SERA
I’d always hated the color pink.
However, as I grew up and opened my eyes to societal expectations, I realized it wasn’t the color I hated. It was everything that accompanied the stereotype of a female saying they liked pink.
That it made us girly, housemakers, and one day mothers. It was “femininity” personified in a color, and I fucking hated it.
I hated being boxed into an image that didn’t fit me.
I hated being told that I would be an incredible mother and wife one day, even though I was as single as it got.
Couldn’t I be more than that?
Or was I not enough as I was right now?
As I stared at the big red circle on the white page of my wall calendar, I was reminded there was something I hated more than all of that.
I hated my life being controlled by the government. I hated feeling like I had to suppress my anger, that I wasn’t allowed to show displeasure with how my life was governed. The older I grew, the more I resented this censorship we lived with daily.
Deep down, I knew the persona I let everyone see was a subdued, meek version of how I felt inside. We couldn’t afford to have an ember of fire within us, lest it turn into the light that sparked a mutiny.
The ring of red around the date two days from now symbolized my freedom from that. A genuine smile lifted the corners of my lips—an expression I hadn’t made in far too long—as I stared at my birthday. I was really looking forward to letting this five-thousand pound boulder that weighed so heavily on me roll away into the abyss, never to be seen again.
Ever since I turned eighteen, I spent each day in fear that it would be my last. Each morning since, I woke up and crossed off the day prior, thankful that I was one day closer to becoming twenty-five.
And here I was, just forty-eight hours from the shackles falling off and society being unable to control me any longer.
Forty-eight hours until my life was my own.
Forty-eight hours until I would no longer be eligible to be offered up as a sacrifice to uphold the treaty between The Above and The Below.
Tearing my eyes away from the calendar, I padded towards the fridge and grabbed a water bottle before sinking into my beige couch. Cracking the top open, I let the cold liquid pour down my throat as I considered what we really knew about the treaty.
As I swallowed, I realized we truly didn’t know jackshit. The thought made me chuckle because that’s really all I could do. We were like lambs to the slaughter, never questioning, just obeying. It was pathetically sad, the life we lived.
Placing my water on the coaster situated on my coffee table, I jumped as a ball of white fluff launched itself into my lap. My heart rate spiked before I laughed, scratching Gizmo on his chin, realizing how ridiculously skittish I was right now.
“Sorry, baby,” I cooed at my Maine coon fur-child. The only child my parents would get from me, much to their displeasure. Being a mom just wasn’t for me, I had quickly realized. I’d mom the fuck out of my cat, but human babies? No.
His sparkling green eyes stared at me quizzically before he headbutted my boob and purred. I stroked his soft white hair as he settled comfortably into a big ball on my legs. “Mommy is just a bit nervous right now,” I admitted, feeling like I somehow owed him an explanation for the confused look in his eyes.
Obviously, I knew he couldn’t understand me, but it was comforting to talk out loud as if he could. It always helped me work through my shit, and he was content to have all of my attention and love as I blabbered at him.
Rubbing the spot on his nose that he loved, I rationalized, “I mean, what are the odds that another lottery drawing will happen just four days after the last? I know the demands of the monsters in The Below seem to have increased, but the closest back-to-back drawing has been a month in between.”
His furry head tilted to look up at me with all the adoration in the world before he closed his eyes and purred in satisfaction, the sound reverberating through my legs. “Exactly, Gizmo. That would be unheard of. I’m stressed for no reason, aren’t I?”
Settling my hand on his tummy, I languidly pet him as my head tilted back to rest against the couch cushions, closing my eyes and attempting to chill the fuck out.
I had this in the bag. Nothing and no one could get in the way of Gizmo and me riding off into the sunset together, alone and happy—exactly the way I wanted it.
Perhaps the women that were within the parameters for Selection wouldn’t be so damn terrified of it if our leaders opted to tell us what actually happened to those who were offered up on a silver platter to the monsters below.
We were left to the worst of our imaginations—and I had a very wild one—because no woman had ever returned from The Below. Not a single soul in the history of our treaty with them—and the treaty spanned many centuries.
Our textbooks said that the treaty was struck as both populations were nearing extinction due to war. As is, the remaining human population had settled into what was previously known as New York City in the United States, the only prevailing area of life. It was supposed to be mutually beneficial to save both sides from ruin, but I wasn’t sure what the hell we got out of the deal in return for sending them human sacrifices. It just didn’t make sense.
The deal had originally stated one batch of ten human women per year, to uphold our end, but in my lifetime, it had increased to whenever the monsters demanded it. How the hell had our leaders let it get this bad? How could they not stand up for our lives and our rights?