Roxy Odiorne, Senior Psychology major with English and Child Development minors from Georgetown, TX.
The electrodes always give me a headache when I wake up.
monitoring night. Pale sunlight streams through the window across my faded blue comforter, cut
in slices by the cracked blinds. Blearily, I let my feet swing from the bed to the padded carpet,
pulling the electrodes from my forehead, wincing at the way they tug at my skin as I peel them
off. Three nights a week for as long as I can remember, and I still hate it every time.
Stepping over piles of abandoned clothing and schoolwork, I make my way to the closet,
pulling out a baby blue t–shirt and navy leggings. I slip the clothes on, discarding my pajamas to
the growing mountain on the floor. Once dressed, I take a glance in the plastic mirror. My
distorted reflection still clearly shows the mess of tawny brown curls framing my face and
reveals the bags under my weary gray eyes. My smooth, pale forehead wrinkles as I frown at my
image before leaving the room.
The aroma of burning bacon floods through the hall as I journey to the kitchen. Burnt
breakfast is a normality in my household, but today the smoke is especially thick, settling into
my lungs and causing me to cough. Using my hand as a fan, I make my way to the dining table
where my mother has set out our chipped blue plates alongside the metal spoon and plastic fork
and knife. A watery scrambled egg jiggles on the plate alongside a white slice of bread. She must
have forgotten to toast it; she does that sometimes.
In the seat next to me, my father sits, blankly staring at a newspaper. The look in his eyes
is deadpan, appearing as though he is merely observing without taking anything in. That’s like
him – he gets the newspaper every day, but I’m not sure he actually knows how to read. I once
uncomfortable and dropped the issue. But illiteracy doesn’t stop him from looking at the pages
every morning.
My chair squeaks on the wooden floor, startling my father to the point where he almost
spills his orange juice. He looks up at me, eyebrows raising towards the faded scar across his
forehead. “Hello,” he offers in his typical monotone voice.
“Good morning, Daddy,” I reply as my mother toddles in with the charred bacon. Grease
and burn marks stain the blue flower–patterned dress she wears. Her dirty blonde bangs hang
matted with sweat above the scarred line on her forehead. A hollow look fills her dark brown
eyes, absent of any emotion. Not that that’s unusual. I’ve never seen my mother express any
feelings. She sets the blackened bacon down with a thud, and we eat in silence. Just as we always
do.
The fax machine whirs as we finish breakfast, signaling it’s time for me to grab our
family’s daily folder and head to the filing office and school. What the file contains, I don’t
know. The one thing that’s for sure is it’s been my responsibility to submit it every day since I
was ten years old.
Choking down the last bites, I swing on my backpack and grab the pages from the
machine, already encased in a manila folder. As I head out the front door, I don’t bother to say
goodbye to my parents. I learned long ago that they lack the emotional capacity to respond.
The sky is overcast and gray, matching the asphalt road I walk on. Identical houses line
each side of me, all painted a worn blue. Two men, each wearing hats with brims that barely
cover their scarred brows, trim the dying grass by me with blank expressions. Across the street, a
cheer that her newborn expresses. It’s a lifeless day. Per usual.
In my neighborhood, all the adults have scarred foreheads. Having lived here all my life,
I’ve never known anything different. The only grown people I’ve ever seen without scars are the
faculty at school. No kids here have them, but I assume they must develop them after they turn
eighteen. I wouldn’t know for sure, though. Once people reach eighteen, they always move away
and disappear. I still have three more years to go, something I can’t wait for. If nothing else, I
want answers about what’s beyond this little life. Clearly there must be more.
My thoughts wander through my childhood, thinking of those who I’ve known who have
now gone on. Muriel, who lived next door until she left last year. Claude, the boy five years
older than me who I always had a crush on. Kelly, the prettiest (and meanest) girl in school who
I secretly envy. Antonio, the sweetest guy who was always willing to help me with algebra.
