Aberrant

One: Brooke

I wake up to the harsh light of the morning sun streaming through my bedroom window, and blink rapidly to stop my eyes from watering. Naturally, there are no curtains in Candor. Just glass. To represent the idea that in my every waking moment, the truth should never be veiled with lies.  

I glance over to my sister's bed. It's unmade and empty. Unlike me, she's an early riser. Although the house we live in is big enough for both of us to have our own rooms, Candors prefer that siblings share bedrooms. Some families go as far as sharing beds. There are no secrets in Candor. No privacy either. Almost all of the walls are made of glass, though thankfully not the bedrooms and bathrooms, which are instead made of plaster and covered in black and white squares. 

With a groan, I pull back my white covers and survey my wardrobe, of which I have limited options. Being, the daughter of the Candor representative, I am always on show in Candor and my dad has stressed to me more than enough times, that I must look respectable. I dress into a smart Candor suit and tie my dark hair back into a ponytail. It's simple but it's all I have time for today. 

I make my way down to breakfast, and find, with dismay, that my father has done the cooking. My twelve-year-old sister Clara is already sitting at the table. She's got a piece of paper and is idly drawing some stickmen as she waits impatiently for my dad to bring over what smells like to be a pot of burnt porridge. 

My dad smiles as I sit down.

"Morning Brooke," my dad says, using a nickname that my mother used to use when I was much younger, "Sleep well?" 

I nod as he begins to ladle the lumpy porridge into bowls for me and Clara. 

"Well I didn't," blurts out Clara," I had an awful nightmare where I was at school and I forgot to bring my clothes and everyone was staring at me..."

Clara continues to rattle off her dream whilst I try to shut her out and focus on the bowl of porridge that my dad pushes towards me. I know that Clara, as usual, will go into every detail possible, and that is something I really don't want to hear. The porridge, which predictably tastes terrible, seems to be the better of two evils. 

"How awful," my dad, says and then spots someone walking past the our house and waves. The kitchen walls are made completely of glass so that we can see everyone walking past. And, of course, everyone can see in. 

"Urgh!" Clara stops her dream-telling to eat a spoonful of porridge. She spits it out and some of it lands on the cuff of her previously spotless white shirt, "Dad! This is awful! What have you done to the porridge?"

"Is it?" my dad asks. He takes a spoonful himself and grimaces, "You're right. It is pretty bad. Brooke, why didn't you tell us?" 

I jump. Of course, it's me, the one who's eaten five spoonful's, who get's the blame. 

"I didn't want to offend you Dad," I try, but I instantly know that it's the wrong thing to say. 

My father shakes his head, "No Brooke. Never lie. Remember our motto: Dishonesty makes evil possible. We must always speak the truth, even if it's hurtful. "

"Yes dad," I say as meekly as possible. I really don't want another lecture. It seems that in Candor, it's best to say the most offensive thing possible. 

"I agree, " declares Clara, breaking the silence, "It's better to tell the truth than lie all the time."

"I don't lie all the time!" I say, defensively.

"Well, maybe not all the time," admits Clara, "But you do do it a lot. I think you forget that you're even living in Candor most the time."