Adithya Kumar -

Freshman English II– Pd 3

Ms. Mazzurco
7 May 2010
An Uncomfortable Regime
January 5, 2055

An icy gust blew, sending another chill down my spine. Fall was a distant

memory as I wrapped my scarf tighter, fighting off the penetrating wind. The

street seemed vast with its emptiness. Darkness blanketed the crumbling asphalt,

with all but one of the old metal street poles holding light less bulbs. I looked

intently at each house I rushed by, as memories poured into my mind. 20 Placid

Avenue was once the lively residence of the Johnston family. Now it lay still.

Lifelessness spoke through shattered windows, uneven, overgrown grass, and

general filth. It had become prey to the rampant degradation. Next was a small

home, in which lived the Smiths. They always tried to keep a faint smile on their

faces, even though their lives were marred by many a tragedy and death. I can

always picture Jack, the father. He was sullen and soft-spoken, while he lived. A

great contrast was found in his up tempo wife, Laura, a mother of three lovely

children, of which only one remained. Will, the youngest of the three, now lived

with his mother. Since his father's death, Will had changed for the worse. growing

up to become a hated man, a faithful servant to IT. IT was what everyone called it.

Anything else would be considered disrespect, not to mention a mouthful. The

International Federation of Totalitarian Dictatorships made code 1337, which

restricted usage of its full name in all 112 political regions under its control. One

of the several hundred codes which IT rarely enforced, but everyone abided by.

One code most people never thought of breaking was the curfew. Everyone

had to be inside their homes by eleven. I didn't bother glancing down at my

watch. For one, it ran erratically, and secondly, I knew it was late. They knew too.

How? No one knew. One night, when I still was in high school, I had been

apprehended just as the clock struck ten. They let me off, being a minor only

steps away from home, but not before the officer scarred me for a lifetime with a

story of the iniquity of the torture criminals suffered. I began to hurry down the

sidewalk, avoiding the large cracks and spots where the concrete had completely

broken off. The quicker I made it into my house, the less of a chance they'd catch

me. At the end of the street stood number 27. It was a haven among the

neighborhood's tattered homes, and I was glad to call it home.

The door was unlocked. My mind was racing; I quickly went through several

scenarios through my mind. My pessimism took the opportunity to be creative,

making each situation progressively worse. Was it murder? Were Mom and Dad

arrested? Was it what I thought it was? My hand shook in every direction as I

slowly twisted the brass handle with overwhelming torpidity and opened the

heavy oak door. I could sense the impending doom.

Darkness surrounded me. My hands reached up and down, brushing the

richly textured satin wallpaper, hopelessly searching for a switch. I remembered

one next to the door; where was it? I felt the slight brush of cold plastic and

stopped. I flicked the switch and light flooded my vision. In front of me lay our

living room. Everything sat in its proper place, just as it always had, inviolate. The

dark brown leather sofa, the thick Persian rug my father had brought back from

the Arab Union ages ago, all in their place. A luminous sphere caught my eye. I

picked it up. It was one of my favorite marbles, cheery and colorful with its

intricate kaleidoscopic pattern. I put it back in its miniature wooden stand. I crept
toward the kitchen, toward the intimidating darkness. I knew very well where this

light switch lay. It was right next to the refrigerator, my favorite appliance in the

house, besides the television. The kitchen showed little presence of life, besides

the small number of dishes that had accumulated in the sink. My heart began to

beat louder and faster, as though it too felt the strain of the mounting weight that

rested on my shoulders. I rushed through each room, bounded up the stairs, flung

open every door. My eyes darted, hoping to see the faces I longed to see, the

ones had laughed with me, cried with me, played with me, fed me, cradled me,

held me, and raised me. No. It couldn't be. They must've have gone out, but their

station wagon was still in the driveway. Maybe they just went to the neighbors

house. At this time of night? Certainly not. I went on, prolonging telling myself the

truth. I knew the truth. There was only one possibility.

Two days ago, a hefty package awaited me when I got home. Postage was

priced so high, that I could only begin to wonder who was foolish enough to mail it

to me. Alas, it was my parents. It would be something useless, possibly a fruit

basket. Even a fruit basket took forever to get permission to send. Each hybrid

Granny Smith apple, Georgia peach, and Bosc pear would be checked by IT. No

one sent letters anymore, packages this large were one in several millions,

literally. Speaking face-to-face was the only viable method of communication, at

least if you had anything personal to say. There were no microphones planted by

the IT, but there were people. People every where. Your closest friend, a

neighbor, someone who you thought you knew, you might actually not. They

made you feel obligated to report breakage of the code. It was your duty as a

citizen of this beloved world. Of course, it was only logical. Sometimes people
were not able to hold in secrets. Telephones lay unused for years. Computers were

used for mathematical purposes and “research”, not for news. I relied on comsafe,

commoners' jargon for word of mouth. This was fatally flawed with the

ubiquitousness of the IT and possible spreading of false. Still, it was better than

nothing.

I picked up the package with haste, anticipating its weight, and sent it flying.

Neutrons sprinted, hundreds of synapses acted instantaneously, my hands flew and

the package worked its way in my hands, safe within my iron grip. I placed it with

precision on my coffee table, preventing even the tiniest orifice from forming on

the smooth brown paper, which was tightly wrapped around the box. I felt around my

shoe, grasping a small antique Swiss Army knife. I sliced open the outer wrapping. It

unveiled a sleek white box. Inscribed in slanted, scrunched, golden script on the top

of the box was one word. “Goodbye.”