A Time to Die – Chapter One

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Chapter 1

000.364.07.05.16

 

There was once a time when only God knew the day you’d die.

.        At least that’s what they tell me. I wasn’t alive then—back when life bore adventure and death held surprise. I guess God decided to share the coveted knowledge. Either that, or we stole it from Him. Personally, I think He just gave the world what it thought it wanted: control.

.        My thin rectangular Clock sits on the carved shelf across the room, clicking its red digital numbers—red like blood. Today marks the first day of my last year alive.

000.364.07.05.16

.        Three hundred sixty-four days, seven hours, five minutes, and sixteen—no, fifteen—seconds to live. I’ve always thought it cruel they include the seconds. But people want absolutes. They demand fine lines in a fuzzy world.

.        My toes curl like pill bugs when they touch the cold wood floor. I creep to the open window, flick a shivering spider off the sill into the October breeze, and close the shutters. Wind still howls through.

.        I pull on a pair of wool socks—a frequent Christmas gift of which I never grow weary—and ignore the mirror. It’s the same face every morning: tangled hair, bleary chocolate eyes, and a waspish glare that doesn’t leave until after coffee.

.        I push through the bedroom door into the kitchen and just miss a collision with my mother. She sweeps past bearing a mixing bowl of steaming cinnamon oatmeal. Pity her morning greeting isn’t as warm as the breakfast she slams on the table. “Twenty minutes, Parvin.”

.        “It’s my time I waste sleeping, not yours.”

.        The rectangular kitchen glows under the heat of the cooking fire on the opposite wall. A metal wash tin and a red water pump sit to my left, beneath our only glass window. Cold morning light reflects off the soapsuds. The rough kitchen table crowds most of the walking space unless all four chairs are pushed in tight. I plop into the closest seat.

.        “It’s already six-thirty.” She blows a stray hair away from her face. “You’ve wasted seventeen years, let’s not spoil your last one.”

.        Ah, mother-daughter love.

.        She slides a wooden mug filled with coffee across the table with one hand, and reaches for the creamer with the other. My morning pick-me-up splashes over the rim. I shrug. More room for cream.

.        Once I’ve transformed my coffee into a liquid dessert, I spoon oatmeal into a dish and calculate my schedule: Five minutes to eat, five minutes to change, ten minutes to walk there. If I stick to my planned detour, I’ll be late for assessment. I don’t care. The hearing is more important.

.        My coffee turns to vinegar. I force a swallow against my shaking nerves. I won’t be nervous today. I have to be strong.

.        A life depends on it.

.        “Get out of those thin shorts.” Mother barks the command as she stokes the cooking fire, then places the blackened kettle over it once more. “And stop sleeping with the window open. No wonder you’re cold at night—you’ve got legs like twigs. I don’t know why you make such impractical clothing.”

.        “They’re practical in summer.” And more comfortable to sleep in than the wool underclothes you insist on wearing.

.        “It’s October.”

.        I take a bite of oatmeal. My sewing fetish is my version of rebellion and independence. At least I’m in control in some manner, although sewing never helped my popularity.

.        After three more mouthfuls of oatmeal, I practically inhale my coffee before going to change into a grey wool shirt and black vest—self-tailored to fit my short torso. I pull on my double-layered cotton trousers and boots lined with speckled rabbit fur. The blend of dark colors makes me feel serious and firm—exactly what I need for the hearing.

.        Mother brushes my hair into a burgundy-umber fluff. I scowl and braid it down one side before jamming on an ivory cap. She tucks my Clock into my vest pocket. “Forty minutes.”

.        No way I’ll be home in forty minutes. “Eighty.” I’ll probably be longer.

.        I stride up the uneven stone sidewalk of Straight Street. Mother never bids farewell anymore, not now that the real Good-bye is so near.

.        Weak rays of dawn peek over rows of identical wood-and-thatch houses. Flickering morning candlelight shines through every shutter. In the few homes with glass windows, homemade gadgets or goods line the sills—socks, herb teas, paper notebooks, candles, wax tablets, hair ribbons. Tiny price cards sit beside them.

.        Sill trading.

