Sacrifice

Sameness. That is what we strive to achieve in our community.

It is recorded in the secret Scrolls of History: A Journey through Mankind’s Age that men were once unequal. They made terrible mistakes, battled bitter fights and were forced to go through unfair treatment by their countrymen: the people whom they could count on the most. Many were betrayed and hurt. And this was simply all for the sake of pride, foolishness and selfish ambition. Countless lives were lost. Transgressions like that cannot be made. No one can ever find out about what our ancestors once did, and that is why the Sacred Scrolls are hidden away in the deepest part of the Hall, safely guarded by Security staff. For the sake of its priceless value and what chaos it may cause in the Community.

That is the reason why we choose to create and advocate Sameness. With Sameness, people will no longer be susceptible to emotional weaknesses anymore. Decisions made will constantly be right. They are amply protected from the harms and ways of the world. People will be treated fairly and respectfully by each and every person, never fearing again the criticism they might face and affecting their health. With the new immortality gene developed and placed inside every person, lives will not be needlessly lost. Sameness is now for everyone to share. It is a gift to the people.

Years before the community was complete, memories of Suffering floated around aimlessly, spreading to any person who came into contact with it. It plagued the population, causing pain and anguish. It had to be stopped. The Elders on the Committee at that time then made the decision to compress the memories and destroy them. They successfully captured all of it, but unfortunately just could not destroy the memories. It had to be held within a single, lone person. After a few rounds of voting, a vibrant, young man was Selected to be that one. But after a few days, he could not withstand the suffering involved and broke down, effectively causing all of the memories to escape. The older generation learnt their lesson, and from then on carefully observed every candidate to make sure they themselves did not have to go through the same torment of capturing back the memories again. This is a lesson they taught us Elders on the current Committee as well during our training. It is our responsibility to ensure that such a thing does not repeat itself.

Soon, their purpose had been achieved. All of the memories were successfully stored within one person. She was a wise, intelligent and brave young woman, described by her peers as “a helpful, friendly and smart girl that dared to admit her transgressions”. Her name was Kira, and she became known as the Receiver of Memory. With clear pale eyes, she had the ability to See Beyond, a gift so unique that only one in a hundred thousand people had this ability. It was agreed upon by the Committee that the five qualities of a Receiver were to be Intelligence, Integrity, Courage, Wisdom and the Capacity to See Beyond. Generation by generation the memories were singularly handed down to another selected Receiver, from he to she and she to him, down and down till they reached our Current Receiver.

I have been observing Jonas for many years now, together with the other Elders. It has not been easy, but once we were aware of his unique ability we have kept close watch on the boy. Jonas was unique, different from the rest of his peers. For one, he had pale eyes, like the Receivers before him. He was left-handed, for another, just like the Receivers before him too, and he was extremely curious. Jonas thought about and questioned almost every single thing that was assigned to him. His Instructors tell me that he would make them stay back hours after their working period just to explain to him a concept he did not understand, ending up scoring the highest amongst the level. The Receiver tells me he has potential. And yes, I do believe he has. When he showed up for chastisement after removing the apple from the snack area, it was a pleasant surprise for me. I did not expect him to turn up for such a minor transgression, but Jonas took the effort to turn up, unlike his other peers.

Now as Jonas stands before me, eyes filled with uncertainty, body trembling and shaking on the podium, I feel sorry for him. He has showed great courage by being up here, facing the whole community, and will make a good Receiver of Memory. But he is still, no matter what, a child. No one can ever be sure of what will happen in the future. Should he end up like the first Selected Receiver or Rosemary, it will be a pity. Such a great waste of potential and gifts it will be.

Sacrifices will have to be made by the boy in his life as a Receiver, just like sacrifices were made in the forming of Sameness. But it is for the rest of the Community, and for the greater good.

“Jonas, you will be trained to be our next Receiver of Memory. We thank you for your childhood.”

Chief Elder

A Friend, Lost

Truth be told, I am extremely burdened over Jonas.

Ever since he was selected to be Receiver of Memory, Jonas has been acting abnormally. Yesterday, when we walked back to our dwellings after training, out of the blue, he simply came to an abrupt halt standing there in the middle of the road. His eyes were filled with something I cannot put my finger on. Sorrow, maybe? Was it fear? No, those words are not precise. Somehow, the expression in his eyes that evening strikes me deeply. It was beyond my grasp. It was beyond words. Jonas wouldn’t respond and simply shoved me away when I showed him concern a few seconds after that. Well, it isn’t the first time he’s done that either. Over the period of these short few months I’ve grown used to the changed Jonas.

He wasn’t always like this. Out of all three of us; Asher, Jonas and I, he was the one with the most composure and maturity. While I had patience and tolerance, it had a certain limit, and Asher seemed to cross it every single time he got into one of his childish antics. I would lean over to gently remind him not to repeat his mistake lest one of our instructors came passing by and called him in for chastising again. He, being the juvenile character he is, would then retort back, and I would shoot a comment back at him till the people around us start to turn their heads in amusement and disapproval. It would be Jonas that acted as peacemaker to stop our bickering, every time, without fail. Out of the three of us, Jonas had the most sense of humour too. Whenever we were feeling upset, it would be him who comforted us with words of encouragement and laughter to cheer us up. (I absolutely cannot comprehend why I seem to always twist the meaning of a joke when I say one, and the jokes that Asher says just makes us feel worse.) We could count on Jonas as a friend to support us, to offer a smile.

