The Great, Gray Future
an excerpt

The CompuTeacher slowly hummed and flickered off, the information being projected on the screen in the front of the large white room faded and went blank. I sighed gratefully that my day was truly over, saved my document as HistoryNotes122406 and folded my laptop twice, once the long way, and once the other way, and put the lightweight computer into the pocket of my gray jacket.

Walking out of the classroom, I began to stride down the long, seemingly endless, white hallway. It wasn’t beautiful, rather, quite efficient and practical. It served a purpose it fulfilled was all that really mattered.

I found the room I was looking for, 2003. I knocked on the door and a pleasant computerized voice answered, "Yes, who is this?"

"Tessa LeBlanc," I answered the CompuTeacher, "I am coming to pick up Margaret LeBlanc."

"What class are you coming from?" it asked in its almost sickeningly pleasant tone.

"Room 2017. I was getting extra help from CT19."

I heard the computer softly buzz as it checked its records.

"Margaret, you may go," it said finally. Margaret gathered her laptop and put it in her pocket. She turned and flashed a vibrant, youthful smile at her classmates and waved goodbye cheerfully. Margaret skipped out of her classroom and grasped my hand in hers.

"Guess what, Tessa?" she chirped as we began walking towards the school exit at the end of the hallway.

"What?"

"We learned about the American Revolution today! We learned about Paul Re...Rev..."

"Revere, Mags," I said, a bit amused by her constant state of cheerfulness. Margaret was the perfect one, the good sister. She was the cute little girl with the blond curls, blue eyes and blushing cheeks, and me...well, I was just Tessa. Not too pretty, with bony hands and sandy hair.

"Paul Revere painted a picture," she said to me in awe, her eyes big in shocked amazement.

"Yes, he did Mags," I replied, nodding. "And that caused all sorts of bad things to happen. It caused angry feelings, lots of them. The colonists believed that the things he painted were true...and that started a big war."

She paused and bit her pale pink bottom lip in deep thought.

"Why would anybody want to do that?" she asked quietly. "Make things that would make each other hurt?"

"Well," I said, planning my answer carefully, "People don't always get along, Mags. We wish they were able to, but they really, truly can't. So they make things, all sorts of things to hurt each other. So that's why our government banned all forms of art, to make it easier on us and protect us."

"Oh," said Margaret, "Well, I guess that is good."

We had reached the tall, steel doors that were the entrance and exit to the long, white school. Her gray jacket was still wide open, and I sighed, a hand on my brow.

"Button up your jacket, Mags."

"But wh---"

"Just button it, it's cold outside," I said, a bit harshly.

She grumbled as she fastened the coat's buttons. But sure enough, the weather was just as I had expected: snow swirling in the cold air, and strong icy winds. It took effort just to walk out of the building the winds were blowing so strongly. The snow was up to my ankles and bit icily at them. It was almost impossible to see through the flying snow, and I held Margaret near me to make sure she did not get lost or fall over.

I located the sidewalk after a bit of trudging through the cold white abyss. There would have been some visibility, maybe, if only the houses were not all identical white boxes But they were swallowed up in the torments of cold snow. I ran my hand over the fences that surrounded the yards of the houses. The gate of the fence always had the number of the house on it. My fingers brushed across house number 1001670910, and Margaret gave out a cry that was lost into the stormy weather.

I felt number 1001670911 and a gust of wind nearly knocked us over ...
1001670912...snow flew into our faces, making them red, wet and very raw.
1001670913...
1001670914...
1001670915...
And then...finally! 100670916! I pushed open the gate and ran straight down the path I knew would lead us to the front door of the currently invisible house we called 'home'. I opened the door and Margaret and I ran into the conformable familiarity that was our home.

Home was safe, home was warm, home was dry and friendly. We were both shivering as we stood on the foyer. Mother ran out of the living room, baby Timm in her arms. She glanced at us and cried, "Oh, darlings! You look horrible! Come on...let's get you something hot to have..."

She ushered us into the dining room and sat us at the dining room table, strapping Timm into his high chair as well. Timm babbled and slapped the tray. Mother then ran into the next room, coming out with a large thermos and some bowls.

"Oh! Spoons... and and let me hang up your coats Margaret, Tessa..." We gratefully handed her our dripping wet and frigid coat. She ran out of the room to put them in the closet, and ran back into the dining room. Mother rummaged through the draws for spoons. Once she found them, she set them onto the table and drew up a chair to join us.

"How was school?" she asked.

"Average," I said, a bit moody from trudging through the snow.

