Walled Up

Chapter 1: Welcome to What's Left

   "Glenn? Glenn! Wake up Glenn, or you'll be late!"
   Glenn. That's me. The one screaming my name is my mother. She has reason, though. Today is a pretty big day. Today is the triennial selection day. Once every three years, the government (or what's left of it) comes around and selects three youths in the area to be a part of the "offering". A horrid afair, really. Officially, it isn't called the "offering", but The Challenge. We've all taken to calling it the "offering", though, because no one from our section ever comes back. I wouldn't even go if I didn't have to, but failing to attend is grounds for automatic selection, and trust me, you do NOT want to be selected.
   I open my eyes, after hearing my name shouted several more times, and being shaken like a rag-doll. I turn to see my mother, and she is very clearly irritated, but, even so, she has a big smile on her face, just like she always does. She always acts so happy, and it always makes every day just a little bit brighter.
   "Alright, okay, fine, I'm up," I mumble, barely believing the words as they come out of my mouth. "Give me, like, ten minutes."
   "Ten minutes is too long!" She prompts quickly. "Selection starts in an hour!"
   An hour!?! I must have overslept! I sit bolt upright so quickly that I almost tumble forward in a ball, and sharply turn my head towards my mother.
   "Why didn't you say so sooner!?" I blurt out, with a newfound rush of energy. "Get out of my room, I need to get ready! Like I said, ten minutes!"
   She stands up and shuffles to the door, closing it behind her. I leap out of bed, straight to my closet, and look for the outfit I want. After a few seconds of looking, I find it. I grab the shirt, (a midnigt blue t-shirt with two purple lines down the sleeves) throw it on haphazardly, then a pair of black denim jeans as well. Then I sit down on the ground next to my closet, grab my shoes, a plain black pair of sneakers, slip them on, and dart for the door.
   Wait! I think to myself. I almost forgot! I turn around, and make for my dresser. When I get there, I reach for my hair brush, pick it up, and gently run it through my hair. I have to be gentle with my hair, because it is so spectacular. Long, thick, straight, naturally auburn hair that extends all the way down to the middle of my back. I brush out all the tangles, making sure it's straight, flat, and presentable, and then I run out of my room, down the hallway, and in to our kitchen.
   When I get there, though, I'm a little bit surprised. My mother, instead of standing at the front door, ready to head out, is sitting at the kitchen table, laughing hysterically for some reason.
   "What's so funny?" I inquire, preemptively offended by the horrible prank she's played on me.
   "Selection doesn't actually start in an hour, Glenn!" She manages to get out through her fits of laughter. "It starts in three!"
   Right. Offended was the right word. I sit down at the kitchen table, cover my face with my hands, lean my head back, and moan very loudly in to my palms. I could have gotten at least another hour! I silently complain to myself. Whatever, though. I'm up now, no use complaining.
   "Oh, cheer up," she says to me when she stops laughing. "I only got you up so early so that I could make you a big breakfast before we go out. We do need to celebrate, after all! It's the last year that you'll have to worry about being selected!"
   Oh yeah, that's right! After this year, I won't have to go to selections any more! They only take teenagers from 13 to 19 years of age, and this year I'm 19! Usually, people only run the risk of being selected twice, but some of the unlucky ones (like myself) have that risk three times. My first selection was when I was 13. I made it out without being selected. My second one, I was 16. Got by with that one too. If I can make it through this one, never again will I have to worry about them calling my name.
   "So, what do you want for breakfast, Glenn?" My mother questions. Before I can answer, though, she walks over to the stove and picks up a plate with a paper towel laid over the top. She sets it in front of me, and takes off the paper towel. "I hope you were going to say 'an omelet', because that's what I made you!"
   Actually, that's exactly what I was going to say. It's like she knows what I'm thinking before even I do.
   I look up at her and smile. "Thanks! That's just what I was thinking!" I say to her, and then pick up my fork and dig in.
   After I take a couple of bites, she walks out of the room, probably to get my younger brother, Zane. He'll throw a fit over omelets for breakfast, but she'll calm him down and get him to eat. He's 12. Thank god, I don't know if my mother could handle the stress of two children being in the selection at the same time. Lucky him, he'll only have to take part in two.
   She comes back to the kitchen, Zane trailing behind her sleepily, and he sits at the table next to me. She hands him his breakfast, and then gets hers and sits down with us. We finish out breakfasts with a little bit of small talk, and then, after we're all done, we all get up and head for the door, ready to go to my third and final selection day.