Citizen: Season One | Uncured Series

by Maggie Ray

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  “I have the most awful feeling,” I whispered back.

  .3

  SABINE—

  Standing in the labyrinth where I’d attempted to follow Rory, the rain was coming down hard and my shoes were sinking deeper and deeper into the soft grass, but I couldn’t move. I was transfixed, my eyes glued to the two figures standing in the dark, their silhouettes bending towards each other.

  Before I knew it, he was kissing her. Softly, like asking a question.

  I was trembling, but I can’t say I felt cold. At least, not from the outside. My outside had gone numb completely. It was my heart that was freezing over inside my chest, my blood crystallizing in my veins.

  George was kissing Rory. Rory was kissing him back.

  I was momentarily too stunned to look away, even though I knew it was wrong to be watching them. They could be arrested for something like this. I would be expected to report them, as a witness.

  Rule number 7: No misconduct is permitted, such as disobedience towards peacekeepers, failure to perform societal duties at home and in the workplace, and/or unsafe relations between unmarried persons.

  I should have turned away immediately.

  Instead, I stood there like a fool, and it wasn't until George’s hands were moving to other places that I finally had to walk off.

  My dress had become plastered to my body—my fingers and toes had grown fuzzy and disconnected. I walked off in a daze, struggling to draw air into my lungs, my feet stumbling blindly through the soggy grass.

  The rain was relentless in its assault, sheets of it coming down at an angle, and it felt like a small eternity of mindless wandering before they found me.

  I'm not sure I would have made it out of the labyrinth if they hadn’t. I might have walked in aimless circles forever. They seemed to materialize from the shadows, their threats splitting the night like steely blades.

  “Stop right there,” the first peacekeeper shouted, flashing a light directly into my tear-streaked face.

  My feet stuttered to a halt and I squinted into the beam, white spots burning into my retinas. I could barely make out their black coats from behind the light. It took me a long second to count them.

  Three peacekeepers.

  “Can you show us your identification?”

  I knew it was against the rules to refuse, but still, I shook my head. I was caught off guard, my thoughts turning to mush. My first instinct was denial: This couldn’t be happening.

  We’d never had a lot of peacekeepers in the small, often overlooked, collective of Reye. Even on the night of the bride markets, there were only a few stationed in the courtyard.

  It didn’t make sense to come across three at once.

  My mind raced, wondering what would happen to me now—wondering what the punishment was for underage teenagers sneaking into the bride market.

  I had a feeling I was about to find out. One of the peacekeepers stomped closer, reaching towards me with a black-gloved hand, and I braced myself.

  “Leave her,” one of the others interrupted. “She's not what we're after.”

  I should have felt relieved by his words, but they only brought on a new wave of fear. What were they after, if not rebellious teenagers breaking the rules? Something worse?

  I didn't dare ask. It was probably better, not knowing.

  With the recent incidents we’d all seen splashed on the news, it wasn’t hard to imagine the many possibilities. There were rumors of changes coming, of the cure for mental illness becoming mandatory for everyone, even those who were healthy, and a lot of people were protesting.

  Not all the protests had been peaceful.

  “It’s awful,” Rory had said, when we’d watched some of the broadcasts on her smart-wall at home.

  Someone had been standing amidst protestors outside a curing clinic, holding up a sign. In angry bold letters, it read: To do nothing is to be an accomplice! Then a second later, they'd dropped the sign to swing their fist into someone’s face, and we didn’t hear the crunch, but we saw the gush of blood.

  Rory's face had gone pale. She must have been thinking of her big sister, Corinne, who was a healer. One of the medical professionals responsible for administering the cure, in a clinic much like the one on the news at that very moment.

  “Violence can’t be the answer,” Rory had whispered in horror.

  Remembering those broadcasts, that's suddenly all I could picture. A fist going into a face, a broken nose gushing with blood. Had people started protesting here, in Reye? The protests had seemed far away, when we were watching on our screens at home. They weren't supposed to happen here.

  I probably would have remained where I was—paralyzed with confusion in that labyrinth during a rainstorm—if it hadn't been for the peacekeeper who grabbed my elbow.

  “I'll take care of this,” he spoke to his partners. “You go on ahead without me.”

  “If you're sure.”

  The peacekeepers exchanged swift nods, mechanical tilts of their heads, then we split into opposite directions.

  We walked for what felt like a long time, especially since I was cold and miserable and didn’t understand what was happening, but I was strangely grateful for the peacekeeper’s presence. At least he seemed to know the way out, and he hadn’t arrested me yet, so maybe he hadn’t figured out I was underage.

  The only problem was that he was urgently rushing me forward with an iron grip, and I could barely keep up the pace, my shoes slipping on the slick surface of the wet grass.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  “What's going on?” I asked.

  The peacekeeper peered sideways at me through the darkness. “Did you say something?”

  It wasn’t a talent of mine, being heard. It was a skill everyone except me seemed to have. They didn't even try, they just had it, while my voice failed me time and time again, coming out too soft—too weak. The more I resented it, the weaker it became, as though spiting me.

