”Ah! Miss Cora! How are you doing today?” The baker gives me the usual smile and coffee. I smile back.
”Splendid!” I take the coffee and check out the pastries lined up in front of me. They all look so absolutely delicious and caries inducing. I point at one that’s covered in what looks like four kinds of chocolate.
”I’ll take this one!”
”Of course, you’ve always had a weakness for chocolate, haven’t you?” He chuckles.
”You’ve only known me for a year”, I remind him.
”Yes, yes. But it feels like longer. And such a deep love for something so sweet doesn’t just suddenly develop. I’m sure you’ve had quite the sweet tooth as a kid!”
He hands me the pastry, I pay for it and the coffee and leave the bakery to walk to a park nearby. The early morning sun is gently warming my skin. It’s going to be one of these scorching hot days again. But right now, I can still be outside and enjoy the blue sky.
I sit down on a bench, put down my coffee and take my pastry. As I bite into it, the strong flavor of the chocolate seems to spread through my whole body. I relax a bit.
The baker had been wrong. But how is he supposed to know that I’ve never had something sweet during my childhood? I can’t just tell him that I used to be one of the test subjects. He’d turn me in before I would finish talking.
No. He can’t know. I’ve worked too long for this, accepted too much pain.
The transition from, what Theresa called my “cocoon”, to an “acceptable member of the higher society” had been more painful than anything I’ve ever felt. Even the restoration of my emotions hadn’t been that hard on my body and mind.
Daily doses of drugs supposed to adjust my metabolism. Bleach for my skin and hair, color injections for my eyes.
”You’re too dark”, Theresa had said. ”People will notice that.” I hadn’t understood the comment back then but she had been right. The upper class seems to still stick to, what I had assumed are antiquated, notions of beauty. I wonder why they never got rid of this kind of racism. In the city I grew up in, this problem didn’t exist.
Then again, how are people without emotions supposed to be racist? Beauty had never even been a topic. How rational is beauty? Just as irrational as love and pleasure. And hatred, it seems.
Oh, there is a lot of hatred in this seemingly perfect city. Not against each other, not against the government, oh no. They’re all highly patriotic. But they hade the lower classes. The workers they think are dumb. The test subjects they see as nothing more than lab animals. They’re afraid that there might be an uprising someday.
It’s almost funny to me, that they all know about my people but never seem to consider that the experiments done on us might be to keep them quiet too. They assume that the emotion blockers are intended for the working class. But I doubt that I really doubt that. The people here are already under the total control of the government. They just aren’t aware of it. Or maybe they ignore it? I don’t know.
And to be honest, I don’t really care.
What I thought to be the real rebellion turned out to be a group of bored scientists. Sure, Theresa and her people were taking victims like me out of the hands of those who want to experiment on us, they help us find our way in this world, but that’s all they do. There is no drive to change things, not really.
They meet up once a week to discuss strategy, or that’s what they say. In reality, they come together, eat cake and reassure each other how great they are, what awesome human beings they are for helping such poor people like me. True saviors. I haven’t been to one of their meetings in a while.
I had asked Theresa if there are any other former test subjects nearby and if I could meet up with them.
”That would be way too dangerous!” She had insisted. ”You can’t just go and meet with them, someone might notice!”
”So there are others like me around”, I had determined. The look on her face switched between pure horror and deep anger.
”I told you, no connections to them. Don’t be dumb, you’d endanger us all! And now let’s drop this topic.”
This had been the end of it. For her.
A young man in his mid-twenties sits down next to me. He too is holding a chocolate pastry. The anxious expression on his freckled face makes him look like he’s going to throw up any moment. He looks at me and unconsciously starts playing with his red locks.
”Hi”, he says with a voice that’s dying halfway through.
”Hi”, I reply. I’m calmer than he is. After all, it’s been me who has arranged this meeting. It had taken months to find him. ”I’m Cora”, I say. ”What is your name?”
“Damon”
Picture taken from pixabay.com
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