These people shaped my life. Now I have no idea what’s happened to them.
A gust of wind blows through, sending the folder flying out of my hands and onto the
cracked pavement. It skitters along the path, and the flap must have come loose, because the
contents inside begin to slip out, one of the papers blowing away completely. Cursing my
clumsiness, I chase after it, desperately trying to catch the sheet before the wind carries it too far.
Reaching out, I pin the paper down with my foot and bend over to pick it up. And that’s when I
see my name.
HEATHER FERRIS. Sleep Report: 09/12/2041. Criminal Thought Activity: 12%. Amygdala Activity: 21%.
Status: Monitor With Caution.
manage my curiosity, I rip open the folder to look at the other pages inside. There are electrical
diagrams, graphs of brain activity, correlations with criminal tendencies. Some of the pages are
too complex for me to understand, but one thing is clear: I’m being watched.
My head begins spinning. There have always been things that seemed weird about my
life – the monotone and flatness of my parents and the adults in my neighborhood as opposed to
the teachers at my school. The disappearance of every child once they turn eighteen. The
electrodes I have to place on my head three times a week while I sleep… the scarred line on the
forehead of every adult. I’ve always wanted to know what else is out there. Now, I’m terrified of
the knowledge I’ve just attained.
I don’t know what to do, but I know I can’t go about my normal day. Sprinting like a
runner in the last leg of a race, I tear down the street. Past the filing office. Past my school. Past
the borders of the neighborhood. I run and run and run until I can’t anymore. Not because of
physicality – but because of a gate.
Massive gray chain–link, visibly sparking with electricity, stretches all around me,
standing at least 20 feet high. Along each sector, short black spouts rise up, marking the high
edges. I’m beyond the edges of everywhere I’ve been before, never knowing this existed.
Looking up and around, all that meets the eye are open fields, squat glass buildings glistening far
in the distance. Confusion rattles me. What is the world that I thought I knew?
“Another runner.”
The dry, aged voice shocks me, causing me to visibly jump. I’m met with a series of
coughing chuckles. “To the right, girlie.”
than anyone I’ve ever seen before, stands by the fence, cleaning her teeth with a metal nail file.
Mats of frizzy gray hair encircle her head like a cloud, and she raises bushy eyebrows at me, still
a dark black, contrasting the deep lines time has carved on her face. “So, what made you run?”
“I–I don’t know,” I stammer. “I just – I just – I –,”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Let me guess. You found out something ain’t right in this little
world of yours, and now you don’t know what to do.”
Her words catch hold of me like a match to a flame. “Yes! I saw the file about me, and I
don’t know what it means, and nothing makes sense anymore. Or maybe it never did… I don’t
even know.”
A snort emits from the woman. “It always baffles me how few of you young’uns ever
figure it out. You’d think with all the flaws in the experiment it’d be easier for you to discover
what’s fishy ‘bout this place.”
One of the words she says rings in my ears. “Experiment?”
The woman looks at me. “You’re livin’ in a simulation, sweetheart. An experiment
designed to see if there was a way to reduce criminal tendencies, in order to integrate convicts
into normal society. ‘Course, they couldn’t release them in the real world without setting folks
into a tizzy. So, they built this little neighborhood and planted all them peoples in it.” She gives
me a wide grin, revealing yellowed buckteeth. “And then those peoples had young’uns like you.
All you are is the product of two research subjects.”
“I don’t understand. How are they getting rid of ‘criminal tendencies’?”
obvious enough. Even teaching you ‘bout it in that school of yours, they do.” The woman must
see my blank stare of confusion, because she continues. “Lobotomies.”
The word is familiar, but I don’t know what it means. “What’s that?”
“They saw into your brain, work some things around, take some pieces out, and stitch
you back up. The criminal sections are ‘kaput’, and you’re left with a group of zombies – but
they can do your bidding and fit into society. How else would all them people have scars on their
foreheads?”
