Running Scared

We do not talk. Nothing has changed between us except in the way I think about Grahame. He is more than just a stranger to me now. I've heard his laugh, seen his smile, heard him talk with enthusiasm, anger, kindness. He has a mind entirely separate from mine, has thoughts that don't connect with me whatsoever. This is on par with a miracle for me, to finally realise that life exists outside my own. I never really thought about it before; that every single person in the Community has their own story that they keep to themselves. The run was a catalyst that caused mine and Grahame's stories to overlap. But we continue to ignore one another.

Meal times continue to be unsociable. Grahame still sits at the same table as I do, no doubt to quell the suspicion that something unnatural has happened between us if he were to switch seats. It all feels very much the same, except now I can detect an underlying awkwardness that was never there before - on both our parts. Every time he drops onto the bench opposite me, I want to apologise for how I acted that morning, or to tell him that us not talking is for the best, even if I don't feel that way. Because no matter how much I wish to laugh with him again, it's easier and safer for us to remain indifferent.

Two months pass and Grahame and I have perfected being oblivious to each other. The first few weeks were hard; I often caught him watching me or saw him open his mouth to speak before he thought better of it. During dinner on the day I left him in the warehouse, he sat right beside me so that he could mumble a broken sentence in my ear. He was sorry, he didn't mean to put me in a position where my safety was compromised, could I meet him at his flat to at least talk it over? But I was resilient. He would not get a word from me. Only occasionally do I see his jaw twitch, see his knuckles turn white from his grip around the fork.

Today, breakfast is a piece of toast and half an apple. Even as I stare down at it, Grahame chewing his obnoxiously loud, I feel a wave of nausea rising up through my chest and lodging itself in my throat. One look at that apple half, the fruit already turning brown around the edges from the exposure to air, makes my stomach turn. I'm torn; they don't let us take the food out of the cafe so if I leave it, i'll have to wait till the next meal time to eat. On the other hand, I'm working hard to keep myself from throwing up all over the table so I know that taking a bite is out of the question.

Food is precious but my dignity is worth more. Besides, if I throw up in here, the chances are I'll be quarantined to stop any illness spreading. I don't want to be locked up for a fortnight in my room, if I can help it.

When I stand prematurely from the table, the tray of my untouched meal in hand, Grahame looks at me for the first time in a month. We do not leave food. In his face, I can see him working it out; this is no lack of appetite, I must be ill. Before he can question me, I turn on my heel and march to the washing team, their eyes lingering on the meal on my tray. I know they will be working out how to sneak the food for themselves, too hungry to care about why I left it to begin with.

January has brought harsher weather, worse than the night we went on the run. For weeks, the snow mounted until it came almost to my knees and we had to forge icy paths around our buildings so that we could commute. It has begun to melt though, turning to sludge that only makes it harder to walk on. I wince at the sharpness of the cold morning on my face but it dims the nausea slightly. It's a small comfort that I will make it to my building without vomiting.

When sickness looms, there is one place you are expected to report to immediately. Each building has its own designated doctor. It's one of the few jobs that will never fade out of existence because a larger population and inconvenient cramped living conditions means that more of us become sick, requiring a greater number of doctors to take care of us all. Every doctor resides on the ground floor, in case the patient needs emergency treatment and they have to be rushed to the closest theater. These theaters, where major operations take place, are located on the outskirts of the Community because in theory, the further they are from the core of the population, the less likely the chance we all have of catching the same thing. Theaters are practically superfluous though; they're rarely in use because the patient usually dies before they even get to the theater.

In 92, we have Dr. Morgan. From everyone in the Community, the doctors are the few who are allowed access to other people without cause for panic and fear. Though purely for consultation reasons, it's still a chance to interact. I wouldn't doubt if the more lonely amongst us feign illness just to have someone to talk to for five minutes. Dr. Morgan is nice though, always open and obliging. There's an gentleness to her that doesn't come with the rest of us but even then, she can set most at ease.

I make it to the building without any casualties but no sooner have I stepped up to the door that the nausea kicks in again, stronger than before. I slip and slide over to the wall and brace my hands against it, unable to stop my stomach dispelling mostly bile and last nights dinner; vegetable stew. I heave, the winter air freezing the tears on my cheeks, breathing heavily when the feeling finally subsides. For a long moment, I stay in this position at the wall, staring away from the vomit in case it brings on another round of sickness. Carefully, so as to not upset my stomach again, I scoop up a handful of clean snow and scrub it over my face, cooling my skin and washing away the sticky perspiration that clings on my forehead, around my nose, on my cheeks. I kick the rest of the snow over the vomit, hiding all traces of it before I make my way into the building.

Dr. Morgan's office is not far from the main entrance. Just down a small corridor, you can see her door as soon as you walk into the building, a frosted glass panel with her name printed on. As I walk nervously towards it, I can see her shadow moving back and forth around the room, disappearing and reappearing before the glass. I almost talk myself out of it, nearly succeeding in it too if the door didn't swing open abruptly, Dr. Morgan waiting for me with a smile so natural that I'm briefly reminded of Grahame.

