Hi my name is Kira and we have started creative writing in our English class. For this assignment we were required to choose a sentence starter or a picture so we could develop and continue the story in our own way. All the starters provide imaginative pictures and opportunities to further develop the sentence. I choose the following paragraph below.
The room that I was trapped in was bare and cold. The door was bolted and my throat was hoarse from shouting for help. No one was coming to rescue me. If I was going to escape I would have to do it myself.
I still can’t believe how I have gotten into this situation. This madness all started two days ago, and I have been trapped in this bare, cold and frightening room for twenty-four hours now.
The morning when this all started I had a bad feeling in my gut. The sky was grey and gloomy, and I was particularly jumpy and moody. I came down the stairs to the kitchen and halfheartedly ate a piece of toast. Dad was sitting at the kitchen island drinking coffee and reading his newspaper. My little sister Maybelle entered the kitchen with a smirk on her face.
“Guess what day it is today?” She asks me with a wink.
I already know what day it is today. Every year at school the fifteen year-olds get marked. What it is, is when you get to school, you get an appointment sometime throughout the day with these people who look into your genes and uncover a mark. It appears on the inner side of your left wrist, and depending on what kind of mark you get, either the common one, or the one that gets you sent into the “room”. This happens every year, and no one knows what the purpose of it is, all everyone knows is that there is a good mark and a bad mark and you’ll get it once you’re fifteen.
“It’s marking day for you, Ellie!” Maybelle exclaims, “Hopefully you don’t get the bad mark.” She sounds like she’s teasing me.
“Wow, thank you for making me feel better,” I can’t keep the snideness out of my voice. “It’s really helping me. Just wait ‘til you get your mark, see how you feel.”
Maybelle just laughs and rolls her eyes at me.
I force the remainders of the toast down my throat and pack my school bag. The toast churns in my stomach from the nerves, so I gulp down some water in hopes that I might feel better. I check my watch; it’s nearly eight am, I better get going so I can get my mark.
“Well,” I say, slinging my bag onto my shoulders. “See you after school, or not.”
“Bye sweetie,” Dad looks up from his newspaper. “Have a good day, ay?”
“I better go with Ellie,” Maybelle says with a sigh. Maybelle is two years younger than me, thirteen.
“Say bye to mum for us,” I say to Dad. She’s probably still in bed.
“I will,” Dad says, smiling. “You beauties have a good day alright?”
I give Dad a thumbs up and Maybelle waves. Together Maybelle and I walk out the front door and to the bus stop around the corner.
Together Maybelle and I walk down the cracked pavement of the sidewalk, I notice the morning has dawned cold and bright. The pale pastel blue of the sky looks smooth, nearly opalescent. It’s very still, as if the air has somehow frozen in place, it’s cold little pinpricks poking me as I walk. The birds have woken up too, their clear, sweet melodies echoing in the morning sunshine. It reminds me of a fairytale, the way the tips of the trees are dipped in sunlight, making them look as if they were partially made out of rippled gold. These are my favourite kind of mornings, they make me feel at peace.
As Maybelle and I get onto the bus at last, the sun has risen over the horizon, now tickling my cheeks through the branches of the nearby trees. My body soaks in the warmth as if the sun is the everlasting ocean, and I am one of the many sponges experiencing the ecstatic feeling.
I say good morning to the bus driver and face the aisle. The kids in the bus basically sit in categories; several innocent Kindergarten children sit in the front rows, their small feet hanging over the edges of the seats, looking like living dolls with immensely soft looking hair, primary school students sit behind the Kindy toddlers, occupying the middle of the bus, showing off their new backpacks to one another, and at the back are the high school students, majority of the girls wearing heavy makeup and chewing gum, the boys mussing their carefully styled hair and chatting amongst themselves. However, I notice a handful of students look as if they’re about to throw up all over the bus. They must be fifteen year olds getting ready to await their appointment with the officials, myself one of them. Their faces look pale and pinched.
I spot my best friend Kat near the back and head over. Kat is also fifteen, and is awaiting her mark today. I notice her brow is puckered, making her look extremely worried, her face is slightly green and she’s focused on the road.
I plop myself down next to her and put my bag between my feet. “Hi Kat!” I say smiling at her. She grunts, and looks as though if she opens her mouth she’ll throw up.
“Are you ready for your mark?” I ask gently. Kat turns a shade greener. That speaks for itself.
“Okay, I’ll shut up,” I say and pat her shoulder.
For the rest of the ride the bus remains dead silent in the back, however, the Kindy toddlers and the primary kids are chatting in the front. I can nearly feel the nerves and emotions coming off the fifteen year olds, and it makes me feel sick as well.
After what seemed like forever, Kat and I get off the bus together and approach the school. My stomach jumps and turns every now and then.
*
Later in form class, the loudspeakers sounded.
“Good morning school,” a pleasant female voice says over the loudspeaker, “Just a quick reminder for all the Year elevens, the fifteen year olds; you will need to keep a ear and an eye on when your time comes, when it does, one of the officials will come and collect you from your class and escort you to your appointment. As said previously, when your time comes someone will come and get you. If you get the common mark, you will remain for a little while to do some further testing, and if one of you receives the other mark the officials will inform you what will happen next. I hope all of you listened carefully to this message, it’s very important. Thank you, you may proceed with your day as normal until the official comes.”
I begin to wonder what might happen to the poor student who receives the mark. I think it’s unfair that we don’t get to know what happens after, but I guess there might be a reason they don’t tell us.
I look over to Kat who is looking a little more relaxed than on the bus, there is more colour in her cheeks, and she seems much more active and herself.