  I repeated the question, struggling to make my voice heard above the rainstorm.

  “We have to evacuate everyone,” he answered.

  So, I was right after all. “There's really been an incident? In Reye?”

  That’s what they were calling them on the news: incidents. Ever since the invention of the cure, we’d had no use for the word violence—it had existed only in history books—and reinstating it into our vocabulary now must have felt too much like admitting defeat.

  Not that it really changed anything. Violence was still violence, even when you called it by a different name.

  “Not exactly,” the peacekeeper said, which only confused me more.

  If not an incident, then what? I had no idea what else could warrant an evacuation, and the peacekeeper never stopped to explain. He simply plunged us deeper into the night, further through the winding maze.

  When we finally reached the exit, he pulled us to a stop.

  “It should be safe for you that way.” He pointed into the middle distance. “Make sure to get home as quickly as you can. A kid like you shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

  My heart nearly stopped in my chest, faced with a new reality: He knew. He knew I was underage.

  And yet he was letting me go.

  I blinked at him, trying to figure out a way to say thank you. In the glow of a nearby lantern, we saw each other’s faces clearly for the first time. It wasn’t considered polite to stare at a peacekeeper, I’d never dared to before, but in that moment, I couldn’t help myself.

  I already knew he was cured. All peacekeepers were. It was a requirement when working for the government. What I didn’t expect was that you could see it, the emptiness left behind. Like a dark tunnel where their eyes should be.

  I shuddered, wondering if this is what being cured truly meant.

  When I still didn’t move, the peacekeeper raised his arm and pointed into the distance again, his voice dropping low. “You have to get home
now. Everything will make sense later.”

  He was giving me an order. I had no other choices left.

  Numbly, I nodded and turned away, facing the rain and the darkness on my own. In the brief instance that I glanced behind me to check, my savior had already melted back into the shadows.

  0

  1. Do not resist government efforts to cure the sick of mental illness.

  2. Do not hide your symptoms of mental illness and always seek treatment immediately.

  3. Peacekeepers must be obeyed at all times for the good of the collective.

  4. Anyone suspected of unsafe behavior must be reported immediately.

  5. Citizens are encouraged to watch one another and report any unsafe or unhealthy behavior.

  6. Citizens must devote themselves to being hard-working, cooperative members of the collective.

  7. No misconduct, such as disobedience towards peacekeepers, failure to perform societal duties at home and in the workplace, or unsafe relations between unmarried persons will be tolerated.

  8. Citizens must attend regular self-curing sessions to ensure health and wellness.

  9. Citizens will comply to mandatory, annual mental health check-ups.

  10. Those who violate these terms and exhibit unsafe behavior towards themselves or others will be detained and cured at the curing clinic.

  All citizens must receive the mandatory cure for mental illness.

  1

  Life is different now. Now, we sit around the dinner table like carefully arranged ornaments. Me, my stepfather, and the peacekeeper who’s moved in with us, as though we’re pretending to be a regular family—as though we’re puppets tied by silver strings thin as spider webs.

  No one speaks. Not with a uniform always around, watching, listening.

  When the government passed the new law enforcing all citizens to receive the cure, peacekeepers stormed into Reye. Truckloads of them rolled in like thunder, and all households were ordered to give up their spare rooms for the peacekeepers and healers.

  The first couple of days, life halted to a standstill and any resistance was handled with force. People were put under house arrest to await their curings—forced to be prisoners within their own homes—while more incidents filled our television screens, footage of the black coats in their riot gear pushing back the crowds.

  The monsters are no longer just in storybooks, they’re right here in our faces—sitting across the table from you, cutting into their steaks with sharp knives. The peacekeeper is under your bed—he’s in your closet, children whisper, a flashlight held under their chins.

  I peek at the peacekeeper while we eat, trying to make sense of what I'm looking at. I can't decide what’s more terrifying, seeing the peacekeepers on duty or off. Their eyes just don’t look right. You have to really look to see the difference, but it’s there. That emptiness I've come to recognize—their surfaces smooth and polished, their smile lines not as deep.

  This peacekeeper’s hair is a metallic blond, shaved close on the sides, and his eyes are blue, which doesn’t seem like an intimidating color at all. In fact, up close, his face isn't directly menacing, which strikes me as odd considering the reputation attached.

  I've already heard so many awful rumors.

  It used to be only the sick that got cured. We would get tested every year, a routine appointment. If you showed signs, they’d give you the needle, and then forever after everyone would wonder what you did—how sick you were to deserve it.

  That doesn’t matter anymore. This is an epidemic, and we are being quarantined.

  “Is all of this really necessary?” my stepfather’s voice interrupts our meal.

  I hold my breath, fork clutched in fist.

  The peacekeeper barely reacts, still cutting into his steak with meticulous precision. “It’s for the protection of everyone. These are dangerous times.”

  He has a soft-spoken voice, but somehow, the fact he never yells is worse. He glances up and stares at my stepfather with his steely blue eyes, as though daring him to speak again, while the setting sun shutters through the blinds, casting long strips of light across his stony face.