She is a petite sort of woman, with dark skin and bright, inquisitive eyes. Her hair is swept back into a low ponytail, drawing attention to her features, as lovely as they are. Her beauty is only accentuated by the kindliness in her expressions, which probably helps with drawing out introverted patients such as myself.

"Hello. Amelia Freeman, isn't it?" she says warmly, stepping away from the door and sweeping an arm back to invite me in.

I shuffle past her, take in the white walls and the long, narrow bed close to the window. I'm not alarmed at her knowing my name; as a doctor, you're expected to know every person living in your assigned building, your duty is to remember their medical history. There are cabinets everywhere, most likely filled with files on each of us under this roof.

"Sorry if I startled you. I saw you behind the door as I was sorting through some papers. Maybe I should have called out a warning? I know how shy some of you can be."

She talks with such casualness that I find myself gawping at her a little. I haven't visited this room since last year - we're all required regular checks on weight and height - so I'm unprepared for the unguarded, idle chatter. It almost feels as if she's my...friend. I wish I could reciprocate this sociable attitude but my experience of reacting to other people is so underwhelming that I can only shrug at her indifferently, unable to think up what sort of manners would be deemed appropriate for such an occasion.

She moves with grace, gliding over to her desk so that she can settle into her chair. She indicates to the only other seat in the room, apart from the bed, which is situated right across from her.

"Please, have a seat."

I stiffly follow her instructions, acutely aware of my own lack of grace and fluidity in movement. When I perch myself onto the edge of my chair, she rests her elbows on the desk, cradling her chin on her interlocked fingers.

"So Amelia. What do you want to talk to me about?"

"I've - uh - I felt ill at breakfast and I threw up outside." I say, ducking my head to avoid looking at her. "I haven't eaten anything since last night. I couldn't touch my food this morning because I felt so sick. I was just wondering if it's something contagious?"

Dr. Morgan pushes out of her seat and searches the filing cabinets, leafing through folder after folder until she finds me. I watch her face as she scans my medical history, knowing there is nothing in there that can help identify a source of this sudden sickness. Her eyebrows knot together when she finishes but she brings my folder to the desk and looks down at me curiously.

"I haven't been told of any bugs going around. I know that there's usually a reluctance to admit being ill because it means isolation for a few weeks - "

"I don't have to stay in my flat, do I?" I ask worriedly, hoping for anything except that. Confinement for weeks.

Dr. Morgan smiles at me gently. "Maybe not. We might as well weigh and measure you while you're here. Please step onto the scales."

I cooperate willingly as she makes note of my weight. She frowns, only slightly, but I see it.

"You've gained a little weight since last time. That's not unnatural so I'm sure it's nothing for concern. Tell me, how often have you felt sick?"

I think back over the last few weeks, picking up nothing out of the ordinary until today.

"Well, today is the first day that I've felt really bad. I mean, a few times in the mornings I've felt sick but it passed quickly enough."

Another little frown.

"Amelia, I'd like to try something, if you wouldn't mind. Just a few questions, maybe a test just to rule a few things out."

I feel a spike in my nerves but I quash it. This is just routine, this is okay. Nothing is wrong.

"Yes. If that's best." I tell her, squirming in my chair.

She doesn't take her seat again but leans against her desk so she's right beside me. Her face is still friendly but I can sense an urgency in her tone now, nearly masked.

"Have you felt tired recently?"

I think. "Yes."

"Perhaps been a little bloated?" she asks lightly.

"...yes, a bit."

"Have you been using the toilet more often? Urinating, I mean."

"Well, a few times but it's nothing major. It's not, is it?" I say, unable to stop the anxiety creeping into my words.

She isn't writing any of this down. I feel certain that everything should be documented during a visit but she isn't recording my answers. She hasn't even picked up her pen. I start to panic.

There's a pause and her hand lands on my shoulder, light as a feather.

"Amelia. I want you to take a pregnancy test, if you don't mind."

I can feel my head shaking in disagreement, a nervous laugh bubbling up in my throat.

"No. No - that's not possible." I insist, touching the contraceptive implant in my arm. "I can't be."

Dr. Morgan tries to assure me, speaking softly, her hand still on my shoulder.

"It's just to rule it out. Nothing is final until you take the test. It may be just a coincidence that you're experiencing these symptoms."

I want to decline. I don't want to take the test and I make a move to stand but then a realisation hits me. If I don't find out now, I might find out when it's too late. I've seen it, I am it; women forced to carry their unborn child for the remainder of the pregnancy, then death as swift as a bird days after the birth. Immediate separation of baby and mother. The child is put into an orphanage, the mother is put into the gallows.

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod solemnly.

"Fine. The test, I'll do it."

