Title-- The Call

xXx

Clearsville.

Sounds like a place you'd want to move, doesn't it? Where everything's fine and dandy, and the sun is always shining. Nothing is wrong and everything makes sense.

Perfection: It's impossible.

In a sense, Clearsville doesn't exist; but in reality it does. It's name, to me, is just a bitter oxymoron. Nothing makes sense here.

They say that today's youth is the future of the world.

Not here.

Here, the youth of the community is considered inferior, and most are just useless. The adolescents are much worse of course. They bring shame to the family and the ones that speak up are stricken down; swiftly silence by the authority. Only a select few, the elite, are chosen to continue to adulthood. The rest are 'Called'.

When you're Called, you leave your home and go inside this big white brick building. There are no sights or sounds from the building. It's just a windowless mass in the middle of town. You go in; you don't come out.

Everyone knows what being Called means. No one ever speaks of it, however; for there's a constant worry that even slightest twitch could cause you to "disappear."

After being Called, your family will go on about life, almost as if you're still there. Then your belongings will be seen on the street to be picked up by the garbage man. Bigger things like beds are the easiest way to tell if you've been called. That's where the phrase, "So-and-so's been bed-trashed," comes from.

Slowly, after being "bed-trashed," your memory and identity melt away into time and it's like you were never here at all. Only a glint of you rests in the conscience of the inhabitants of Clearsville.

How do I know so much of this town's secrets, you ask? I'm one of the last of the adolescents of my generation; all my friends have been Called. I'm left alone in this hellish city. I wish… that I could be Called.

My name is Jessica, and I'm known by some as a gift to Clearsville, and a demon by others. I'm going to major in a difficult field, a necessary one, and because of it there's a good possibility that I will never be Called. My sister Destiny never will either. She was going to major in another subject, but I know for a fact that she will never be Called.

A few months ago, Destiny committed suicide. Suicide is definitely not permitted here. They bring you back to life in a cold body made of steel. It's like a cruel joke to them. They toy with you then send you back to your family, forcing you to live your life; whether you want to or not. It doesn't matter if they were going to Call you the next day, because you died before they wanted you to, you have to continue living. Serving a purpose, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.

Because of my education, it marks me for 'Continuation' or the 'Passage to Adulthood.' It used to be called 'The Voyage to Adultery' but it changed after officials finally figured out its double meaning.

I know it's sounds incredibly depressing, but I don't want to 'continue'. All of my friends, most normal people, have been Called. One even as close to a genius as you can get: Ian.

He was Called last month, and my best friend Nikki was so depressed afterwards. She attempted suicide multiple times but never succeeded. I guess the higher-ups decided to shed some pity on her, and in the middle of the night, the night of my birthday, Nikki was Called. She didn't show up for our little party of just the two of us. I thought I would die.

None of this compares to when my best childhood friend, Mark, was Called about a year ago. He and I were really close. Some might argue that we were more than close and were actually in each other's interest, but I digress. (Or perhaps I just don't feel like talking about that.)

I'll never forget when he was Called. Not in my entire existence will I lose the sight of him giving me that last glance as he walked out of my house. That's right, folks, he was at my house when he was Called. We were watching TV, close if I might add, and everything was just peachy. That, my friends, is perfection.

I remember glancing up at him, catching his bright green eyes looking me over. A bright pink hue dusted his cheeks as he looked away, and his breathing became uneven for a moment. I laughed and gazed back up at him. His brunette locks fell messily around his face, but then he didn't look away. A smirk tugged on his lips and we both fell into the moment.

It was ecstasy, what can I say?

Right when I could feel his breath on my face the annoying buzzing filled the room. He huffed and picked his cell phone up off the table. I have to admit; I was really upset that whoever was calling him was ruining our moment. It was then that I noticed his face losing all of it's colour as he looked at the screen.

The caller ID read: Off. N. We both knew what that meant. An official was contacting him. (We say 'contacting' instead of 'calling' because of what the phrase 'Calling him' means in this society.)

Grudgingly, he flipped the phone open and spoke a nervous "Hello…?"