I feel as though I’m going to be sick. Taking a deep breath, I try to stop my head from
spinning and stomach from churning. “Why are you telling me all this?” I ask. “Are you here to
help me?”
The woman laughs, wheezing loudly and slapping her knee. “Help you? Good grief, do
you think I’m insane? What the hell would I do that for? No, sweetheart, I work for ‘em.
Everything I’m telling you is just for my own fun – I like watching the babies squirm. I’m
allowed to do it, too. ‘Sides, once they’re done with you, it don’t matter anyways what you
know.”
Her words are laced with warning, causing fear to rise like a flood within me. “What are
they going to do with me?” I whisper.
She pulls the nail file from her mouth, inspecting it and flicking a chunk of food off. The
chunk flies through the air and hits the gate, creating a pop and hiss as electricity cooks it
through. “Well, they’ll likely kill you.”
“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” she says with a shrug.
I’m reeling, trying to reconcile what’s going on with reality. “What’s that supposed to
mean?”
She looks at me as though I have the intellect of a five–year–old. “What did you think
happened once you turned eighteen?”
My breath catches as I realize the meaning of her words. Claude. Kelly. Antonio. Muriel.
All friends, people I went to school with, grew up with. Who I assumed were going off and
living new lives outside of the neighborhood. But instead, they’re… “That’s inhumane.”
The woman cackles cruelly, the wrinkled fat around her neck jiggling. “Their logic is you
were never s’posed to exist in the first place. How cruel is it to end your life now that you’ve
served your purpose?”
“But I exist now!” I cry. “Shouldn’t that count for something?”
A snarl stretches across her face as she reaches into her pocket. “You’re the spawn of a
pair of lab rats. You count for nothin’.” She pulls out a gray box and uses her gnarled, yellow
nail to click the button atop it.
Suddenly, a siren begins wailing, piercing my ears with its whining blast. A jet of red
light beams from the spout up into the sky, illuminating our exact location. The elderly woman
smiles sweetly, a twisted twinkle in her eye. “Sorry, sweetheart. They pay me to alert ‘em of the
runners. At least it’ll be over quickly.”
as far from the fence as I can.
“You ain’t gonna get far!” I hear her words echo after me, but I don’t bother to turn back
and acknowledge them. I’m a zebra, running across the savannah to avoid being eaten. Back into
the neighborhood borders. Back past my school. Back past the filing office. And back home,
because there’s nowhere else for me to go. I’ll hide under my bed and try to figure out what the
hell to do from there.
I burst through my front door, slamming it behind me. In the living room, my parents are
both sitting there, faces lifeless as always. Now I know exactly why that is.
But they aren’t alone.
A short, slim blonde woman and a tall, young bald man rise from the couch in sync.
Metallic sunglasses cover their eyes, disguising their appearance and identity. The blonde’s lips
are painted in a deep red, and she curls them into a smile that makes my blood run cold.
“Hello, Heather.” Her voice rings out like a gong, shaking the walls of the house despite
the quietness of her tone. “We were wondering when you’d arrive.”
I’m a literal rat in a cage, trapped in a prison outside of my control. There is no getting
out of this. “What do you want with me?”
She tilts her head sympathetically, though I can tell it’s merely a façade. “We were
concerned when your file wasn’t turned in and you didn’t show up for school. We came to check
in on you and your folks to see if you’re okay.”
hard, I look up at them. “What do you really want?”
The man looks towards me, his lips in a flat line. “You now know information you should
have never found out. You’ve compromised the quality of the experiment. We can’t continue this
as is,” he says coolly, in contrast to the sharp set of his jaw.
“What does that mean?” I whisper, using all of my might to keep my lip from quivering.
“Termination.”
“Of the experiment?” But I know that’s not the answer.
The blonde raises her sunglasses to the top of her head, revealing vividly blue eyes, a
color that’s always set me at ease – until now. “Well, there is another option. This is an
opportunity to continue the progress of our study in a new manner – to see if the effects are
generational.”