.        I scan the sills for an old newspaper, rubbing my fingers over the last coin in my pocket. Crumpled black-and-white paper catches my eye. I stop and scan the headline:

10th Anniversary of Worldwide Currency ‘Specie’ Celebrated with Increased Dividends

.        My eyes flit to the date to confirm my sinking hopes: October 06, 2148

.        Three days ago. I’ve already read it. Besides, the price card tells me it costs two specie, and I have only one to spend.

.        With a sigh, I look between the houses to the horizon still shrouded in shadow. Barely, just barely, the Wall is visible through morning fog. The stone spine looks as menacing as ever, stretching a thousand feet high along the west border of my state, Missouri. It’s hard to imagine it encircles the earth’s longitude, but that’s what they say.

.        I break my stare and quicken my pace. Red maple leaves fly through the air like autumn snowflakes. I hug myself and cross the narrow, muddy street, nodding to the milkman on the corner as he organizes his various bottles between the wood slats of his pushcart. He waves a gloved hand, which returns to his side as if out of habit, rubbing a square bulge in his trouser pocket.

.        I’ve seen his Clock—four more years and a thimble-full of days until his zeroes line up. Longer than I have even though I’m younger, but I don’t begrudge him. We’re all a population of walking second-hands, ticking toward the end.

.        A wooden arrow painted white points toward the center of town—Father’s handiwork from his carpentry shop. My fingers brush across the smooth top of the sign. The black letters glisten, painted to withstand the upcoming winter: Unity Village Square.

.        Unity Village. The insinuation in the name is far from the disposition of its people. Seventeen years haven’t been long enough for me to change this. Instead, I’ve conformed to the cold separateness we cling to. The concept of unity is now a nostalgic whim from the past—like gentlemen doffing fedoras, free ice cream on a hot afternoon, barefooted children hoop-rolling. Selfless consideration is rare, except from the Mentors. And they only fake it.

.        Mentor. The word turns my stomach and my shoulders tense.

.        Assessment Day.

.        A few yards from the village square, my trudging slows like a dying wind-up toy. I stop and allow the mud to creep its fingernails into my boot leather. Straight ahead, a weathered wooden platform rests dead center inside a square of empty market booths. Leafless dogwood trees surround the square as if trying to fill the silent space.

.        Harman, the master gardener, stands rigid between his stocked vegetable stand and the Enforcer car parked beside him. It shines like a black stinkbug, its warning to the meager crowd of onlookers as palpable as any stench. A painted gold backward E shimmers against the black paint as the sun peeks over a thatched roof.

.        Atop the platform stands a middle-aged stranger. Grey facial hair quivers as he chews on his upper lip. Two Enforcers flank him, statue-like, with black coats brushing the dirty platform floor. A backward black E marks the left side of each of their faces.

.        I avoid their eyes and grip the Clock in my pocket. God,let today be the day.

.        “Martin Foster is reported of being an unregistered Radical,” the Enforcer on the right says. “Is there anyone to vouch for his Clock?”

.        The square remains silent. A handful of people mingle, as if trying to ignore the question.

.        “Can anyone vouch he has a Clock?” The Enforcer widens his stance and clasps his fist behind his back.

.        Mister Foster’s chewing stops. He stares at his feet.

.        Look up, I think to him, as if he’ll catch my projection of courage. Be brave. I’ve never seen his Clock, but I went to school with his son. Mister Foster has a life. He has purpose. He has a family.

.        “I vouch for his life,” I squeak.

.        The Enforcer glares at me. “That is not applicable to the question at hand, nor will it affect our decision.”

.        “But his life matters. Not his Clock.”

.        The other spectators avoid my eyes. Will they ever speak out? Can’t my village come together to save a single life?

.        Mr. Foster’s gaze lifts, finding mine. This moment will burn in my dreams tonight, like with every other Radical I’ve unsuccessfully vouched for these past three months. Not that it’s done any good. If only I’d started doing this sooner. Years ago.

.        His eyes hold glassy hope—not that his life will be saved, but that his life has made a difference and someone has noticed.

.        I have. But I’m helpless.

.        “If no one can vouch for Martin Foster’s Numbers”—the Enforcer shifts into mechanical monotone—“then he is sentenced to the Wall.”