"Good, Mommy!" sang Margaret.

"Good, good...quite some weather, hmm?"

"You can say that again," I grumbled.

Margaret giggled and mimicked me: "You can say that again!"
---

I flopped onto my bed, and pointed the clicker on the large black screen, and clicked the 'on' button. It burst into life, color's flooding the screen and a deep voice coming out of the speakers on my wall.

"...in Boston were caught selling black market items, especially paper, books, and a great amount of paint, possibly more than 15 liters of it. They have been caught and will be executed on Friday at noontime," said the wrinkled, almost bald old man, smiling.

"In other news," he said in his dry, bull-frog voice, "A mentally disturbed young man has spray painted anti-House of Government on an alley wall. When caught, he will be executed immedia..."

Timm gave an earsplitting wail from somewhere downstairs. I heard mother give a soft groan, and I could almost see her throw her hands up in defeat.

"Darling, Tessa," Mother called, " Would you do me a favor?"

---

I walker around the corner, our family's credit card tight in my hand. Every family had a credit card: black with a large H on it for "House of Government" or just "the House" as most everyone called it. The House was the equivalent of your Senate or Parliament, I suppose. They were the group of people who controlled every aspect of our lives, and we adored them for it, worshiped them for it. The House was led by someone called Leader, who was quiet but powerful, and of whom we knew very little about. His voice we knew, though, a soft, stirring voice, a voice of might.

The snowed had eased greatly, but it still was frigid out. Snowflakes still clung to my eyelashes and fell in my hair. The night was a dark midnight blue.

When I saw the corner store, I ran to the door and yanked it open harshly. I stamped the snow off the bottom of my boots, and rubbed my cold arms. Then, I scanned the aisles, and located the one with the sign that said, "Baby Supplies: formula, diapers, ect.". As quickly as possibly could I grabbed a can of baby formula and a large package of diapers. I scanned the credit card at the checkout and the CompuCashier gave me the receipt. Why was I always picked on to do the chores, I thought grumpily.

It was eerily silent outside. I held my breath in spite of myself. Something was about to happen, I thought. It was scary waiting in the quiet night. I was scared too, I wanted to protect myself from a threat that did not exist yet.

I began to walk towards my home warily. Only a few feet down the street, I heard something faint in a nearby alley between two square, white stores: a click clack a hissing, spraying sound. I peeked down the alley and I gasped at what I saw.

He was tall, still, proud as a lion, and rather imposing. He must have been about my age, thought, he somehow looked much older than I. Maybe I was his stunning eyes, piercing sapphire blue, or his defined jaw and cheekbones. He held a spray can in his hands.

For awhile, the boy merely looked at me, with an unnerving calmness, his quick eyes absorbing every detail of me. He seemed to relax slightly, probably knowing that a knobby, small, average-looking girl like me could not hurt him.

"What are you doing? I'll call the cops I swear, you creep!" I stammered meekly.

"They've already been call, I'm sure," he said calmly, in a soft, deep voice, "Go back to your home."

"No! No, I...I don't believe you!"

"You can believe what you want," he said, "But the co--"

Suddenly, the absolutely horrifying, sharp sound of sirens filled the air.

"Oh, no, no..." he breathed, "Run, girl! Run NOW!"

"What?"

"RUN!" he clamped a hand around my wrist, and ran forward, pulling me quickly behind him. I tried to struggle, I tried with all my might, but his hands were strong and solid.

I heard dogs straining against their leashes, barking and snarling. I saw the gleam of flashlights, and heard the barking and screaming of the cops.

"Get them!" the cops kept screaming behind us, as we ran through mazes and mazes of alleyways between shops and hopping over fences of houses. It seemed hours before we jumped the fence of the city and ran into the deep dark woods that laid outside of them. The cops dared not cross the fence. They knew the dark legends of the woods, and they knew not to enter them.

The boy continued onwards, not breaking the firm grasp on my wrist. The cold air burnt in my lungs, and cold sweat lingered on my skin. The light in the woods made strange shadows on the ground, and our footsteps rustled in the silence of the empty, lonely, haunting woods. I was afraid.

Soon, a little wooden house seemed to appear into the scenery of the woods. It was strange, disturbingly strange, not to see a white house amongst other white houses. He lead me in the door and I stared in awe at the odd interior of the strange, strange house.

"They didn't see us," he gasped. Frantically, he ran to the doors and clacked various locks shut, and flicked up a switch that didn't turn on a light.

"You're seriously thinking a few locks will project you?" I asked, almost in hysteria.