The man looks at her, raising his eyebrows. “Meaning?”
She looks at him with an expression of utter disdain. “In studies, you always need to
repeat the experiment to ensure statistical validity. I say, let’s continue the work with second
generation offspring.”
Recognition dawns on his face. “I’m in favor. It also creates less instability within the
simulation than an extermination. Let’s try it.”
“What’s happening to me?” I exclaim, panic bursting from me. My heart begins
pounding at the speed of light as sweat pools in my palms.
about to get a forehead scar of your own.”
My vision begins to shrink, the periphery disappearing as the weight of her words hits
me. I want to run. I need to run. But my knees are locked into place, made into a marble statue. I
scream to my parents, screaming for help. Their faces are stone, like always. They can’t hear me.
They never have.
The blonde pulls a syringe out of her black purse. “Don’t worry, Heather. When you
wake up, you won’t remember any of this.”
Adrenaline bursts the stiffness that’s built up in my legs, and I break free of my cage of
fear, running for the door. My hand is grasping for the knob when I’m tugged back, pulled by the
strength of the man as he drags me towards the menacing woman. The last thing I see is the blue
of her eyes. There’s a pinch in my arm. Then it all goes black.
3
woman pushes a stroller, her lined and scarred forehead bent towards the ground, absent of the
cheer that her newborn expresses. It’s a lifeless day. Per usual.
In my neighborhood, all the adults have scarred foreheads. Having lived here all my life,
I’ve never known anything different. The only grown people I’ve ever seen without scars are the
faculty at school. No kids here have them, but I assume they must develop them after they turn
eighteen. I wouldn’t know for sure, though. Once people reach eighteen, they always move away
and disappear. I still have three more years to go, something I can’t wait for. If nothing else, I
want answers about what’s beyond this little life. Clearly there must be more.
My thoughts wander through my childhood, thinking of those who I’ve known who have
now gone on. Muriel, who lived next door until she left last year. Claude, the boy five years
older than me who I always had a crush on. Kelly, the prettiest (and meanest) girl in school who
I secretly envy. Antonio, the sweetest guy who was always willing to help me with algebra.
These people shaped my life. Now I have no idea what’s happened to them.
A gust of wind blows through, sending the folder flying out of my hands and onto the
cracked pavement. It skitters along the path, and the flap must have come loose, because the
contents inside begin to slip out, one of the papers blowing away completely. Cursing my
clumsiness, I chase after it, desperately trying to catch the sheet before the wind carries it too far.
Reaching out, I pin the paper down with my foot and bend over to pick it up. And that’s when I
see my name.
HEATHER FERRIS. Sleep Report: 09/12/2041. Criminal Thought Activity: 12%. Amygdala Activity: 21%.
Status: Monitor With Caution.
4
I hold the sheet with trembling hands, trying to comprehend what I’m reading. Unable to
manage my curiosity, I rip open the folder to look at the other pages inside. There are electrical
diagrams, graphs of brain activity, correlations with criminal tendencies. Some of the pages are
too complex for me to understand, but one thing is clear: I’m being watched.
My head begins spinning. There have always been things that seemed weird about my
life – the monotone and flatness of my parents and the adults in my neighborhood as opposed to
the teachers at my school. The disappearance of every child once they turn eighteen. The
electrodes I have to place on my head three times a week while I sleep… the scarred line on the
forehead of every adult. I’ve always wanted to know what else is out there. Now, I’m terrified of
the knowledge I’ve just attained.
I don’t know what to do, but I know I can’t go about my normal day. Sprinting like a
runner in the last leg of a race, I tear down the street. Past the filing office. Past my school. Past
the borders of the neighborhood. I run and run and run until I can’t anymore. Not because of
physicality – but because of a gate.
Massive gray chain–link, visibly sparking with electricity, stretches all around me,
standing at least 20 feet high. Along each sector, short black spouts rise up, marking the high
edges. I’m beyond the edges of everywhere I’ve been before, never knowing this existed.