.        “No!” I step forward. “That’s not the law. Register him as a Radical.”

.        The Enforcers lead Mr. Foster back to the car in three swift steps.

.        “He can choose relocation!” My courage withers. I can’t swallow. My eyes never leave Mr. Foster’s, even when a thick film of tears blurs the scene.

.        The door shuts and the car rolls away through the mud with a high-pitched electric whine.

.        I sink to my knees, immune to the wet chill the mud sends through my pants. Today wasn’t the day. Another innocent will die, sacrificed to the mystery of the Wall. God, why do You allow this?

.        My Clock is cool against my sweating palm. I didn’t even realize I had pulled it from my pocket. I can’t look at it. I want to smash it, but if I do, I’ll be the one on the platform.

.        My sorrow returns to its cage of resignation. I stand and leave the square, tense against the probing stares of others. When I reach the border of Unity Village, I stop.

.        The slick county building towers like a bland government pillar, resembling a giant Time Clock tilted up on one side. Even the windows have red rims like the Numbers. A long electronic post board covers the outside wall facing the village, still blinking: Hearings: Martin Foster—Oct. 29.

.        I hate Clocks. Each one is a constant reminder that my life is not, and has never been, in my hands. The possessive, all-controlling nature in me rears its irate head, but it can rear all it likes—

.        The Numbers are never wrong.

.        I move toward the county building, and my fingers stray again to the lump in my pocket. 364. 364. That’s plenty of time. Deep breath, chin high, and a perfected look of defiance. I ascend the steps and enter through the heavy doors.

.        The lobby has a marble floor with a trickling water fountain and stiff yellow lighting—one of the few Unity buildings with plumbing and electricity. My steps echo. A rat-nosed receptionist sits behind a desk across the room. She doesn’t look up, but I don’t care.

.        Instead, my eyes wander to the grinning man with dark hair standing beside the woman’s post. My persona slips and I break into a run. “Reid!”

.        His arms envelop me and I breathe in his scent of forest and travel. “My little Brielle.”

.        I laugh at the name to keep from crying. I haven’t heard my brother’s voice in almost a year. Brielle is my middle name—a name only Reid calls me because, he says, “It sounds so soft.”

.        “I didn’t think you’d come back so soon,” I mumble into his coat.

.        “We’re in this together, sis. You’re not alone.”

.        I sniff and survey his face. “You got freckles.”

.        “Too much sun tends to do that.” He tilts his head. “You got thinner.”

.        Most girls seek this form of compliment, but when Mother calls me Twig Legs and Reid says I’m thinner in the same day, I’m irked. “So what?” I step away. Why must he point out my smallness the very moment we’re reunited?

.        He frowns a little, but he’ll say nothing more. I read his face as well as my own since they’re nearly identical. We’re triplets, well, what’s left of them. Our older brother, William, died at birth.

.        “Parvin Brielle Blackwater?” Rat Nose asks in a nasally, smoker’s voice. I flinch. Reid gives my arm a comforting squeeze.

.        I turn to her. “Yes?”

.        “You’re here for your Last-Year assessment?”

.        “Mm-hmm.” I haven’t allowed myself to consider how I want my life to end. It seems too morbid. Truth is, I’ve been too scared to think about it. Now…

.        I have to.

.        She peers at me through oval glasses. “Your Mentor, Mr. Trevor Rain, will see you.” Then she turns to Reid. “And now that she’s here”—she jerks her head in my direction—“will you please join Ms. Monica Lamb? She’s on a tight schedule.”

.        “Aren’t we all?” Reid murmurs.

.        I giggle. It feels foreign. I lean close to him and lower my voice. “Thanks for waiting for me.” I eye the snappy receptionist.

.        “Why were you late?”

.        Mr. Foster’s face flits across my mind’s eye. I sigh. “Oh, you know me—slept in too long.” Someday I’ll tell Reid about my recent attempts to vouch for Radicals. Someday…when I save someone.

.        We step into the elevator. As the door closes, I place one hand on a wall and the other on Reid’s arm. I never get used to moving upward in this metal box. I should have taken the stairs.

