Risking it Alll

I AM NUMBER 5833

Year 2052…Her … 5833

The smell of the evergreens of the overgrown woods drifts through the vents of my cream-colored face mask. I pull at the itchy paper mask as the seams carve an indention into the bridge of my nose. I hear my breath wheeze through the plastic vent as my footfall slaps against the rubber walkway that is painted in synthetic brick.

My eyes lock onto the colorless grey brick building that is known as the Feed Hall. My heart darkens with the depth of knowing that this is the only time that I am allowed to leave my pod and outside of confined walls. I wander a bit slower as I make my way towards the government stations for tomorrow’s daily nourishment rations. The rations are to feed my stomach with the amount of nourishment that my body requires to survive. The government, or whoever they are, deposits the rations at the end of every day in preparation for the next day. We, the occupants in the pod cluster called CCU’s or centralized care units, have to ration daily nourishment in a balanced manner.

My stomach burns as I envision the white-box filled with nothing more then three handfuls of dried taffy-like foods, accompanied with five pouches of drinking liquid labeled as H2O. My mouth dries even more as I think of the tasteless liquid.

I rub the goosebumps that begin to rise on my arm as my mindset wars against the thirst my body aches to quench and the punishment I know if I were to devour tomorrow’s rations today. I know the pain of that punishment. I may feel empty and hungry now, but that doesn’t compare to the emptiness of not receiving rations for two or three days.

I wrap my arms about my middle. The weight of the red-bound book that is strapped to my waist is as heavy as the crime of carrying such an outlawed item. Breaking protocol can be subjected as a death sentence for the smallest level of defense, as in, a sip of tomorrow's drinking liquid. I breathe out burning air that only fills my mask with the thought of being caught with a book.

I remember the day that I came back to my dome-shaped pod with my rations. My eyes flew to the red amongst a sea of white in my pod space. Dropping my rations, my hands darted for the foreign object. Closing my eyes now, I can still recall the scent of the book as I breathed it in and how my eyes scanned the unfamiliar lines on the pages as if they were dancing. I had become obsessed with the art-like lines and had my nose in them every waking moment as I flipped from page to page. Then, as if a switch in my brain just clicked, I was reading the pages.

I pat the hard edges of the book, even now, after reading to the point of memorizing it, I never leave it behind. It is always with me. I love it. I love the art that it holds and the feelings that it sparks as I read the words of love between humans.

My mind dreams of the days of the past where we once lived together as a society. The days when people lived as one. My mind races with the thought of what another human touch could feel like. Would it feel like the words on the pages when the man touches the woman? My stomach coils with the overwhelming emotion that burns within me.

To have someone touch me alone would be over stimulating, I think, as I start to shake. The only touch I can recall is that of the doctors that are required to give me my monthly vaccinations and hardline physicals. And they are always masked and gloved. I can’t recall one time I have ever had someone touch me with their own skin.

I hear a chime overhead signaling to me that I have five minutes to make it to the Feed Hall. I quicken my step before my mind drifts back to the thought of having a man merely make eye contact with me in such a way that the man does in the book. And my mind's eyes paints the picture that I have branded in my memory from the words that I carry. I fade into the twilight of the dream.

“Girl, are you lost?” A deep baritone voice calls out, shifting me to wakefulness. “Are you lost?” He calls again.

My eyes widen and my head snaps at the sound.

In the shadows of the trees, a large frame stands less than a foot from me. My body vibrates to life instantaneously. In a blink, the large silhouette darts for my hand and pulls me into the shadows, like a whip. I land smack on something solid.

Blinking, I gather myself as my eyes adjust to the darkness overhead. My senses heighten. My hands tremble as they feel the rising and lowering of the hard-lines they rest upon. I connect my own respiration in union as I attempt to calm the animal-like rhythm of my thundering heart.

I feel my hair stir across my forehead matching the pace of his chest, where my eyes remain locked onto my shaking hands.

“Are you lost …?” His voice vibrates within his chest.

My eyes snap to their sound as I try to process his questions, only as I lock onto his ink-set stare, I feel my whole world is swallowed as my entirety turns in a sea of black.

“I asked if you were lost?” He demands.

My head bobs in response as I attempt to gather myself. I feel his strength soften under my fingertips. Taking a step backward, his warmth dissipates with his withdrawal.

“Are you a mute?” He questions softly as his large hand rises to tug on the corner of my mask. “Max said they were experimenting in the laboratory … did you escape? Did they harm you … for God sake, you’re trembling,” he says, and brings his hands to my shoulders.

My soul sets a flame as the darkness of his stare assesses every inch of my being. I feel him on my skin as if he is touching me. Air whizzes between my teeth.

No, he didn’t have the sparkling eyes like the man in the book, I think, as the book heavies. His ink-set eyes bore into mine, causing a shiver to nip at my bare heels and run up the posterior of my spine. I shutter.

The chime signals at the Feed Hall for my rations to be deposited for distribution. My body begins to quake as insensible words form from my lips. My sites lock in the direction of food. I clinch my thin fingers at the invisible hole of hunger that seems to be devouring my middle.

The man lets out a string of words before he gives my shoulders a shake, breaking me from the trance of starvation.

His eyes darken to pools of blackness as he studies my face. He lowers his head to match my eye level before reaching his rough palm to my face. He rubs the sharp edge of my cheekbone with his thumb, sending a spark to ricochet through my limbs.

The overwhelming sensation of his touch mixed with the excruciating hunger that I feel roar to life in the deep pits of my stomach causes my legs to wobble.

“They are starving you,” he growls out.

My throat vibrates as I attempt to use my voice. In a hoarse bark, I reply, “I 5833.”

The alarm chimes again for me to retrieve my rations. His fingers encircle my pencil-thin forearms. “We have to go before someone comes searching for you.”

“But … food,” my voice cracks.

The man wraps his thick arm around my decaying waistline and pulls me to his chest. “We have to go,” he says in a whisper. “I will feed you once we are safe and make camp. But now, we have to get you out of here.”

“Feed … Safe … Camp,” I mutter as he guides us deeper into the darkness of the overhanging evergreens.

“Yes, Camp. The state you are in, you won’t make the journey to the oasis.”

“Oasis …”