“You Okay?” I ask her. She gives me a small smile.
“Yeah,” she replies in her melodic voice. “I’ve realised that the chance of one of us getting the mark is very little, so I’ve been feeling better. I just feel so bad for the person that’s going to get it.” She pouts a little. Then she asks me, “You Okay?”
“Yup,” I say. I hope, I think nervously. I’m not entirely being truthful about being okay, I’m dreading my appointment to the fullest content. Just the thought of going makes me shudder. I realise that I don’t even know what has happened to the fifteen year olds that have gotten the mark before us, what happened to them, and their families?
The day goes by in a blur, my anticipation increasing by the minute. Several students from our class have already been called out, but haven’t returned. Eventually, when I have finally calmed down a little, the official comes into class and decides to call my name off a piece of paper. My stomach jolts, my heart begins to race and thump against my rib cage, as if threatening to break free. I frantically look over to Kat, who nods and mouths, “Good luck”.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat and stand to join the official. I take one last look at the class behind me, all the students fidget and are looking nervous yet again. Kat waves, her expression shows genuine worry. The door closes behind me, leaving the official and I alone.
The official is female, she’s wearing a white lab coat, a mask and shaded safety glasses, making it hard to see her face, much less recognise her. She looks like a doctor or a scientist who’s ready to dive into a perilous experiment. This doesn’t give me any confidence whatsoever. I wonder if the rest of the officials are dressed as abnormally as she is. That would make them look like a bunch of delirious scientists.
The official looks at me, or so I think, and points to a name tag on her chest.
“I’m Mary,” she says, she sounds like the kind of person that’s incredibly serious all the time, her tone reminds me of a teacher’s. “I will escort you to the office, where the other officials will take over.”
“Okay,” I say in a somewhat shaky voice.
“I’m going to have to blindfold you, I know it sounds nonsensical, but it’s crucial. Just for safety, you know, so no one tries to break their friends out,” the official says in a bored voice, pulling out a plain white piece of cloth out of one of her pockets.
“Okay,” I say yet again. I hadn’t realised that it was this serious and that the officials were so apprehensive about students knowing where their office was. The official secures the cloth around my eyes, completely wiping out my vision, leaving me with my other senses. Without hesitation the official takes hold of my arm and yanks me down the corridor. We turn so many times, her firm grip on my arm never loosening, that I don’t know my whereabouts any longer. But I guess that’s what the officials want to achieve.
Finally, after what has seemed like an eternity, we come to a stop. I hear a door open, and the official hands hustle me into the room. The first thing I notice is that the room smells exactly like a hospital, the sterile, chemical smell, and second I hear a click, realisation dawns on me and I realise that I have been locked into the office. Like a prisoner. Someone yanks my blindfold off. The room is bright and it takes my eyes a second to adjust to the conditions.
The “office” looks exactly like a hospital room too, a hospital bed occupies the far left corner, there are numerous machines and gadgets next to the bed. There’s a desk beside the bed, a computer sits on the surface, and there is a cluster of files piled next to it. The room is small and everything is blindingly white.
The official that escorted me here has disappeared, there are three more officials that look nearly identical to my escort, except that two are men and one is a woman.
“Please sit down, Ellie,” says one of the men in a gravelly voice, gesturing a gloved hand to the hospital bed. “Make yourself comfortable.” Cautiously, I scoot over to the bed and sit down slowly. It feels normal, thank god. As if you could even make yourself comfortable here, I think sourly.
“We might need to sedate you while we take the tests and draw your mark,” the same man says to me with no particular emotion. “Is that okay with you?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say quickly. I just want to get this over and done with so I can go home. “Go ahead.”
“You might want to lie down for this,” the official says, patting the pillows. I oblige.
The female official takes a syringe from a rack at the foot of the bed and fills it with a clear liquid, she sanitises the needle and sits down on the rolling chair next to my bed. One of the officials is typing away on the computer and the other is preparing what looks like a helmet with tubes coming out of it. They are preparing my genetic tests.
The female official brings the syringe to my arm. I hold my breath and close my eyes. I feel the prick of the needle piercing my skin and suddenly feel no more.
I am swimming in thick grey fog which feels like swimming through fudge. I am oblivious to the obvious, I know nothing more than my warm grey blanket and my muddled thoughts. I feel as if I am sleeping in one of my dreamless sleeps, just standing there seeing only the expanding desert of oblivion. The grey nothingness seems to hold no mass, but seems so heavy in weight. I’m already tired of seeing only grey and try to move, however, my body does not respond, as if it is no longer in my possession. It’s only me and my grey thoughts.
After sitting in the grey desert for a lifetime, I feel someone reaching for me, reaching into my home of greyness, offering a hand to freedom. Someone is calling, a word… someone’s name… Who’s name? Am I imagining it? Who is it? Is it dad?
“Dad…” I mumble. My body feels weak like lead. I feel as though I have just run a marathon. The ground is hard beneath me, I am no longer the grey oblivion. I try to open my eyes, I do, half, they’re dried together with my crusty tears. I lift my limp hand and rub my eyes. I manage to sit up and get a look at where I am.
The room I seem to be trapped in is bare and cold. I ask myself how I got here. I rub my eyes again, and let it slip onto my lap. My head droops with fatigue, and my eyes fly to my left wrist. There’s a black mark on it. Two simple interlocked triangles. My memories come flooding back to me. I leap to my feet, panicked, I look around for a door. There’s one in the corner. I dash to it and begin the kick and punch the white metal door. I scream at the top of my lungs for help.
I have the mark, the bad one. What are they going to do to me?