.        Mirrors cover three walls and I stare at Reid. He’s grown taller, more rugged, and now he sports a five o’clock shadow. It’s strange seeing something so adult as facial hair on him.

.        I pull the wood box from my pocket. “Do you want the Numbers?” Each second taps against my fingertips with a dull click.

.        “Ah, who cares about protocol? You keep it. Trevor’s stricter about checking Numbers. I’ll pretend I forgot mine. Monica loves to add another tally to her list of why men are immature and irresponsible. If today’s the day our Mentors discover we’ve illegally shared a Clock, so be it. We’ve made it seventeen years.”

.        We told the Mentors we have two Clocks with the same Numbers. It’s a common occurrence between close friends or siblings, which often means they’ll die from the same cause: a boating accident, natural disaster, or something of the sort. But our single Clock was an unfortunate mishap.

.        The elevator doors slide open. I try to clear my throat but seem to have forgotten how. To compensate, I take a deep breath and lift my chin.

.        “There’s the confident mask I hate so much.” But Reid adopts his own carefree façade and struts down the hall to Monica Lamb’s door.

.        “I’ll see you at home.” I walk the opposite direction.

.        I push open the maple-paneled door into Trevor’s long, blank office. He sits on one side of a mahogany desk, perusing my thin file, perhaps to appear as if he remembers me. An empty plush red chair rests on the other side of his desk, facing him.

.        My soft boots tap-tap over the slick marble floor. Trevor looks up. His hair is black, dusted with grey. A strand falls into his face and catches in his rectangular glasses for a moment. He pulls a comb from his suit pocket and smooths the strands back. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It hardly makes crinkles in his face.

.        “Ah, Parvin.” His voice is annoyingly soothing, as if he knows I don’t want to be here.

.        I resist responding with, “Ah, Trevor.” Instead, I give a curt nod.

.        He gestures to the plush chair in front of him. Like there’s anyplace else to sit. “How are you feeling?”

.        Should I be honest? I settle for neutral. “I’m okay.” I lower myself into the seat.

.        “Did you bring your Numbers?”

.        I place my Clock upright on his desk. He squints at it, then at the open manila folder. “You turn eighteen in April?”

.        “Yes.”

.        “Your brother too?”

.        “Yes.”

.        “And both of your Clocks have the same Good-bye, next October?”

.        I gulp. “Yeah.”

.        The word sticks at the back of my throat, and something pinches in my chest. Every lie I tell is a mental tattoo that glows in the dark when I try to shut it out, to pretend I didn’t say it. But this lie I must tell—to protect Reid’s and my dwindling lives. Right now, Reid’s probably lying, too. Does he feel the same guilt I do, or am I merely weak?

.        My eyes stray to the thin wooden box. The Numbers face away from me. If we could get a second Clock, then we wouldn’t have to hide the fact we’re stuck with just the one—and that we don’t know whose it is. But no one controls the Numbers, not even the government. And Clocks are merged to a person at conception.

.        I dread this Last Year because one of us will zero out and the other will become a Radical with no Clock. We don’t know which one will die.

.        I hope it’s me.

.        Trevor closes my file with one hand and slaps it on the desk. His eyes—so professional, so full of feigned interest—meet mine. “Let’s start with your Good-bye. It might help you relax.”

.        Well, of course. Because discussing how I want to die will leave me floating on air. Thanks, Trevor. He stares at me for several seconds. Is he waiting on me? I look around. “What? I just…jump in?”

.        “Do you know how you want your Good-bye to be?”

.        “Painless, of course.”

.        He plasters on the phony smile. “Of course. We can only hope.”

.        Why are we discussing this? It’s all a pretense. I mean, like the government can actually affect our Good-byes. No one knows what my Good-bye will look like—except God, I guess. I could get struck by lightning, trampled by a horse, or hit in the head with a stone that puts me in a coma.

.        Or, God willing, I could fall asleep and never wake up.

.        I vote for that one.

.        Maybe Trevor just wants to know how confident I am about dying—about the end of my life. I straighten in the chair. “I don’t need to talk about it.”

.        He glances down. “Let’s move on to your past dreams.”

.        Past dreams. The life-long goals I decided for myself at age thirteen—as if I had a clue what I wanted. What did I tell him the last time we met?

