In a futuristic society where people are differentiated and valued based on the purity of their genes, can a person define for themselves who they really are? Or does The Gene Test provide the answer for them?
Depression... Addiction... Criminality...
It'd been four months I think. People had told me that it'd only get better, as they patted me on the shoulder and looked over the coffin, wiping away imaginary tears and blowing their dry noses into pieces of tissue. They were lying. Or just wrong, because they'd never been through the same kind of grief and could only offer their half-assed apologies and condolences — As if that would magically resurrect Mom from the dead.
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Rather than get better over time, it only got worse. The longer she was gone, the more I realized the empty void in my life, where she used to be, the more it grew. Nothing made it better. Not therapy, not friends (since the only friend I really wanted to be there for me, wasn't), not even swimming. I felt like I'd hit a wall. A moving wall that only pushed me backwards. I was desperate. I needed something to numb to pain.
It was my last resort, but it worked.
I started off by stealing a bottle from Dad's cabinet. He came home and saw the empty bottle in the sink. Then he came upstairs and found me in my room, drunk.
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It was meant to be a one-off thing. But then it became a two-off, then a three-off. Before I could even spell the word 'alcoholic' I was going to the bar every weekend, using a fake ID some sketchy guy in school made for me in exchange for a girl's home address. I wonder what he needed that for?
I usually go out to drink, but with Mom's death anniversary coming up, I wanted to get wasted in the comfort of my own home, so I planned to just dig into the extensive secret alcohol stash in my room. My mini fridge has a fake backing which is actually a hidden compartment where all the alcohol is stored. Neat, huh? I saw it on one of those television adverts three months ago. New age innovation.
I'd just finished downing my first bottle when Dad barges into my room unannounced. I hate it when he does that.
He takes in my form slumped on the floor, the empty bottle, and sniffs the air. His eyes double in size.
Okay, now he's either freaking out or having a heart attack. It's hard to tell. Judging by the fact that he's still standing, I'm guessing the former?