Dr. Morgan nods encouragingly before moving back to her side of the desk, rummaging around in the drawers until she comes up with a small, cardboard box. Inside, I can hear something plastic rattle against the confines.

"There's a restroom just through this door. Follow these instructions to the letter so we can make absolutely sure. When you're done, come back here and we can wait for the results together." she explains, walking me over to the door, her arm wrapped around my shoulders. She gives me a gentle squeeze. "It'll be fine."

All I can do is nod. I'm dimly aware of going through the motions, of reading and re-reading the instructions in the little cardboard box, of hearing Dr. Morgan's quiet footsteps in her office, squatting over the toilet with the stick in my hand, feeling ridiculous and fearful.

When I emerge with the stick still in hand, I place it on her desk and step away, treating it like some rabid animal about to pounce. The clock on the wall ticks and we stand side by side without speaking, waiting with endless patience for the result to show.

Four minutes pass and Dr. Morgan approaches the desk warily. She bends over the stick but I can't stand to look at what it says, wanting to have the news from this benevolent human being who has yet to show any signs of judgement than that lifeless, evil instrument on the desk. When she turns back around, she is blank faced and gives me one, life-altering nod of the head.

"Positive." she tells me in a low voice. "You're pregnant, Amelia."

I collapse into the chair, not knowing what to do. It's strange that it feels like there's nothing on my inside, like I'm empty - hollow. No gut wrenching despair, no wails of misery. Nothing but this emptiness; I'm as blank as Dr. Morgan's usually smiling face. It's ironic that I feel so bare when I now have a new life forming inside of me.

"I don't understand. My contraception? I have the implant, we all do." I croak, rubbing at my arm again, feeling it buried beneath my skin.

"It's 99% effective. There was always the chance that it may fail but the odds are very slim in that happening." she explains, clutching at her own arm, finding her own implant.

The silence speaks volumes. There is nothing else to say, nothing else to do. I'm just wasting precious time.

"I'm going to die." I say finally.

"I'm so sorry, Amelia. I really, really am but I can't do anything for you now. Please don't tell them I knew."

I go back to my indifferent shrug and stand up to leave. I'm not angry with her for wanting that much. Besides, she's a good doctor and good doctors are very hard to come by. She shows me out and we stand on either side of the door, staring at each other and knowing we are strangers from now on.

"I'll destroy the pregnancy test. They won't find out from me."

And compassionate, beautiful, caring Dr. Morgan gives me one last pitying stare before shutting the door on me forever. Because she knows I've doomed myself, knows that she has no further offers of help for me. My death sentence is automatic and she is just delaying it.

There's only one place that I can go. The climb up the stairs seems to be both slow and quick, my mind focused on the sole image of Grahame's flat. I don't let myself wonder at what he will say, just fixate on getting to him as soon as possible. Time has become indispensable, my life an hourglass and each second is slipping by quicker than I can keep up. I never imagined it would come to this, thought that I would die as I had lived. Alone, hungry but on my own terms.

I bolt onto our floor but force myself to walk at a normal pace down the corridor to avoid attention. As I stand outside Grahame's door, I don't even give myself the option of turning away and rap my knuckles against it faintly but firmly. I feel like I'm drifting somewhere near my body, yet unable to reel myself in and encase myself back in the flesh and bone that makes up me. So oddly detached that it would have been enough to frighten me if I weren't so wrapped up in the inescapable worries of my drastically shortened future.

Grahame opens the door, fresh out of the shower I realise, his hair glistening with water. He must be making the most of the gas and electric before it is shut off until tonight. At the sight of me, his eyes widen in surprise but I push him out of the way so I can hurry inside. I don't give him the chance to utter a single word but suddenly, seeing his flat and knowing I may never be granted this privilege again hits me so squarely in the chest that I psychically stumble. He rushes forwards but I wave him off.

"I don't know if I can hide it much longer." I say, my voice high and trembling and so hopeless that it feels degrading. "Promise you won't say anything. Promise!"

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder whether one night together presents strict confidentiality between two people but I have no choice. There is no one else to turn to.

The blush rising on my cheeks almost makes me laugh. Such a foolish thing to be embarrassed about now, so silly for me to care how Grahame will react. I shouldn't blame him if he chooses to sever all ties with me but I find myself hoping he will offer me some comfort before he casts me out of his life. It's all I can ask.

"What? Hide what? You've turned red. What's going on, Amelia?"

"Just promise!" I demand, grabbing his face in my hands, ignoring the drops of waters running across my fingers. I need to see that he's being sincere even though Grahame doesn't strike me as someone who would rat me out. He gives it to me though, so willing to gain my trust, so eager to please me.

His eyes are searching mine, back and forth, desperate to know why I'm so upset. "Okay, I promise. I swear, whatever it is, I won't say anything. Now tell me, what's wrong?"

I suck in a quick, sharp breath, knowing that it won't become any easier.

"Grahame. I'm pregnant."