I could faintly hear mind-numbing babbling on the other end of the line, and when his face never regained any of its colour something in my stomach coiled up. I had a very bad feeling and I couldn't shake it. He was being Called, and I knew it. I didn't want to believe it, but I knew. A few moments later he closed the phone and sighed deeply.

"I… I have to go, Jessica." He looked at the floor, almost ashamed.

He knew that I might not ever be Called, and him being Called must have made him feel lesser than me; which was definitely not true.

"Mark…" I practically pleaded him, but both of us knew that it was useless. There was nothing we could do about it, and it made me feel sick.

"I'm sorry, but… I'm just sorry." He admitted. I hugged him tightly, and he actually returned the affection, unlike usual. He would typically tense up and then give me a quick squeeze, then push himself off. Not this time. This time he didn't want to, I could tell. He didn't want to be Called, I didn't want him to be Called, and no one ever wanted to be Called.

I felt him shift and I was forced to release him. He walked over to the door and glanced back at me for just a second.

Then he was gone.

Now, does that really seem fair to you? We were simply sitting, watching TV, and he's Called, out of the blue. That's no way to treat your citizens.

The government in this town is basically a dictatorship: If you speak against, you're Called. If you agree, you still might be Called.

Like I said, nothing makes sense here.

On the note of what I was saying earlier, I don't have much left to 'continue' with. My younger brother, Zach, will probably be Called soon, for he's reaching the end of his preteen years and that's when most of us are Called. Some make it to the middle of their teens before being Called, but not many.

I suppose that the whole point of killing off the inferior is to create a perfect society. Full of no one but the elite, and letting those that weren't suitable to the standards leave without a say.

Most of the people Called don't sport much, in theory. However, the few like Ian are actually very smart in whatever they do, and have a certain insight that the officials must find either insignificant or intimidating.

Well, I've spent all this time telling you about my life and this bloody town. Maybe it's about time to tell you what's going on now:

As of this moment, I'm sitting in class, numbed by all the superficial rubbish that these supped-up zombies are trying to penetrate into our skulls. I can feel myself falling over the deep end, into unconsciousness, so I busy myself by writing this into my notebook. I bet you're wondering how long it's taken me to write all of this. Not long, actually. The teacher is still babbling on about how Chinese food is of Satan or something of that sort.

I'm joking, of course. Mrs. Hadress is still ranting about how aggravating the children of the generation below us are. I mentally roll my eyes at her, and chuckle at heart. What children of any generation aren't aggravating?

The classrooms are so pale here. The authority never lets you show your personality, your colour. It must be considered threatening too, I suppose. You should see the look on my face now, I sound like an angst-driven juvenile punk rocker. I bet if you asked any adult in Clearsville what they thought of something, each of them would give you the same answer, and that answer would be generic beyond any comprehension.

Your opinion is like poison. If you inject it into the ears of others it spreads through the veins of the city and eventually shuts down several different key-parts. Eventually the mind, or the authority, loses its grip on the people, or the bodily functions and organs, and abruptly falls apart. So no one has an opinion.

There is no opinion, only fact. The fact is that your opinion is wrong and the officials' opinion is a fact. Therefore, there are only facts in this world we call home. Creating a 'utopia' as most would like to call it. I stress "like" because no one may show it, but deep down I can see that most truly despise this place. You can just see it-

Suddenly, my pen slides down the page and off of the paper. I look up to see Mrs. Hadress looking at my notebook with a severely ticked-off look about her. That look quickly changes from malevolence, to interest, then finally to full-blown appalled.

Must have been the punk in me.

After a while, she returns my notebook and moves over to her desk. Grabbing her phone out of her purse, she dials some numbers furiously, like someone is shooting at her.

I'm sweating bullets, clichéd I know, and watching Mrs. Hadress talk to someone on her cell phone. The conversation between the two is discrete, and a completely serious look is spread across the teacher's face. It makes me cringe, watching her glance back at me randomly like she is.

Now she's talking very formally. I can tell because the look on her face goes from bored-but-serious to even-more-serious and a glint of… excitement? Whatever it is I may never be sure, but I don't have much time to inquire it.

Mrs. Hadress gives me a good, hard glare as she jerks her head towards the door and tells me to go to the principal's office. I nod quickly and scramble to get all of my things together, but she just as quickly tells me to leave them. Luckily, I get out with my notebook.