Looking up and around, all that meets the eye are open fields, squat glass buildings glistening far
in the distance. Confusion rattles me. What is the world that I thought I knew?
“Another runner.”
The dry, aged voice shocks me, causing me to visibly jump. I’m met with a series of
coughing chuckles. “To the right, girlie.”
5
Turning to the side, I see her, appearing as if out of nowhere. An elderly woman, older
than anyone I’ve ever seen before, stands by the fence, cleaning her teeth with a metal nail file.
Mats of frizzy gray hair encircle her head like a cloud, and she raises bushy eyebrows at me, still
a dark black, contrasting the deep lines time has carved on her face. “So, what made you run?”
“I–I don’t know,” I stammer. “I just – I just – I –,”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Let me guess. You found out something ain’t right in this little
world of yours, and now you don’t know what to do.”
Her words catch hold of me like a match to a flame. “Yes! I saw the file about me, and I
don’t know what it means, and nothing makes sense anymore. Or maybe it never did… I don’t
even know.”
A snort emits from the woman. “It always baffles me how few of you young’uns ever
figure it out. You’d think with all the flaws in the experiment it’d be easier for you to discover
what’s fishy ‘bout this place.”
One of the words she says rings in my ears. “Experiment?”
The woman looks at me. “You’re livin’ in a simulation, sweetheart. An experiment
designed to see if there was a way to reduce criminal tendencies, in order to integrate convicts
into normal society. ‘Course, they couldn’t release them in the real world without setting folks
into a tizzy. So, they built this little neighborhood and planted all them peoples in it.” She gives
me a wide grin, revealing yellowed buckteeth. “And then those peoples had young’uns like you.
All you are is the product of two research subjects.”
“I don’t understand. How are they getting rid of ‘criminal tendencies’?”
6
She huffs in frustration. “Ain’t you figured it out yet? Goodness gracious, they make it
obvious enough. Even teaching you ‘bout it in that school of yours, they do.” The woman must
see my blank stare of confusion, because she continues. “Lobotomies.”
The word is familiar, but I don’t know what it means. “What’s that?”
“They saw into your brain, work some things around, take some pieces out, and stitch
you back up. The criminal sections are ‘kaput’, and you’re left with a group of zombies – but
they can do your bidding and fit into society. How else would all them people have scars on their
foreheads?”
I feel as though I’m going to be sick. Taking a deep breath, I try to stop my head from
spinning and stomach from churning. “Why are you telling me all this?” I ask. “Are you here to
help me?”
The woman laughs, wheezing loudly and slapping her knee. “Help you? Good grief, do
you think I’m insane? What the hell would I do that for? No, sweetheart, I work for ‘em.
Everything I’m telling you is just for my own fun – I like watching the babies squirm. I’m
allowed to do it, too. ‘Sides, once they’re done with you, it don’t matter anyways what you
know.”
Her words are laced with warning, causing fear to rise like a flood within me. “What are
they going to do with me?” I whisper.
She pulls the nail file from her mouth, inspecting it and flicking a chunk of food off. The
chunk flies through the air and hits the gate, creating a pop and hiss as electricity cooks it
through. “Well, they’ll likely kill you.”
7
My throat goes dry. “What?”
“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” she says with a shrug.
I’m reeling, trying to reconcile what’s going on with reality. “What’s that supposed to
mean?”
She looks at me as though I have the intellect of a five–year–old. “What did you think
happened once you turned eighteen?”
My breath catches as I realize the meaning of her words. Claude. Kelly. Antonio. Muriel.
All friends, people I went to school with, grew up with. Who I assumed were going off and
living new lives outside of the neighborhood. But instead, they’re… “That’s inhumane.”
The woman cackles cruelly, the wrinkled fat around her neck jiggling. “Their logic is you
were never s’posed to exist in the first place. How cruel is it to end your life now that you’ve
served your purpose?”
