The Factory
Description
I am a child. I have no mother, no father, no siblings, neither brother nor sister… indeed, no family. In here, we are none of us with a family. All we have is the Creator… and ourselves.
My name is Stone, or you may call me Shin, though the name on my tag reads S-07-29. I am from the 11th batch of the 3rd generation of factory-made children, and I have blood 22.4% Chinese, 17% Latin, 33.1% Spanish, and 27.3% Japanese. My hair is of the pigment Taupe, my eyes are that of Coal, and my lips of Rose. My IQ level is 112, and I am gifted in songwriting as well as the piano. But I’ve yet to see one. There aren’t many instruments in the factory.
This is the factory that I was manufactured in, on the 29th of July. Every single cell in me was created chemically, and everything, from my body clock to the growth rate of my cells, was wired to perfection. Upon reaching Age 35 we would stop ageing altogether… or, at least, that is what we’ve been told and sold. The proportions of my body is programmed – at Age 10 it is exactly 24-22-20. And that’s the day we are tagged for life.
My name is Stone, and this is my life – life in the Child Factory.
Foreword
I had that same dream again.
I dreamt that I fell, and cut myself.
There wasn’t much blood, really. Just the tiniest mark on my knee. I tried to cover it with my skirt.
But they saw it alright. They saw it.
So they confiscated my rights, and tore the tag off me.
I struggled, of course. I struggled even though I knew it was useless. The Adult simply grabbed me by the wrists and dragged me away. I couldn’t see in the dark hallway, but I knew where he was bringing me to. The Reject Room. The Room where children were slaves, savages and starving, all at once. I didn’t want to go there. I tried telling them that I wasn’t damaged and that I would heal, but he didn’t listen. Adults never do. They don’t need to.
I could hear the dying groans from outside the door, and the sickening, sloshing sounds of soapy water being continuously run up and down already spotless walls. I heard someone whimper, like a beaten, tortured puppy, and a thud as another someone fell unconscious to the floor.
That place was a hellhole. Death.
So I struggled harder. I tried to fling the man’s grip off from my wrist, twisting my arm this way and that, sobbing and digging my heels in when he tried to pull me along. I begged for him to just discard me. Anything but the Reject Room. Anything but imperfection.
Then he got exasperated. Letting go of my wrists he grabbed at my hair. A scream escaped me as I found myself being lifted off my feet by the roots of my locks, kicking and crying like the helpless child I was. He swung me, and I found myself flying through air , through an open door - but I didn’t remember landing, because that’s when I would wake up, still fighting, still shouting, still weeping.
I grabbed at my heaving, damp chest. Yes, I was still breathing. It was just a dream. Just a dream. I’m alright. I’m fine. I’m perfect. They would still want me. Sitting up I bent to check my knees, then my feet, then my arms, and everywhere else where my body was exposed. To my relief I found nothing on my smooth fragile limbs.
Falling back into bed, I gathered the sheets around me to warm myself as I waited for my heartbeat to regain its original pace.
It’s tiring to be a child. Too, too tiring.
Writer's note: Hello. All characters, plot, storyline, poster (except for the photo of the girl) and anything else associated with this story is completely mine.
Comments