Imperfect Perfections

Ch 1. One of These Days

Hi! This is my new story, Imperfect Perfections!
I realise some of you may think this idea is similar to any dystopian fiction you have read, this story is indeed inspired by them (so you may see some similarities). I did actually get this concept from a book of ideas (created specifically for others to use), but I honestly haven't been able to contact its writer. Note: I am not plagiarising these ideas!!
I'll try to update whenever I can, and I usually have medium length chapters.
The song of the chapter is Letters from the Sky by Civil Twilight. Link to the video is attached!

Everyone has the same idea implanted in them since the day they were born. They know how to live under these conditions. I don't. I am different. They are programmed to like this world. This a world where there is equality, but still rigid control. I see through the thin film of fairness and justice to a much more present layer of disgrace.

These were the thoughts that swam in my head as I prepared myself for the long journey ahead of me. My life would no longer be spent as a lonely, unhappy speck in the world, but as a leader. A person who would show the world the gloom they were living in, and the doom they were headed for. But it wouldn't be easy. No, I knew the law-enforcers' strength. I knew how, regardless of the lack of crime in the open world, somehow, they were keeping their standards high. No one could break into anywhere; maybe that's why they never tried. But I know their secret. I know that there is still some sanity in this world we live in. I know there is a group of people like me out there somewhere, and I'm going to find them.

School was the one place I had actually made a friend. With time, our relationship disintegrated, like they all do. But now, of course, at seventeen years of age, underprivileged as I was, I had finished my required course, and needed to live off the government's taxes no longer. It was then that my 'mother' took an intense disliking to me - now she had to pay for my lodging, as I was not allowed to work at this age.

My fumbling fingers pack my bag. Folding here, stuffing there and tossing everywhere. My fingers move almost mechanically in a precise, yet hurried manner. Luckily, my personal belongings are so little that I need only pack one large bag to fit them all. All my life I looked upon my foster family's belongings so enviously. The silky material, vibrant colours and elegant outfits bothered me for years. But now I am thankful for their neglect, because I have been and will be able to survive on the bare minimum. Having never been fed, clothed, sheltered and loved enough, they have really been preparing me for this journey. During this journey, I shall not have much of those three essentials, let alone enough of it.

But then the jealousy hits me hard. I would not have found the need to make this long, difficult trip if I had a mere fraction of what they ever had. Food, clothing, shelter and most of all, love. Truthfully, they have all of those things, except love. They are tricked into thinking that they hold the love of people around them, when everyone is just as selfish as themselves. But they do have the comfort of materialistic things, and are at least trapped in the belief that they have love.

I know for a fact that I have never had these things with them. My perpetually skinny frame and everlasting hunger is all the proof I need that they are starving me of food. My torn, tattered clothing with only two other outfits show me that they have never given me clothing. My lost feeling tells me that regardless of them reluctantly allowing me to live in their home, they do not want me with them. They keep me because they want my allowance from government- none of which I receive, of course. And, last of all, my lost story of my parents, of which I believe no one but my foster mother knows. I can't wait around for years for her to finally decide she can tell me - she may never make that decision. No, I need to find my own way around in this world, because there is no one I can trust... yet.

I scoop my bag up and weigh it in my hands. This is what will remain of my former life once I become a fugitive. For the first time, I question my actions. Sure, my life for its first seventeen years was miserable, but do I really want to leave this behind? Although desolate and dreadful at times, this was a life I knew. It was a life I understood. But as I remember what they have deprived me of, I no longer care. Anywhere must be better than this.

Slipping silently through the door, I sling my bag over shoulder and across my torso, where it comes to rest near my waist. I lace my worn black combat boots until they reach halfway up my shin. The toes are peeling and the soles are worn thin, but these are my best shoes. I pull my jacket tighter around my torso, feeling the gentle morning breeze blow around me, tousling my messy auburn mop about. My emerald, almond-shaped eyes squint in the direction of the sunrise. I pause to take in the breathtaking view, just as I see a dark figure slink into my field of vision. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, in the hopes of opening them to see the finer details of the dark shape against the bright sunlight. I flick my long eyelashes open to see a handsome face and a fist making its way to its target - my face.

My instinct kicks in and I side-step the punch and duck the next hook. I catch a brief look of surprise cross his face before it's wiped clean. His dark, heavy eyebrows lower and crease his smooth skin. His eyes narrow and focus on me, a whole head and a half shorter than him. He's tall, but he doesn't move in a lithe manner. It's more in a way that would remind me of a teenaged boy trying to adjust to a sudden growth spurt. While he turns around, albeit a little clumsily, I take the opportunity to glance down at his uniform. It's not that of a peacekeeper, so I'm almost convinced I'm safe. But then, which trustworthy person would be creeping around in the early hours of the morning?

I decide to trust him, a mistake I could later regret. I take a few steps back, holding my hands up in surrender. His eyes widen, and I notice they are a shade of deep blue, almost navy compared to my light crystalline hue. His forehead scrunches and he looks confused in an endearing sort of way. He grabs my wrist and holds it in front of his face. Of course, I think, he's looking for my branding. My tattoo should read which side I have chosen.

And I have chosen wrong. At least, according to the rest of society, I have chosen the wrong side. But for me, I have chosen right, and I would never have it in me to take my decision back. So I let him make of it what he will, and hang my head. I am prepared to let the world know which side I have chosen, but I am not prepared to die for it. I know that in these early stages of our rising, each and every one of us is needed. I don't really have a plan B except to run for it. He's too big, and although he is clumsy, I know that he could overpower me in seconds.

His eyes widen at the sight of my wrist, his face contorting in shock and anger. Realising that the only sort of people who could have such a reaction are not the good kind, I slowly start to back away. He tightens his grip on my wrist and pulls me to his chest. My head barely reaches his shoulders. He glares at me as though he is waiting for a reply. Then I hear it, a low rumbling coming from within his chest, "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

I don't waste even a second. My foot is spinning around towards his abdomen, my fists guarding my face and ribs. He catches my foot with his hand, and that's when I see it. Confirmation of his evil is printed bold on his skin. I struggle, trying to shake my foot from his grasp, and wobble over backwards. He catches me as I fall, a hand holding me up from the middle of my back. I almost laugh at the absurdity of our position.

One watching us from afar might think we were lovers, outside for a walk at sunrise, only to have gotten caught up in an intimate moment. I remember seeing a real couple like this once. It's an old memory, from when I was probably only seven or eight. I like to think the couple were my mother and father. His breath blows gently across my face, mere inches from his own. I calculate the distance, trying to see if head butting him would be of any use. Before I can do anything, he stands me upright with a firm but gentle hand. His face is coming closer and closer to mine. I try leaning away but he only takes a step inwards and cups the back of my head. Suddenly, his lips are on mine and passion and fire burn between our lips. Flames dance across our tongues, warming me from the inside out.