How to Disappear Completely

Destroy.

It's an ugly word, and yet it's the only thing we can do right. Humans can only destroy. We have destroyed our own unique differences, our supposed "specialness". Now, we are all cookie cut-outs of each other. All the women have blonde page-boy haircuts. Men have blond buzz cuts. Blue eyes, snow-white skin, thin, pink lips.

In a sense, we are all possessed by the government. We are all government property. We are disposed of if not wanted. The deformed are burned. The mentally ill are beheaded. The sickly are drowned. The stupid are starved.

All aspects of torture have come back alive. The electric chair. Lethal injection. LSD. Water torture. Worst fears. Small rooms.

Humans don't exist. They have died. The only things existing on the earth are Aryan creatures with bar codes on the back of their necks.

Big Brother owns us all.

"Evans, I don't understand why everyone is so cold. It's almost like living with more robots than usual." Durden waves at Marshall, who shyly waves back. "However, the children are too cute for words."

Innocence. Funny how such a thing exists under this roof.

"Evans, don't you believe this environment is a little...strange?" Durden wrings her hands. "Andrew--I mean, Mrotek--has been acting very unlike himself lately." Bitter. Towards me, no doubt. Hate, something I've never experienced; how different. "Oh, Evans, what can I do to get him out of this...this bad mood?"

"I don't know." Knowing about others' moods and feelings are not a specialty of mine. Siska and I decide to go running when we meet each other. I apologize to Durden, who joins us. After changing into shorts and a shirt, we slip into the exercise room and start on the tread mill.

"Johnson and Deleon are doing something with Beckett. I'm afraid they'll get hurt." Siska checks his PR as he continues on the tread mill. His arms move back and forth steadily, the veins in his hands more visible now."I mean, I've never even touched a gun before. Afraid I'll end up shooting my friends' heads off. Letting kids do it...not a smart idea."

"Since when did they start doing target practice?" Concentrate on the gray walls, not the monitors. Pulse rates don't matter at the moment. Finishing the workout and sweating out the stress is today's task. "I didn't know we had a separate place for shooting."

"Now we do. Thank Big Brother for providing us with everything we need." Beads of sweat run down Siska's face, soaking his gray shirt. His back looks damp. "I don't think this training will last for long. Guns are futile against Big Brother."

"I...I can't run anymore." Durden stops the tread mill, breathing heavily. She breathes quickly while Siska and I continue on our run. As she sits down, Siska wags a finger at her.

"Don't do that. Builds up lactic acid. More cramping." He turns to me and glances at the speed. "Slow down, or you won't be able to walk tomorrow."

"That's what ice is for." Out of the corner of my eye, I see Durden stand against the gloomy gray wall awkwardly, watching us. "Are you teaching any of the boys anything?"

"They run with me, just not as often as you do." He slows down and hops off the machine. He grabs his soot-colored towel. "I'm done for today. It's a short workout; we have other things to do."

"Like what?" I turn mine off too and exit with Siska. Durden trails silently behind us, and I motion for her to join our conversation. However, I highly doubt she will contribute. "I don't teach anything, and I'm attempting to avoid Beckett and Mrotek."

I see Mrotek in the sparring room with Marshall, who is now shadow boxing. He punches the ebony punching bags, Mrotek shouting orders from the bench. He coughs, most likely from his injury. Pang of guilt. Durden stops, not knowing what to do.

To enter, or not to enter?

"Go on in. He won't hurt you." Siska nods to the door. "Go on, Durden." She cautiously opens the glass door and enters. Mrotek's head snaps to the door, and he smiles slightly upon seeing her. His eyes slowly meet mine and linger. He turns away to greet Durden, to ask about her day.

Siska frowns, shaking his head. "If only things like that could last forever. Life's so short."

The average life of a male has risen to 72, just like women. Amazing how chromosome manipulation can create things. Our blond hair, blue eyes, perfect complexion, thin bodies, photographic memory, superhuman strength. Science and technology--no one could do any better than Big Brother. No one can outsmart the government. After all, everyone is watched.

Supervised.

Monitored.

But now, are we anything special? And why aren't we? We are all the same, carbon copies of each other. We all originated from test tubes, ugly fetuses floating in green, puss-like material.

Unnatural.

Synthetic.

We are not real.

We are all ugly, mutated creatures made by the minds of science and Big Brother.