Welcome To The New Age

"Sector 9. Number 514. Reporting time, 7:32 AM,"

I speak into the small mic piece under the screened panel and hold out my tray. A second later a window in the wall opens and a hand snatches my tray away. It doesn't take long for it to be shoved back into my hands, a Styrofoam cup filled with water and something resembling oatmeal placed carelessly on it's surface.

A little off to the side is an officer, fingers rapped tightly around a baton. And no, not the thin twirly kind that the girls with short skirts use in marching bands.

His slitted eyes watch me closely and harshly. Like he's expecting me to forget something in my daily morning routine for him to beat out of me. I give him a curt and, dare I say, snobbish smirk before giving a short bow to the window. Not much of a bow, more of a slight nod really. I turn with my tray and the next person in line walks up to the mic piece.

"Sector 9. Number 7...,"

I set my tray down at an empty table and the minute I sit my body down, a little medical needle pops out from the side of the table. I reach down and let it prick my finger and take my blood. It's a system that they came up with. Something about letting them know who sits were and if we're more productive being unsociable or in groups. Plus the blood sample gives them our medical status to let them know if we're getting the exact amount of food we need, whether our bellies are satisfied or not.

I take a plastic spoon from a little dispenser at the center of the table. Shoveling the oatmeal-ish stuff into my mouth I try to imagine a better flavor that will hopefully trick my taste buds into agreeing with my imagination. Don't judge me, I read it in a book somewhere. Something along the lines of mind over matter and sh!t like that. The stuff is utterly tasteless and the water doesn't help.

I take a sip from my cup and glance around the cafeteria. Boys and girls aren't allowed to eat together, so it's just a bunch of girls in the same grey jumpsuits and Japanese lettering on the backs. The cafeteria has a sort of pristine look to it that I never quite understood. The rest of this so called "camp" is complete trash. Even the sleeping quarters aren't kept this nice.

It's something to do with the food...Somethings wrong.

I close my eyes tightly then open again. Stop thinking, stop thinking,...

Yes, put it off a little longer ...then you'll definitely die.

Shut up, I didn't ask for an opinion.

It's not nice to tell yourself to shut up.

...

Well isn't someone just a smart ass today.

Pft, if anything your a dumb ass.

Shut up!



I don't think I'm a bad person. I mean before the war, before the bomb, I was a regular teenager. Worrying about my weight, going to the mall, hanging out with friends, nothing too weird or different to set me apart from the rest. When the news story about the war with Japan first aired I was twelve. It didn't really effect my family because we didn't live in a military town and the majority of the fighting took place over seas. Sure I saw the headlines flash on the TV about the war, but to be honest, and I know this might sound horrible, but I really didn't care. Yeah I felt sorry for the soldiers and their families, but I guess it just never...clicked, how truly horrid it was.

Is that why this happened to me? Because I didn't feel bad enough for the people over seas? Granted I don't completely love myself, no teenage girl does, but this...

I sink my plow into the dirt and start dragging it bit by bit. I procrastinate like that. Having to do something in order to avoid dealing with whatever is f*cked up with my emotions. I grab a few seeds out of my little flour sack and sprinkle them over the fresh line I just grated into the ground. I don't know exactly what they're making us plant, I haven't been here long enough to figure it out. When the seeds find their place I shuffle a little dirt over them and move on.

In the distance I hear shouting in Japanese. Someones messed up and now they're paying the price. I do my best to not make any eye contact around here. If you even so much as look at someone wrong they'll find some way to make your life even more of a Hell here. I've seen it happen, the less creative will just do something like make you drop your lunch tray or steal your stuff. But I've heard of this one girl who rigged a guys top bunk bed to flip him onto the concrete floor when the morning alarm sounded. If I ever met that girl, I'd be willing to shake her hand.

I don't dare raise my head and try to view the scene that's probably being displayed behind me. Or even look up to see the reactions of the people around me. There's the crack of a whip, someones strangled cry, and I just dig deeper into the ground. Minding your own business gets you far around here. Don't ask questions, keep your head down, and try not to be noticed. The basic rules of surviving in an American slave camp. And really, they're also the same as a prison. Oh wait, there's no difference.