Injected
The End Of All Things
The world is artificial. Reality is rare. We inject happiness into our veins and say that we're fine. We swallow tablets of pride in order to get out of bed every morning. At first, everyone thought this to be a good thing. The depressed would smile, the pained would feel contentment, the skeptic would trust. These things were good at first, yes. But man kind always had a thing for taking everything to the next level, didn't they?
Despite the risks, people still found a way to mutilate the injections that made people happy in order to get revenge on those who most likely deserved it. Some even went as far as to inject trust into someone and then torture them until they were begging for a bullet in their brain. Sick, isn't it? But that's how people are. That's how the human mind works. We worship war and action and elegance all in one.
The body count is unimaginable at this point. Talk about Armageddon. It's not odd to walk out into the street and see a previous acquaintance in pieces on their door step. That is assuming you have the courage to walk outside, the courage to let even the kindest person on the planet be aware of your existence.
It wasn't always like this, you know. People used to have compassion, people used to care. People used to know what true pity felt like. But, of course, there's no other escape like injecting a false emotion into your veins, is there? I used to believe that knowledge was power, that the more we knew the longer we could preserve ourselves. After all, everyone fears death. Everyone used to, at least. Now it's the thirty-second century and people are killing themselves left and right. I can't blame them. Not that I'd ever do it, but still. It is a valid option that's a lot easier to endure than the constant fear of making an enemy.
Only three years ago, it had become illegal to resist injection. Thinking for yourself is thought of to be a sin. If your medic believes that you need to feel happier, then you're instantly injected with a yellow liquid which forces you to see beauty in everything. If you begin to question the government, then you're instantly injected with trust. Compassion or love is something you hardly ever come across. But, then again, would you really let some thirty-something man who believes you to be too bitter tell you how to feel? Especially seeing as he's been injected with a substitution for genuine knowledge. No, of course you wouldn't.
If you resist you're immediately sedated and then forced to trust in the government, forced to believe that they know all, and even forced to love their decisions. Unfair, unjust. It's not right. But that's how things are. That's how they have been for years.
As always, there are those of us who learn how to manipulate people. There are those of us who are smart enough to get what we need to survive and get the hell out. Most times unnoticed. We are the contravened. Rebels, per say. There aren't many of us, and the number drops every day. But we do exist.
Those of us who know what it's like to be prided of something, those of us who know what it feels like to be lustful, to love, to hate passionately, but without some kind of injection. We've been running for years. In the beginning, there were many more of us. Most weren't strong enough to last the first month or two, after things got truly bad; after the arbitrators began killing us on instinct, no longer willing to negotiate. If you were found without artificial feeling in your veins, you were as good as dead.
I'd be damned if I'd die because I was denied my own right to feel. My name is Alessa Nova Cale, and I will die on my own accord.
Despite the risks, people still found a way to mutilate the injections that made people happy in order to get revenge on those who most likely deserved it. Some even went as far as to inject trust into someone and then torture them until they were begging for a bullet in their brain. Sick, isn't it? But that's how people are. That's how the human mind works. We worship war and action and elegance all in one.
The body count is unimaginable at this point. Talk about Armageddon. It's not odd to walk out into the street and see a previous acquaintance in pieces on their door step. That is assuming you have the courage to walk outside, the courage to let even the kindest person on the planet be aware of your existence.
It wasn't always like this, you know. People used to have compassion, people used to care. People used to know what true pity felt like. But, of course, there's no other escape like injecting a false emotion into your veins, is there? I used to believe that knowledge was power, that the more we knew the longer we could preserve ourselves. After all, everyone fears death. Everyone used to, at least. Now it's the thirty-second century and people are killing themselves left and right. I can't blame them. Not that I'd ever do it, but still. It is a valid option that's a lot easier to endure than the constant fear of making an enemy.
Only three years ago, it had become illegal to resist injection. Thinking for yourself is thought of to be a sin. If your medic believes that you need to feel happier, then you're instantly injected with a yellow liquid which forces you to see beauty in everything. If you begin to question the government, then you're instantly injected with trust. Compassion or love is something you hardly ever come across. But, then again, would you really let some thirty-something man who believes you to be too bitter tell you how to feel? Especially seeing as he's been injected with a substitution for genuine knowledge. No, of course you wouldn't.
If you resist you're immediately sedated and then forced to trust in the government, forced to believe that they know all, and even forced to love their decisions. Unfair, unjust. It's not right. But that's how things are. That's how they have been for years.
As always, there are those of us who learn how to manipulate people. There are those of us who are smart enough to get what we need to survive and get the hell out. Most times unnoticed. We are the contravened. Rebels, per say. There aren't many of us, and the number drops every day. But we do exist.
Those of us who know what it's like to be prided of something, those of us who know what it feels like to be lustful, to love, to hate passionately, but without some kind of injection. We've been running for years. In the beginning, there were many more of us. Most weren't strong enough to last the first month or two, after things got truly bad; after the arbitrators began killing us on instinct, no longer willing to negotiate. If you were found without artificial feeling in your veins, you were as good as dead.
I'd be damned if I'd die because I was denied my own right to feel. My name is Alessa Nova Cale, and I will die on my own accord.