XxX

I've been sitting on this hard wooden bench outside 's office for what seems like forever.

I pass the time by doodling with my pen bearing down hard into the paper. I have to rest the notebook on my leg, which has now fallen asleep. Hopefully I won't fall on my face when I try to walk. Then again, that would be the least of my problems.

When I hear my name called, I practically jump out of the bench. I'm ready to bolt.

With some slight difficulty, I repress this desire and return to my tranquil, but slightly panicked posture. There are two people in Mr. Gazeman's office, I notice while sitting down into the seat across from his desk. It feels like the witness stand, the way he glares at you like a prosecutor to the suspect. His suit looks too big for his aging, almost gaunt, body, which makes him look less intimidating. However, the thick and defined lines on his face only emphasize his rigid prowess.

The other man is clad in a plain black business suit, with a white undershirt and black tie tucked into his coat. A pair of dark sunglasses adorn his face, so you can't see eyes, and his jet black hair is pretty normal for the people of this town: Not too short, not too long, just a bit spiky.

Mr. Gazeman's smoky glare infiltrates my composure and makes me shift uneasily in the chair. With a sharp look at the man in black, no pun intended, I feel a tap on my shoulder and look up to see the businessman directing me to the door.

I'm hesitant to get up, but do in a hurry when I notice the shiny black gun holster clamped onto his belt. I don't know why that convinced me so well, he would never use a gun in a school, but I suppose he just used it for motivation. It works well.

He walks down the hall with me trailing behind him, and finally leads me to a small car parked outside the school. There's another man in a black business suit at the wheel. He has an ear bud placed in his ear and there's a spiraling string trailing down into his collar. A wire.

Nothing interesting happens during the car ride. Other than it's completely silent, save the thunder of the tires on asphalt.

A dark feeling creeps inside of me and winds itself around my heart, squeezing it. That deep feeling you get in your center when you know something is going to happen and it's anything but good. That feeling is only proven, and worsened drastically, when the driver stops in front a plain white building with no windows…

I'm being Called.

A few tears find their way over my eyelids and cascade down my cheeks. Whether they're from fear or sheer joy I'll never know. I walk silently up the stairs to the heavy metal doors. They open with a click and shut with a tremendous clang. No handles or levers adorn the opposite side, and the 'men in black', as I've been calling them, are nowhere to be seen.

I'm in there to stay.

To say I'm scared would be a complete understatement. Sure, I often talk of how I yearn to finally be Called, but now that I'm actually facing it head-on… I'm starting to have second thoughts.

How do they do it? Do they inject you with poison… or do they torture you? Questions like these whiz about in my brain for a while until I find my way to my, "Designated Area."

Apparently, they have special people selected to do this kind of thing. The killing, I mean. The room I'm practically shoved into by a 'Nurse' is a pale white colour and there's a single chair set off to the corner. There's a dark gray door on the opposite wall, and it looks just as heavy and final as the entry doors. Next to the door, there's a large, plate-glass window that covers almost the entire wall. It comes up to my waist and reaches close to the ceiling.

I peer inside the window at a black, what looks like leather, recliner chair that you expect to see inside a dentist's office. There's another door on the inside of the dark room, and just as soon as I register it, it swings open in what seems like annoyance.

I can't really see what the person looks like, save their silhouette, because of the darkness of the room. From what I can see, the person, whom I presume to be a man, reaches over to a desk and picks up a clipboard. A while into reading it, it falls to the floor with a clatter, and he doesn't move. Not… one… inch.

By now, I'm pressing my face against the window like a child at a toy store. The man inside the room shakes his head and picks the clipboard up again. He just stares at it with what looks like disbelief, but I can't really tell. Slowly replacing the clipboard to the desk, he just stands in one spot like he's trying to think.

This guy is a real nut-job; freaking out over something like he is. Then again, maybe it's something important that he's just remembering. I shrug and turn to sit in the chair when I hear the door open slowly behind me.

"Jessica…" The voice comes to me quietly and hesitantly. My eyes widen slightly at my name, I didn't expect them to know. I didn't expect the voice to cause me to lose the feeling in my legs and almost tumble to the floor either.