“But I exist now!” I cry. “Shouldn’t that count for something?”
A snarl stretches across her face as she reaches into her pocket. “You’re the spawn of a
pair of lab rats. You count for nothin’.” She pulls out a gray box and uses her gnarled, yellow
nail to click the button atop it.
Suddenly, a siren begins wailing, piercing my ears with its whining blast. A jet of red
light beams from the spout up into the sky, illuminating our exact location. The elderly woman
smiles sweetly, a twisted twinkle in her eye. “Sorry, sweetheart. They pay me to alert ‘em of the
runners. At least it’ll be over quickly.”
8
Too late, I realize the impact of her words. I stumble over myself as I begin to run again,
as far from the fence as I can.
“You ain’t gonna get far!” I hear her words echo after me, but I don’t bother to turn back
and acknowledge them. I’m a zebra, running across the savannah to avoid being eaten. Back into
the neighborhood borders. Back past my school. Back past the filing office. And back home,
because there’s nowhere else for me to go. I’ll hide under my bed and try to figure out what the
hell to do from there.
I burst through my front door, slamming it behind me. In the living room, my parents are
both sitting there, faces lifeless as always. Now I know exactly why that is.
But they aren’t alone.
A short, slim blonde woman and a tall, young bald man rise from the couch in sync.
Metallic sunglasses cover their eyes, disguising their appearance and identity. The blonde’s lips
are painted in a deep red, and she curls them into a smile that makes my blood run cold.
“Hello, Heather.” Her voice rings out like a gong, shaking the walls of the house despite
the quietness of her tone. “We were wondering when you’d arrive.”
I’m a literal rat in a cage, trapped in a prison outside of my control. There is no getting
out of this. “What do you want with me?”
She tilts her head sympathetically, though I can tell it’s merely a façade. “We were
concerned when your file wasn’t turned in and you didn’t show up for school. We came to check
in on you and your folks to see if you’re okay.”
9
I shake my head, hands trembling. “You’re lying. I know you’re lying.” Swallowing
hard, I look up at them. “What do you really want?”
The man looks towards me, his lips in a flat line. “You now know information you should
have never found out. You’ve compromised the quality of the experiment. We can’t continue this
as is,” he says coolly, in contrast to the sharp set of his jaw.
“What does that mean?” I whisper, using all of my might to keep my lip from quivering.
“Termination.”
“Of the experiment?” But I know that’s not the answer.
The blonde raises her sunglasses to the top of her head, revealing vividly blue eyes, a
color that’s always set me at ease – until now. “Well, there is another option. This is an
opportunity to continue the progress of our study in a new manner – to see if the effects are
generational.”
The man looks at her, raising his eyebrows. “Meaning?”
She looks at him with an expression of utter disdain. “In studies, you always need to
repeat the experiment to ensure statistical validity. I say, let’s continue the work with second
generation offspring.”
Recognition dawns on his face. “I’m in favor. It also creates less instability within the
simulation than an extermination. Let’s try it.”
“What’s happening to me?” I exclaim, panic bursting from me. My heart begins
pounding at the speed of light as sweat pools in my palms.
She looks at me again, her blood–red lips curling into a twisted line. “It means, you’re
about to get a forehead scar of your own.”
My vision begins to shrink, the periphery disappearing as the weight of her words hits
me. I want to run. I need to run. But my knees are locked into place, made into a marble statue. I
scream to my parents, screaming for help. Their faces are stone, like always. They can’t hear me.
They never have.
The blonde pulls a syringe out of her black purse. “Don’t worry, Heather. When you
wake up, you won’t remember any of this.”
Adrenaline bursts the stiffness that’s built up in my legs, and I break free of my cage of
fear, running for the door. My hand is grasping for the knob when I’m tugged back, pulled by the
strength of the man as he drags me towards the menacing woman. The last thing I see is the blue
of her eyes. There’s a pinch in my arm. Then it all goes black.