Chipped Heartz & Broken Smilez

Petty

After Jason's music video premiered, I shaved my head and bought a pair of grey-tinted glasses to avoid recognition. Somehow people were able to link the unnamed actress in the video to the girl who had kissed Olivia Golde in unsolicited photographs. Reporters questioned if this was the era of lesbianism, and how society could prevent dirty people like me from influencing young girls who needed to focus on being good mothers, wives, sisters and daughters. As I watched the news on the chunky black and white TV in my living room with a cup of hot chocolate or what Olivia called artificial food, I stared at the female news anchor.

Her long hair had been put up in a high ponytail; her eyebrows, thickest near her nose, narrowed as they stretched towards the sides of her face into pointed daggers. I imagined her going home after spewing bullshit and snuggling up with her girlfriend, breasts to breasts.

For all I knew, half our country was gay, but they were doing a better job hiding it than I was. If all of us gay people came together, imagine what we could accomplish. But instead of protesting, we hid in our homes, afraid to fight against the prevalent biases. Afraid to challenge the law and lose.

Afraid to get sent to the labyrinth for obstructing the regular functioning of society.

On the ground next to me was a yellow sheet of paper, a warning letter from the Ministry of Moral Behaviour, stating that I was to cease all perverse behaviour. In order to regain my 'good' status in society, I had to attend morality courses and find a male spouse within a year. I thought of Yolinda and her arranged marriage. My mother and her slit wrists. Is that all we were... mothers and wives?

I laughed bitterly. My voice echoed in the emptiness of my home. Despite living here for ten years, we still hadn't gotten any furniture for the living room and sat or lay on rugs.

I had revealed my secrets to the nation... and for what? To be ignored by Olivia. To be forced to marry some guy in a year or find myself on the 'bad' list, which meant I would be watched more than others, increasing any opportunity I had of getting thrown into the labyrinth.

***

At work, a grey apron covered my brown dress shirt and black pants. I placed plastic bags on their hangers and waited for customers to finish selecting their used hardware before helping them check out. Things were busy as there were many opportunities for construction and renovation workers from spring to summer. The number tended to thin in fall, then dwindle even more in winter. But for now, the store was bustling and having many customers distracted me from my worries.

As I started to feel pressure on the soles of my feet after standing for two hours, my supervisor pitied me and sent me on my first break.

***

In the breakroom, I reclined on a torn and tattered leather chair. While I rested, I took a notebook and a pen from my pocket and then wrote, 'Die' on a blank page.

Before someone saw it, I tore the page and stuffed everything into my pocket.

A girl who wore her purple hair in a short fashionable bob smiled and showed off pink flower earrings. She bragged to whoever would listen about meeting a guy in F-grid, a young farmer who would someday inherit his dad's wealth, allowing them to rise to C-grid. I couldn't wait for an officer to ticket her for violating the dress policy.

It was only a matter of time before one of her friends reported her in exchange for a free meal ticket.

Maybe a few whippings would teach Monique to stop thinking of herself as better than the rest of us.

Everyone knew unless the farm was backed by the government, there was no way that Monique would make it to Grid C. Farms might have five or six good years, then droughts, heavy rainfall, pests, or illnesses destroyed their crops, and the owners spent whatever reserves they had to fix the damage.