Short Story Trois: The Girl with No Name
3. The Girl with No Name
Hi.
If you are wondering who I am, I suggest you stop reading before you get killed, whether it is in real life or Sims. If you think this is a stupid blog post by a stupider teenager, then keep on reading. You are probably partially right anyways.
My name is something that cannot be revealed to the world, lest the destruction plagues our world again but for now, call me Abigail. DON’T. AND I REPEAT. DON’T YOU DARE CALL ME ABBY. Are we good then?
Very well.
Government intelligence states that the day of September 6th was a normal date like any other. THEY ARE WRONG.
You see, the government is very particular of what they want the public to know, but I know for sure that this day was no ordinary day. How could it when I was there, myself?
The government called me a curse. Not because they were mean, it was the genetical project they worked in. Project Curse. The irony was that I wasn't even able to throw them an F bomb. How I wished I could now.
I was one of thirteen children. Thirteen orphans that nobody cared about. I remembered the day was bright with sugared clouds, as one of the little ones said to me. I finally hoped for some attention, a bit of love of my own. Was it too much to ask? The attention I got was the wrong type I asked for.
Back to September 6th. Adults are too stupid to understand the concept, but I am able to wager that every single child knows about it. The first day of school. Think this is so funny? Well laugh about it while you can.
I was one of thirteen children, a number that meant that nothing was going to end well. Every day of our lives, we trained. There was one martial arts class we took, but besides that, physical training had no meaning. Our purpose was deeper, to infiltrate. We were wiped clean of our memories through each lesson, pretending to be a new person each day and learning to rely on our ears rather than our eyes. They told us that eyes could lie, whether through drug induced states or being physically blinded by our enemies. Ears were therefore more reliable, able to catch on any words that slipped from careless mouths.
The first day of school. What do you think is the most important job in the world? Engineers? Corrupt businessmen and women? The President? Think small scale because small scale erupts into a bigger explosion. Teachers. They teach us how to think, how to solve problems, how to communicate. How many people can go to their jobs without having been influenced by a teacher? Whether good or bad, teachers have the profound power to influence the minds of their students. In essence, more concentrated power than the government could ever get through propaganda.
They wanted IT. We were subjected through final tests before being kicked out and sent into the new world that we could never have shared. Each one of us was a portrait of someone else, and we disguised ourselves skillfully.
*Another thing they told us: Showing ourselves guaranteed our deaths*
People don't know what they are saying when they say that they hate their lives. At least they possessed the determiner ‘their’, at least they could say it was their life that they hated. I hated all of my lives, all of the identities crammed into my brain. And I couldn't say a single word about it.
Until now. I engaged in every fake thing possible: fake identities, fake thoughts, and even fake relationships. I grew, and I wanted to make the government afraid. Just as afraid as I had been when I was told to pull the trigger on myself for disobeying orders. But even though I lie dead on the cold parquet floor, and my hand clutching the gun as if a lifeline, I had my last laugh.
My last laugh enclosed through this letter. Whoever reads this will be disgusted, but I would always be laughing, because I know something that they do not. This stupid blog written by a stupid teen will go out into the world. And everything I have done will be confessed and packed up neatly in boxes to go to court. This letter condemns everyone who made me false, and I don't need to give any name for them to know who they are. If you are reading this and you are one of these people, then I congratulate you on making it this far. I won't throw the f-bomb, I won't even tell you to go to hell. However, I request only one thing: DON'T CALL ME ABBY ON MY EPITAPH.
My actual name is Jane Gardner. I was born in a hospital.
Don't you remember?
I am Thirteen.
I was your most talented candidate.
I had survived the training, and even the infiltration. And I will survive this bullet to my head, not because I have to, but because I WILL.
I tell you, don't forget.
Because I am one of you.
Signing off,
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