My head turns so slowly, or maybe it's just the slow motion of the moment; but when I turn to answer with something as chipper as I can manage I actually do tumble to the ground.

Mark's eyes look at me pleadingly, and I can't help but feel the hot tears crashing down my face.

My sapphire gaze goes up to him, and he kneels down and stares me square in the face with serious emerald eyes.

Immediately I latch onto him, pulling him into the biggest embrace anyone's ever seen. My form rocks with sobs and I bury my face into his shoulder. Again, he returns the affection, just like that day. The day he was Called…

"Mark…" I cry harder. I just can't help it. If you hadn't seen a close friend in over a year, thinking that they're dead, then they suddenly show up being forced to kill you, you'd cry too! "I thought… you were Called…"

His grip on me tightens, "I thought I was too."

"Then what happened?" I look at him in the face, mine glimmering with tears.

That smirk that I remember so well pulls on his lips and he looks at me with that 'you're-so-cute-when-you-ask-questions-like-that look'. "They said that because of my 'reputation'… I'd be able to do this… 'Job'. Since 'Punks like me' have no remorse of pretty much anything."

I can't believe it. "They took you away from me for that?" I say out loud without realizing it.

His smirk widens, "Yeah, I guess so."

I smile. Not only am I getting what I want, I'm getting what I thought I lost; and that is perfection.

"Do you… have to… um… you know." I start rambling. I don't know what to call it. I know about 'continuing' and 'being Called' but not what actually to call 'the Calling'.

He tenses a bit, "Not if I don't want to," he mutters in my ear. I look severely confused, I bet, but I go along with it. I know that when Mark comes up with some sort of scheme he will most likely carry it out. A small mumble echoes through the tiny room and Mark stands up, holding his ear. So he has a wire too…

I can hear him talking really quietly to the person on the other line. He sounds determined, as always, but even more so now than ever.

"You don't… it… No… I won't…" he smirks again. Accomplishment glimmers in his bright olive eyes, "…because I'm me."

When he finishes his conversation, he looks at me with a smile dancing on his lips. I look up at him confusedly, but he helps me onto my feet and leads me into the other room; through the door; and into a corridor that I've never seen before.

We walk hand-in-hand down a few corridors before he stops outside of a small navy door. He opens the door and shows me in the not-so-tiny room inside. What shocks me the most isn't the fact that the room is like a little apartment, but the fact that the room has personality, and opinion. It feels like I'm in another dimension.

The authority never lets you show your personality. Other people will catch on and become infected with 'false thinking'. Considering Mark does work for the authority now… they must make exceptions.

I gawk at the room I'm standing in. There're pictures, colours, posters, and the TV is on. It's then that I notice two other people in the room, cuddled together on the couch across from the TV. Mark walks up behind the couple and clears his throat loudly. The two quickly jump up, embarrassed, but soon enough bombard me to the ground.

"Jessica!" "JESSIE!!!" Ian and Nikki both scream, respectively. Nikki immediately latches onto me, dragging me to the floor, and is virtually crying from happiness.

Ian, being the calm and sensible person that he is, simply towers above us and smiles. Were they waiting for me or something?

"Nikki, common… get off me!" I laugh at her. She's always emotional when it comes to really big occasions. Eventually, she does get off of me, and I say hello to Ian as he helps me off the floor.

Mark lets out a really slow, drawn-out yawn and plops down on the couch. Nikki and Ian quickly follow, sitting on the large chair beside the couch. I sit next to Mark, of course. Why not pick up where we were so unfairly cut short?

I glance up at him to see him looking down at me with those eyes of his; but he quickly jerks his head away like last time, blushing.

When he does this, his hair sways slightly and falls choppily about his face, and after a moment he looks back at me. A light crimson is still spread on his face and I smile up at him. We both start to notice how close our faces are getting…

Just when we're millimeters from each other that annoying buzzing fills the room again. Now I'm not upset, I'm freaking pissed.

He growls in annoyance and frustration, reading the text on the screen, and walks out the door. It's not so sentimental this time, though. Nor do I mind missing him nearly as much as I did the last time this exact thing happened.

I know he'll be back.

xXx