voice calls,

“Heather” I sob, relieved by the familiarity of her voice. I throw off my blanket and race down the stairs to meet her. For a second I don’t recognize my sister. Instead of her normal light gray clothing, she is wearing all black, from top to bottom. She wears a tight black long sleeved turtleneck, stretchy black jeans, and combat boots. Her tight bun has been undone and her hair falls in dark, messy curls that outline her face. The dim lighting highlights her high cheekbones and sharp jawline. Her eyes blaze in a way I've never seen before. She looks good… powerful, formidable, foreboding. I am in awe. Shame suddenly flushes through me, for hiding, for being scared, for being weak.

“I don’t have much time, Brawn, come follow me quickly, I have a lot to explain–” she breaks off and turns to look at me, 

“Where's Luke?”

“I… I don’t know, I thought he was with you or… Heather, what’s going on? I don’t understand.” I whisper.

Her eyes scan our surroundings with unease, 

“He must have heard the alarm… must have gone to find me or… yes I’m sure he’s okay, right…?” she mumbles, speaking more to herself than me. 

“Ok. There is no time to look for him, let's go, follow me”.

We hurry down the dark, deserted block, my eyes struggling to see in front of me, highly unadjusted to the dark. I struggle to keep up with my sister, who manages to stay three long strides ahead of me, moving as stealthily as a cat through the night. She breaks the silence,

“Do you remember that day when Dylan Harroway, the short boy, the one with green streaks in his hair, who lived down the block, was taken?” She asks. I think hard, the memory is faded and distant.

“The day the sirens came down the street.” she presses.

“I don’t remember exactly, I must have been like 7. Why do you ask?” I reply.

“He was a good friend of mine actually” she says, her voice thick with emotion. I glance over at her, but I can’t make out her expression. It’s hidden by a dark veil of shadows. 

“Oh”

I don’t know how to respond. Luckily I don’t have to, she continues on for me,  

“Well, he always did have a bit of a rebellious streak, with a list of infractions to show for it. His back was practically as patterned as the night sky.”

I glance at my own 2 scars on my arm, my “lessons”. My fists clench in anger. 

“I would always tell him to be careful, to watch his mouth, to follow the rules… but he’d just look at me with his fiery eyes and laugh… he reminds me a bit of you in that way actually, your eyes.” I shift awkwardly, uncomfortable with her sudden honesty and complete vulnerability.

“What… what happened to him?” I ask once more.

“He was taken. Taken for daring to be himself. For making music. I never saw him again.”

My heart tightens in sympathy. I wish I could hug her, offer her comfort, bring back her friend. 

“That’s when my hatred for A.L.S.C truly began. The injustice, the severity of the law, the cruelty” she spews. I look around in fear, talking like this out in the open is dangerous. Very dangerous. She continues, on a roll,  

“We’re all trapped, don’t you see? Not given enough information to understand our situation, in constant fear of reprehension, never allowed to express ourselves or make our own schedules or choose our own jobs or, or” 

“Or ask questions” I finish for her. 

“All this time we had light, but we’ve really been in the dark” she finishes heatedly. Something tugs at my thoughts, bothering me…

“How did they know? How did they know about Dylan?” I ask. Heather abruptly laughs, a hysterical, mad laugh

“Haven’t you figured it out by now, little sis?” she chokes out between laughs, 

“The lights—they watch us.”

All the pieces begin to come together, how no broken rule has gone unpunished. How they always know. The lights… 

“The lights, they’re off now.” I stupidly observe as I follow her up the steps of a concrete building.

“Nice observation, Sherlock.” she replies teasingly. Her tone turns serious once more as she cautiously begins her next sentence, 

“It was me, you know”. At this point nothing else could take me more by surprise, my very own sister, the rule follower. 

 “It’s all part of phase one. I’ve worked years, following every law and memorizing every rule, binding my time. Being a light gray has its perks.” She grins wickedly. 

“Even with the lights down, it’s not safe to be talking about the plans, can’t leave anything to chance, I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. I need you to trust me, and whatever happens… I want you to know I love you.” She pushes the door open, and to my surprise it swings open, unlocked. 

“One of the perks” she answers in response to my awed silence. This building is off limits, the only people who enter here are whites, period. She walks in, beckoning me after her. Just as I’m about to follow, a voice behind me stops me.

“Brawn”, I spin around to find Luke standing behind me, dressed in his gray work uniform. 

“Luke” I gasp. Questions begin to tumble out of my mouth unrestrained,

“Where have you been? Are you okay? Do you know where mom and dad are? Where did you come--” I stop, his eyes aren’t on me but instead on the door behind me. He isn’t listening. Instinctively, I take a step back. My movement seems to snap him out of his phase and his eyes focus on me. He smiles, 

“Your worry warms me sis, really, I’m alright.” The red light casts his face in dark shadows.

“Speaking of worry, I’ve been sick with worry for you and Heather. Where is she anyways” he asks. Unease ripples through me. What’s wrong with me? This is Luke, Lucy, my brother, my best friend. He smiles at me again, putting his hands in his pockets, leaning on one foot. Before I can decide on my answer, Heather sticks her head out the door frame,

“Branwyn, what’s taking so long—oh Luke, there you are!”

“Yeah, here I am, and here you are. Heather, Heather, Heather why did you do it? Why did you have to be so pig-headed? Why?” he asks. My heart begins to freeze. 

“What did she do?” I ask.

“None of your concern” he answers me without looking away from Heather. It feels like a slap in the face. The volume of his voice steadily increases,

 “AND why, why, why did you have to involve Branwyn?”, he says, glaring at her. My sister glares back, defiant.

“For you, for me, for Branwyn, for everyone, for what’s right” she responds. 

“Oh Heather” is all he says before his hand shifts in his pocket and he slowly pulls out a device. Is that a walkie talkie? Sure enough, he brings it up to his mouth and presses a button. With three words, he shatters my whole world. 

“Targets found, over.” 

I promised myself I wouldn’t be weak, but the blow of his betrayal has left my heart pounding.

Heather looks at me, shock and horror written on every line on her face.

“Branwyn, RUN” she chokes out. But I’m frozen in place. I stare into the blue eyes that once belonged to the boy I knew as my brother. Once familiar. Once comforting.

“How could you?” I say, voice cracking.

“For the good of all” he replies as I’m blinded by harsh fluorescent lights.