  There is something about his mouth, I notice. Something about the way it presses firmly into a flat line, which suggests there is more. There has to be, otherwise it wouldn't make sense, would it? How else would there be so many awful stories about him? Stories of families being sent to the rehabilitation centers, or of children being permanently separated from their parents, all in the name of some promised safety.

  I wonder what he’ll do to us. If we put one foot wrong, I wonder what he’ll do.

  2

  On the day of my curing, the peacekeeper escorts me to the clinic for my appointment. I know I’m one of the first citizens in my collective to be scheduled for one, but does that mean the government has noticed I'm cursed, or is it just a coincidence?

  Somehow, I don’t think it is.

  The peacekeeper hovers at my back like a shadow, the heavy stomp of his boots inadvertently urging me forward, and yet, I feel strangely calm as we walk through downtown, the glassy fronts of the buildings watching me with their vacant faces, the weak sun beating down through a thinning layer of cloud.

  Is it wrong of me, to feel relieved?

  I didn't expect relief, but now that my curing day is here, an unavoidable end drawing closer with every step over white concrete, the cure seems like a small mercy. A promise I won’t end up like my mother or my sister—a promise the curse will end with me.

  I only start to feel uneasy when my shoes hit the tile floors of the clinic. The smell of citrus burns into my nostrils—oranges and lemons, a common scent for self-cleaning spaces—and immediately reminds me of a simpler time.

  There's something about scents that can make you remember things, and for me, the tang of citrus in the air will always be tied to the memory of school. My school days with Rory were some of my best times, and I'd give almost anything to be back there instead of here right now, in the chilling air conditioning of the clinic.

  But school also reminds me of George. His face always comes up—square jaw and dark eyes, memories of him in the classroom or on the playground, towering above everyone. I can perfectly recall his booming laugh crashing over me like a wave, knocking me sideways, and I have to push the thoughts away, out of pure self-preservation, to focus on the task ahead.

  The smart-walls of the clinic flicker at us as we pass, flashing with advertisements and soothing images. At the end of a long hallway, a man smiles from behind a pristine desk of shiny white marble, but the smile never reaches his eyes. He wears a healer’s uniform in a soft and faded blue, and I wonder if they make the uniforms that color because they imagine it to be soothing somehow?

  It doesn’t feel soothing now.

  “Welcome, Sabine,” the healer says, his voice kind and comforting, but in a rehearsed way.

  Does he notice my copper hair, flashing an angry red amidst all these muted colors? It feels especially inappropriate here, for some reason, as though intentionally defiant. Does he find it offensive?

  He shows no sign of being offended. He simply hands me a slice of smart-glass, cool against my palms. At my touch, the screen of the smart-glass illuminates with a lengthy document, and I press my fingertip wherever it’s needed—an electronic signature.

  I sense the peacekeeper looming from behind me, watching over my shoulder. Can he sense how badly I want to run? I think he does. He presses closer, as though to warn me not to try.

  I hand back the tablet of smart-glass and watch it disappear behind the desk, before I’m motioned to a side door.

  There’s no wait time. The healer steers me away, and my feet falter of their own, my stomach twisting with a sudden knot of nerves—this is too fast, too confusing. Helplessly, I glance behind me at the peacekeeper, as though he might help—his job is to protect me, isn't it? But his face is a blank mask, his blue eyes cold like ice, and with a sharp tug at my elbow, I’m fo
rced into motion.

  I have the sensation of being dragged towards a cliff, and an involuntary whimper escapes my throat as I cross the next threshold, the door hissing shut behind me, sealing me in. I'm brought to a surgical room with a single operating chair and given instructions for where to look, how to hold my head. The healer positions me just right and puts the straps in place; his hands are freezing, leaving goosebumps wherever they touch.

  He secures the head piece with a snap, so I’m pinned down, and panic grips my throat. I force it back before I throw up.

  The room offers none of the relief I had stupidly imagined earlier. Instead, there are only questions. Will I be the same after this? I try not to think about it. My only job is to stare at a focal point on the wall marked by a red dot, and the machine will do the rest.

  As soon as the healer exits the room, the lights are dimmed and the procedure begins.

  The machine comes to life with a soft purr and a rush of hot air that tickles upon contact. It moves over my skull like a curious animal, sniffing and probing, shifting into place through the use of tiny flickering sensors. My hands clench around the plastic armrests, and when the needle plunges into the soft tissue of my eye socket, I smash my teeth together so hard it’s a mystery they don’t immediately shatter.

  It's not painful. Not exactly. It happens too fast to feel the pain. But you can sense the intense pressure as the machine moves in a series of clicks, needling its way to the frontal lobe of my brain and cutting away the parts of myself that cause the sickness—the mental illness.

  There’s nothing to do but sit there in submission, listening to the wet sound echoing within my skull—the sound of brain tissue being shredded. Might as well be the sound of evil expunged from your soul—or perhaps it’s the sound of your soul itself, being carefully extracted, like a frightened pet coaxed out of hiding. It slips out and floats above you like a phantom, snapping like a sheet hung to dry on the breeze.