.        “You wanted to travel.”

.        My heart sinks as pictures of foreign terrain and lands of discovery flash across my mind. Places I’ll never see. “I haven’t had the chance.” Or should I say, the courage?

.        He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a large, thin electrobook. I sneak a peek at the electronic cursive designed to appear handwritten. A date marks every top corner that slides across the screen. He stops on the year 2148 and runs a finger down a long list.

.        “We have…a three-month opening in Egypt starting in December.” He scrolls over a page that says 2149. “A…two-week opening in England next January, four weeks in Italy, a week in Canada if you want something short, or eight months in Brazil.” He peers over his glasses.

.        I shake my head. “Staged settlements with good food and fake natives? There’s no authenticity in that.”

.        “You don’t want to travel anymore?” He props his elbow on the armrest. “If you want something more local, we can send you any of the thirty-one states. All you have to do is pick one.”

.        “No.” Traveling, even inside the USE, no longer appeals. It sounds…daunting. Reid’s done it, and his stories are enough to make me feel like I’ve seen the entire country. I don’t want to copy him. I want to do my own thing. Problem is…

.        I don’t know what that thing is.

.        Trevor pulls my file toward him again, opens it, and crosses something out. “Have you been kissed yet?”

.        I turn cold and sit a little straighter. “Excuse me?”

.        He raises his eyebrows. “One of your dreams listed is to have a boyfriend—or as you put it, a soul mate—and be kissed.”

.        I resist the urge to snatch my file from him and read it myself. “I was thirteen. A one-track mind.” Heat sweeps up my cheeks. “But no, neither happened.” How could it, when I’ve lived in tiny Unity Village my whole life? All eligible prospects moved away the moment they had the opportunity.

.        A new window surfaces on Trevor’s electrobook. This one has several blank screens and scribbled lists.

.        “I have a few gentlemen in Unity Village desiring a relationship.” He scans the page. “Robbie Contrast is nineteen, would like an intimate relationship, and says Good-bye in two hundred and twenty-three days.”

.        Is he kidding? He has to be kidding.

.        “Or Dusten Grunt.” Trevor drones on. “Eighteen, with the desire for a girlfriend. His Good-bye is in twenty-two months. There’s also Finn Foster, who is in his Last Year and seeks marriage. If you start now, you could have a child three months before your Good-bye. Would you like photos?”

.        “N-No! I don’t want any of them!”

.        Trevor is speaking as if I don’t know these men, but each one is burned into my memory. I still recall Dusten Grunt’s conceited face four years ago as he whispered through the school window of the girl’s bathroom, “Empty Numbers! Empty Numbers! Parvin’s just got empty Numbers!”

.        And Finn Foster…his father was sentenced to death today.

.        Trevor puts the list away. “I suppose I could send in a request for a male actor or model willing to give you a couple months.”

.        My legs propel me out of the chair. “That’s not what I want.” I look around the room, searching for the right words and willing my temper to settle. Releasing a deep breath, I sink back down. “I’ve changed.”

.        “Changed?” He takes off his reading glasses.

.        My fingers stray to the silver cross ring on my pinky—a gift from Reid. I twist it round and round, rubbing the tiny rubies lining the band. “Well, I…”

.        Trevor’s gaze shifts to my hands, and the corner of his mouth turns down. “You believe in that old-fashioned spiritual stuff?”

.        I place my hands in my lap. Why am I embarrassed? “Yes, I do.” My voice comes out quiet. Angry.

.        Trevor lets out an “Ah” and replaces his glasses. “Be careful. Unity Village is unusually tolerant, but other places are not. Your parents should remain cautious too. I hope they’re not teaching it to you. You can’t get away with religion in any of the High Cities.” He swipes over a page and squints at the screen. “But because this is your Last Year, I might be able to find a good religion-boy for you in a neighboring town.”

.        I bite the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to scream. “I don’t want a fake relationship.” Does he not understand the meaning of a soul mate?

.        Unfazed, he flips to a fresh slide. “Let’s move on. What are your new desires?”

