“What is your name?” The voice is forceful, and I answer quietly.
“Redd.”
“Your color?” They ask this to see if I have broken more Rules.
“485.” I have not broken this Rule. It has never even crossed my mind that that is something I can do. There is no way to access another color without drawing attention to myself. It doesn’t matter much now, though.
“Well then.” The interrogator seems less than pleased at my response. “When did the dreams start?”
Of course that’s why I’m here. The dreams. How do they know about them? My caretakers must have found my journals. I know they have to report any suspicious activity, but I thought they actually cared.
I sigh and survey the room, not wanting to answer despite the question’s simplicity. The room I’m in is just as dark as it was three days ago, and just as small, measuring at around two and a half by three meters. The walls are still dirty, and the chair is just as cold, the way metal is in less than ideal temperatures. Even temperature is regulated in the Colony, so feeling cold for the first time was especially unpleasant. I am nearly used to it after my time spent in this small room, but occasionally violent shivers run through my body. I hope this doesn’t happen during the interrogation — they will take any reason possible to lock me up forever.
The interrogator shuffles their papers on the table impatiently. “When did the dreams start?” They ask again, irritation edging into their voice.
“Two months ago.” I am thankful that my voice doesn’t betray my lie, for these dreams have been going on for much longer than that. The dreams started five years ago, but my thoughts of rebellion started two months ago.
The interrogator nods, short and calculated. “And how did they make you feel?”
I struggle to find words, since emotions are not something commonly spoken about or even really felt. “At first, confused. I didn’t understand what was going on. Everyone looked and acted different, and that scared me. The different hair lengths and colors, the varied heights, skin tones, everyone looked different. The first night I woke up in the middle of the night, sweating.”
This is not a lie. It was, in fact, extremely overwhelming to wake up in a world with such diversity. My small brain didn’t know what to make of it. But then I realized how happy everyone was, and I grew envious. These people displayed their emotions so strongly, and this, I realized, was what made me dread the Routine. Everything was always the same; it made my skin crawl. The Routine left no room for choice because choices mean change.
“When did you stop feeling that way?”
“About a month into these dreams.” It actually took two years, give or take. Though my fear lessened every day in those years, so I can’t be entirely sure.
“How did your feelings regarding the dreams change?” This seems like an obvious question, for it led to my rebellion and eventual capture. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for writing about my dreams in designated journaling time, but I also don’t think I’d do anything different if I could go back.
“I wanted what my dream-people had. I wanted the diversity and the joy and the sadness and life.” My words grow choked at the end, for I realize that what the Colony has is not life, but a purpose. The purpose of making the cogs of society turn without the free will that a real freedom has.
I am not in complete awe of the world I dream of. I know that their differences bring about conflict, which is often ignored, sometimes even praised. These things I still fear. That world is tied to the surface, chained to the idea of perfection. They want what we have, I want what they have.
Unless they want this life, this purpose. Is it truly better for everyone to be the same so conflicts of material items and other such trivial things are left behind? Or are those rusty gears in society worth it for a life where you choose everything?
“You will be brought to a Reeducation Center in one hour’s time. Learn to be complicit, and things will go smoothly. If you don’t, well, I can’t guarantee anything, but it will probably be painful.” The interrogator gathers their papers and stands up, leaving the room quickly.
“Redd.”
“Your color?” They ask this to see if I have broken more Rules.
“485.” I have not broken this Rule. It has never even crossed my mind that that is something I can do. There is no way to access another color without drawing attention to myself. It doesn’t matter much now, though.
“Well then.” The interrogator seems less than pleased at my response. “When did the dreams start?”
Of course that’s why I’m here. The dreams. How do they know about them? My caretakers must have found my journals. I know they have to report any suspicious activity, but I thought they actually cared.
I sigh and survey the room, not wanting to answer despite the question’s simplicity. The room I’m in is just as dark as it was three days ago, and just as small, measuring at around two and a half by three meters. The walls are still dirty, and the chair is just as cold, the way metal is in less than ideal temperatures. Even temperature is regulated in the Colony, so feeling cold for the first time was especially unpleasant. I am nearly used to it after my time spent in this small room, but occasionally violent shivers run through my body. I hope this doesn’t happen during the interrogation — they will take any reason possible to lock me up forever.
The interrogator shuffles their papers on the table impatiently. “When did the dreams start?” They ask again, irritation edging into their voice.
“Two months ago.” I am thankful that my voice doesn’t betray my lie, for these dreams have been going on for much longer than that. The dreams started five years ago, but my thoughts of rebellion started two months ago.
The interrogator nods, short and calculated. “And how did they make you feel?”
I struggle to find words, since emotions are not something commonly spoken about or even really felt. “At first, confused. I didn’t understand what was going on. Everyone looked and acted different, and that scared me. The different hair lengths and colors, the varied heights, skin tones, everyone looked different. The first night I woke up in the middle of the night, sweating.”
This is not a lie. It was, in fact, extremely overwhelming to wake up in a world with such diversity. My small brain didn’t know what to make of it. But then I realized how happy everyone was, and I grew envious. These people displayed their emotions so strongly, and this, I realized, was what made me dread the Routine. Everything was always the same; it made my skin crawl. The Routine left no room for choice because choices mean change.
“When did you stop feeling that way?”
“About a month into these dreams.” It actually took two years, give or take. Though my fear lessened every day in those years, so I can’t be entirely sure.
“How did your feelings regarding the dreams change?” This seems like an obvious question, for it led to my rebellion and eventual capture. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for writing about my dreams in designated journaling time, but I also don’t think I’d do anything different if I could go back.
“I wanted what my dream-people had. I wanted the diversity and the joy and the sadness and life.” My words grow choked at the end, for I realize that what the Colony has is not life, but a purpose. The purpose of making the cogs of society turn without the free will that a real freedom has.
I am not in complete awe of the world I dream of. I know that their differences bring about conflict, which is often ignored, sometimes even praised. These things I still fear. That world is tied to the surface, chained to the idea of perfection. They want what we have, I want what they have.
Unless they want this life, this purpose. Is it truly better for everyone to be the same so conflicts of material items and other such trivial things are left behind? Or are those rusty gears in society worth it for a life where you choose everything?
“You will be brought to a Reeducation Center in one hour’s time. Learn to be complicit, and things will go smoothly. If you don’t, well, I can’t guarantee anything, but it will probably be painful.” The interrogator gathers their papers and stands up, leaving the room quickly.