Running Scared

I wake to the sounds of creaking floorboards and the shrill bleating of my alarm clock. Out of the thirty-two floors in the building, I am on the thirtieth. The lift is never in use so the trudge up and down sixty flights of stairs is never easy but my muscles have slowly grown accustomed to the exercise, rendering me in decent shape. Sometimes, I find myself just pacing the staircase for something to do, using it as a kind of work-out routine to pass time although I can never make it past a flight of stairs without meeting someone halfway. We all try to keep busy.

The country is suffering from over-population. Jobs are hard to come by, our industry is on the brink of collapse and there is a struggle to find places for people to live. Our city skyline is bleak, made up of towering flats and disused factories. With every new building for accommodation being erected, we build higher than the previous year, pushing the structure to its limit. This is what we must do to survive because otherwise, we'd be sleeping in the streets.

The city, known only as The Community, is ruled by the government. History claims that as more and more people populated the earth, our leaders were forced to turn to radical laws in order to keep the chaos at bay. As a rule, only the select few are allowed to have children so that the human race will continue to endeavour; the strongest, the cleverest, the wealthiest, the most beautiful. I fit into none of these descriptions. To have a child without permission is treated with the strictest consequences; the sentence is the death penalty.

My own mother was known to be a local beauty. She was snapped up by a rich man, a man whose name I do not even know, but when I was born, he abandoned her. Often, it is easier to punish women for disobeying the law because their stomachs swell with time - always caught out sooner or later - they show their treachery, while men often disappear into the shadows knowing that to stay will mean death. Without the security or proof of a partner, my mother was hung and I was handed over to the orphanage almost twenty-four years ago. The only thing I have of my mother is the name she gave me - Amelia Freeman.

I wince as my bare feet come into contact with the cool surface of the floor. Stifling a yawn, I smack my palm against the top of the clock, cutting out the beeping that leaves me with an unnerving quiet in my chilly room. Outside, past the thin veil of orange curtains I hung a few years ago to brighten the place up a little, it is still dark outside. I suffer from constant bags beneath my eyes but to sleep in would mean skipping breakfast, something that I cannot afford to do. Food is in dire supply; each person is given a ration book, allowing three coupons per day that are redeemable for one meal each. This is the only nourishment we receive so to waste the opportunity would be careless, idiotic even.

I've caught snippets of hushed conversations, telling of times in this country where food was so easily accessible that huge stores were dedicated to the purchase of edible items. I remember pondering over this for hours, trying to dream up such a place and failing to do so.

Dressing as quickly as possible, I slip out of my apartment with my ration book in hand and join the throng of hungry neighbours marching down the stairs, all of us noiseless as we start another day.