.        The dreaded question. I’ve spent the past two weeks trying to analyze that exact thing. It felt like forcing out a Christmas list of things I didn’t even want. Only one real desire stands out, and it sounds so shallow a croak escapes my lips when I share it.

.        Trevor stares. “Pardon?”

.        I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. “I want a year-long free subscription to the local and national newspapers.”

.        The room falls silent. I open my eyes. Trevor is tapping out information on his electrobook. I raise my eyebrows and release a small shrug. It must be protocol to abstain from saying my desires are lame. Who wants a year’s subscription to a newspaper to fulfill their last days?

.        I do. I’m tired of scrounging for coins and snitching newspapers off the street to satisfy my interest in the outside world. I’m ready to open the door to a paper on my threshold every morning, like rich people in the Upper and High Cities.

.        Trevor looks up. “What else?”

.        I shake my head.

.        “Nothing else?”

.        I don’t want to tell him, but I have to. I must be honest with my Mentor. As unpleasant as he may be, Trevor is trying to help—or so the government says.

.        What do I want? My plaguing question has no answers except ones that don’t match Mentor criteria. I want to fix the broken law system in Unity Village. I want to unify the people so Radicals don’t have to die. I want my short life to mean something.

.        “I want…to be remembered.” I suck in a small gasp. Of all the dreams I could have mentioned, this is the one that creeps past my lips?

.        Trevor’s forehead scrunches. “That’s a tough one.”

.        “Excuse me?”

.        He rubs a finger over his lips. “Well, we could set up a heroic act, or send you to a broadcast center to get your face known. I could even make some flyers with your name and we can put them on postboards—The Girl Who Wants To Be Remembered.” He claps his hands. “Yes, I believe that could work.”

.        “I don’t want you to make me remembered.” I exhale. “I just…want to be remembered.” My eyes stray to the round analog clock on the wall. Fifteen precious minutes of my Last Year have been wasted discussing dreams I don’t want.

.        “How would you do that, Parvin?”

.        The second hand ticks in slow motion. The clock is round, like the Earth. The hour hand points to the seven and the minute hand is poised on the one, forming an angled longitudinal line up the clock’s face.

.        “What happens to people on the other side of the Wall?” A shiver runs through me. Did I really ask that? Out loud?

.        Trevor coughs and his calm mask slips for a moment. “Parvin, no one goes through the Wall unless they’re an unregistered Radical or a convict.”

.        “But what if, hypothetically, I wanted to cross the Wall—as my Last-Year’s desire?” I say this with passion even though the idea entered my head twelve seconds ago. “I’d just die on that side instead of here.” Like Mr. Foster.

.        A small sigh escapes. “After the terrorist tragedy and those meteorites, our ancestors chose the East side of the Wall—the government side. You should send up religious prayers of thanks. If not for them, you might have been an Independent trying to survive in an uncontrolled, primitive environment. Who knows if anyone even survived on the West side? We send Radicals there for a reason—and it’s not for adventure.” Trevor shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It can’t be done.”

.        I put back on the bored, confident face. “I understand, Mr. Rain.” My question was, after all, hypothetical.

.        He leans back. “Can you think of any other Last-Year dreams?”

.        None that he could comprehend. I can’t tell him I want more time to relive what I’ve already wasted, that I want to be someone else, or that I want to know for sure whose Clock is in my pocket. He can’t understand because he’s a Mentor. Mentors are required to outlive their clients, and Trevor has over fifty years left to his Numbers.

.        I remain quiet for a long time, but then…

.        A new plan forms. I won’t have to lie. “I want to be a biographer.”

.        His knuckles crack. “You can’t be a biographer. You have only a year—you don’t have time to write about someone else’s entire life. The government wouldn’t pay or publish you.”

.        He’s right, but this new idea is motivation enough for me to overlook the odds. I’ll tell the world about the illegal sentencing of Radicals going on in Unity Village. I’ll even show that it’s possible to live without a Clock. Reid and I have been doing it our whole lives. I am strong. I will be remembered. This is my ticket.

.        “You misunderstand. I want to be my own biographer.”

.        His mouth sags, and who can blame him? No biographer has ever told his or her own story. But I can do this. I know I can. Besides…

.        What better way to be remembered than to do something no one else has ever done before?

.

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