"There's a forcefield around this house," he stated, "No one is going to find it unless they enter this forest, which I highly, highly doubt."

"I'm going home!" I screamed turning for the door.

"I'm sorry, but that's not possible. You can go if you really desire to, but I doubt you would want to be executed, or dropped off in the middle of Alaska to die on the tundra...but if you want to leave, go right ahead," he said, blue eyes boring straight into my brown eyes.

"Alright," I said, "Alright, I'll stay...just don't...hurt me...please..." I ended with a loud, embarrassing, half-strangled sob and whimper. The boy looked around awkwardly, and pressed something soft into my hand. A tissue. I blew my nose loudly and awkwardly, still crying.

"Don't cry, please," he murmured, "Shhh, it's OK, don't cry..." He gave me a small, pitying smile.

"I'm sorry," he said.

I looked around the small, lonely house once more. It was colorful, the walls were vibrantly pained with red with yellow patterns, like polka-dots and stripes. Along with being painted brightly, the walls were adorned with all sorts of art: drawings, painting, of almost everything---dogs, landscapes, portraits, tables, flowers, even a garbage can.

As I peeked in the room left of the foyer, I saw it was painted an ocean blue, with a tall, ornate, wooden bookcase, filled to it's limits with thousands and thousands of books, with peeling covers and pages turning pale, mustard yellow. I winced in total and utter disgust.

"Who do you think you are?" I asked with an icy attitude, "Doing all of...of this! What the hell are you doing?"

"Nothing to harm you or anyone else, I swear," he said almost absent mindendly, walking out of the small kitchen with a steaming, hot cup of tea held in his hand he pressed to his lips and took a sip.

"How can you be so...so damn casual?!"

He rolled his eyes and said, "Please: relax. You were calm before."

"I was surprised and in shock!" I exclaimed.

I heard him mumble something under his breath and shake his head scornfully.

"What did you just say to me? Spit it out, bastard!" I screamed.

"Oh, nothing," he said, quite pleasantly, "Sorry." He gave a small smile.

"You just mumbled 'So damn damn naive!' me me! I am NOT naive!"I shrilled angrily.

"Therein lies the problem. You're so damn naive you don't know you're naive!"

"I know plent--"

"Plenty of what the government want you to know about!" he roared, a fierce lion, "You don't know a time where people could chose what they wore--" he pointed to our indentical white shirts and black pants--"And you don't remember the time houses were different colors, or the time were you could believe in God, or any sort of deity you wanted to believe in! Art was celebrated, religion was celebrated!"

I looked at him with a distrusting, loathing glare heated with the red-hot passion of my pure hate.

"Yes," he snarled, "Celebrated." His face was crimson and a vein bulged out of his forehead. "There were books, damn books, written back in the 2000's begging to have more art in their school system!"

His teacup feel out of his hand and shattered into a million pieces on the floor.

"Damn, damn, damn..."

His face became softer as he gazed at the remains of the teacup, the shards of white porcelain in front of his feet. He laid a hand on his forehead and shook his head sadly. He hustled to the kitchen and came back with a brush and dustpan, which he used to sweep up the sharp, broken remains of his poor, ruined teacup into the dustpan. He emptied the dustpan into a trash can by the kitchen.

"I going to bed," he said quietly, "there's a blanket. on the couch. You can sleep there. Goodnight."
---

When I was sleepy, after a good, long, satisfying cry and longing for home, I laid myself on the long, quite comfortable, couch in the living room and closed my heavy eyelids.

Suddenly though, a quick but strong thought burst into my mind abruptly.

'What if...he were right?'

'But, no, no, never, he couldn't be right, that was ridiculous, total garbage...'

'But what if?' a slightly frightening voice at the back of my mind whispered.

I shuddered. He couldn't be right, he just couldn't! Never!

'Why, why the bloody hell can't he be right? Why would is your weak, soft-spoken opinion right, when he risks his life to express what he believes is right?' hissed the fierce voice in the back of my mind.

'Shut up,' I thought, but the voice wouldn't be quiet.

'But what if it is true? What if your being lied to, Tessa? What if you've been lied to your whole pitiful, worthless life? Who are you to say what the truth is and what the truth is not?'

'SHUT UP!' I thought-screamed, 'Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up...'

But yet the doubt gnawed viciously at the center of my being, at my soul and spirit, taunting me.

Never had I felt so awfully, mentally sick...

I stayed up half the night debating with myself. And when I finally fell asleep, my dreams were dark and my sleep was restless.

--