An Untitled Story Snippet inspired by Lois Lowry’s Novel The Giver.

"Tell me," he said, focusing on some near point above my head. I hated when he did that. He always had this way of looking directly into my soul while not looking at me at all. All the while, I tried to feign innocence as best I could, knowing full well that he knew I knew.

"Jessa," he whispered. "Tell me."
"I- I can't," I faltered. "You know I can't..."

With an exasperated exhalation, he slumped in his thick plush chair and frowned, the look of defeat on his face. I knew that look. I knew what was to come. I sighed with relief anyway.

SLAM! In one fluid motion, he had my shirt collar in his good hand, and had slammed his other hand in a fist on the desk. I could see my eyes in his, and he whispered, his hot breath dangerously close to my face, "A week. I'll give you one week." I flinched. I knew he wouldn't hurt me, but I flinched anyway.

"Alex, I--"
"THAT'S IT, JESSA! ONE WEEK!"

And I was out the door, just like that, out on the hot sidewalk in the piercing sunshine. Stunned, I walked blindly to the dusty little cafe at the end of the dusty street. I cursed my high heels as I stumbled along.

What am I going to do? I thought wildly. If I tell him, they'll kill me. If I don't tell him, I'm killing myself... My mind went around in endless circles, going over each possible solution, none of them making any sense. None of this making any sense. I blinked rapidly as I entered the cafe, my eyes adjusting to the artificial light that was so dim compared to outside. Martin, the wizened old man behind the counter, looked at me sleepily. I gave him a sad, tired smile and murmured, "The same, if you please."

He bustled around behind the counter while I slid into a crumbling red leather booth. Crumbling booth, I corrected myself. Not red, never red. Never any color, ever, anymore... Everything in this pathetic little town had either been stripped and/or re-built, or re-done, or re-painted into the standard government colors of grey, white, and cobalt blue. I give up, I thought. What else can I do? What else is there for me to do? Martin slid the fragrant coffee cup under my nose, and for a while I forgot everything in that sea of creamy sweet caffeine. I knew it wasn't real coffee; we hadn't had real coffee since the Occupation began. But I smiled at Martin over the rim of the chipped blue-grey cup anyway, and his sparkling eyes twinkled back at me.

Blue, I decided. If his eyes weren't the Occupational grey, they'd be a bright, intense, REAL blue. Everyone who hadn't been genetically altered pre-birth had had their eye color changed to grey, their hair to brown, and their skin to white. But Ben, my older brother, had taught me true colors years ago, in the secret of my room, late at night, with the small flashlight and the crystal pyramid from Mother's curio. In the back of my mind, I could still see the brilliant spectrum playing across my wall. I remember gasping with delight as Ben showed me red, yellow, purple. The one color that stood out in my mind the most was green. There were so many kinds of green- jade green, sea green, forest, lime, emerald... Bitterly I thought of how unfair it was that Ben had been arrested and later disconnected for his connections to The Resistance, and of the job that lay ahead of me. My face must have twisted as thought I were eating a lemon, because Martin grinned at me.
"You're thinkin of the colors, aincha? The true colors?"
I looked at him wildly and opened my mouth to stop him but he kept on.
"I remember the true colors, the pure ones, before all this accursed grey and that poor excuse for blue! I remember life before the Occupation, if you can believe it, young lady! And oh, the colors, all sortsa colors! Reds, blues, oranges, yel--"

Suddenly he broke off, his face contorted in pain.

"NO!" I screamed. He fell to the floor in a crumpled heap as the convulsions wracked his frail body. I rushed to the counter but could find no doorway to get to him. After a full three minutes that felt like three full lifetimes, the electric shocks ended. I stood and watched helplessly as tears streamed down my face. Visions of Ben swam through my mind- his face, his smile, the way he told me to never forget, and to keep on fighting, and how I'd live to see the Occupation end if I remembered everything he told me. I can still see him being led away, his head held high and proud, and my mother later telling me with scorn that he had been disconnected. I swallowed my tears and kicked myself mentally for letting my emotions get to me.

He opened his eyes and glanced uneasily around him, as though embarrassed.
"Martin," I said softly. "Don't..."
He started to cry, then yelled his outrage as he tore off his shirt. "NO! TAKE IT OFF! I'M SICK OF THIS! TAKE IT OFF!" He grasped and tore at the little box attached to his arm.
"Martin!" I cried out. "Don't! Don't- you'll die!!" I jumped over the counter and threw myself against him to the wall, trying to wrestle him away from The Box- a mood and appearance regulating microchip attached to his left arm and encased in an external charcoal-grey water-and fire-proof plastic box. The Box was really no bigger than a postage stamp, but its effect was life-controlling.

He suddenly went limp in my arms and looked at me sorrowfully, weakly. He shook his head and whispered, "Remember... remem--" And the electric convulsions started again, pulsing this time instead of a constant shock. He grimaced and the door opened.

I stood quickly and dried my tears. The Neembo flew in and Hovered in front me. I started back defiantly. My mind screamed at this robotic, saucer-shaped law enforcing hovercraft. It was about six inches in diameter, and had blinking lights all around its perimeter. I said aloofly, "He will be disconnected, won't he?" My heart beat wildly in my throat and I hoped against hope, knowing he'd be disconnected, dead, before he even left the cafe. Maybe they'll actually take him alive, I thought scornfully, to torture him later. The Guard never once lost an opportunity for "research."

It hummed softly at me as it studied my face, "You've been crying, Eighty-three. Tears are a sign of weakness." And abruptly it turned away, towards Martin, and focused its AG beam on his helpless form. They floated out of the cafe and I knew he'd been disconnected.

Rage clotted in my throat but I knew venting would be useless.

Any ideas on what to call it? LOL!