But now, Jonas has changed so much that I can barely recognise him at all. There are dark shadows under his eyes and over his brow. His hair is tousled and messy, as if he had just awakened. I seldom see him because his training seems to end so much later than the rest of ours. I make an effort to wait outside his training venue for him, but evening comes and I have to wheel away on my bicycle to get home on time. When I do get the chance to catch a glimpse of Jonas, however, he is weary and exhausted. He comes off so fragile that I subconsciously filter my words in my head before I speak them to him, in fear of saying the wrong things that will instantly crush him. Yet when he opens his mouth, voice flowing out, it is stone-hard, reserved. His eyes are soft, but beneath them I sense a spirit of pain, anguish. Jonas is hiding something, I am certain of it. I just do not know what. I will have to analyse the situation soon.

Today the Instructor taught me the steps of the art of Release. I have always been fascinated by Release. I used to lie in bed, wondering how it would be carried out. Witnessing my elderly friends being Released gives me a sense of achievement and joy. It instills comfort in me as I see the blissful peace on their faces after the procedure. The Instructor says that it is essentially injecting the needle into the vein at the nape of their right or left arm and inserting the chemical, depending on which they used more often. Most are right-handed, though a handful of the elderly people are left-handed. None of our friends are left-handed now, except for Jonas. That is yet another thing that makes him so different. Scientists are working hard to fix it, my Instructor says. Soon there will be no more left-handers.

I trained on a mannequin today, using the syringe to inject some water into its cotton arm. Soon I shall have the honour of helping my friends carry out Release. There is little I yearn so much to do aside from this beautiful art. John, a Nurturer-in-training, reveals to me that Release of newchildren isn’t that different at all too; just that we have to inject the chemical into the forehead vein, as newchildren’s arm veins are too minute and thin to spot.

I shall be carrying out my first Release on Maria, the pleasant lady who was once a Doctor in a few days. It will be a dream come true. Perhaps a friend, once lost, would return back to us, too. That is what I long for the most.

Fiona

Memories

A dark, amaranthine hollow; void of any semblance of anything humanity at all. That is what represents the existence of the people in my community. They do not understand the meaning of living; what they do each day is to pass the hours with their jobs, school, whatever that fits the bill. I once was alike them. I cared little for those I never knew, never bothered about anything else than my own life. Life, to me, was perfect in itself. There was food in our stomachs each day, a safe and protected community, pleasant friends and a happy family. Just as simple as that.

How gullible and naïve. Such foolishness.

Of course, now that I look back I cannot put the blame on my community. They had no chance to experience what I went through, to comprehend fully the implication of the thoughts I received. The pain involved would be too much for their oblivious minds to handle. The memories would shatter the people; destroy their perspective of all they thought was supposed to be, as they did for me. Whether or not it was a good thing, is an entirely different subject altogether.

Sometimes in my sleep I still hear the agonizing scream of the majestic elephant which suffered the loss of its family, or the newborn twin crying and struggling against my father’s strong hold; his life slipping away right after he gained it. They echo around my head indefinitely, never fading. Should I give those memories away, I would still recall the sheer agony perceived from those few minutes. Yet they gave me wisdom, they broke the shackles of ignorance once clasped tightly onto me. It is what keeps me hanging on despite knowing the cruelty behind my seemingly perfect world. It is what gives me the strength to carry on and sustain Gabriel’s life as well.

It is twilight as we continue on our journey. The temperature seems to be getting colder by the minute. I am hanging on, but I am worried for Gabriel. His weak body may not be able to hold out through the freezing weather. But it seems I have little to worry about. Gabriel is plonked on the marshy ground, throwing a branch away repeatedly, gurgling to no one in particular, and then rising to pick it up again. This routine continues. Suddenly, Gabriel decides he has had enough of his temporary toy and gets up on his unstable legs to waddle towards me. I stretch out my arms just in time to catch him as he trips, and he falls safely into my chest. Wrapping an extra layer of clothing to his body, I hug the toddler to my torso, feeling the soft warmth of his minute body, inhaling his scent. It calms down my tumultuous emotions of fear and anxiety. He giggles away, without a care in the world. I smile at him. He is now the most important person and priority in my life, excluding The Giver. If I lose Gabriel now, I lose all.

The magenta and vermilion of the evening sun blends together in the cerulean sky. It stretches over the entire horizon, from where I stand to the edge of the forest, beyond where I can see. Even if I possess the ability to See Beyond, I cannot see that far, really. But it is a sight to behold. It is brilliant, perhaps amongst the most beautiful things I have ever seen. A swell of happiness flows through me. It is during times like these that give me the courage to move forward from what I once was, to protect Gabriel.

The Elders made the choice to hide memories from the people, and now they shall have to pay the price and suffer. Who are they to decide how we should live our lives? Perhaps The Giver’s and my efforts would not be in vain. Perhaps the community would realise something gravely wrong in their lives and choose to question their values. Perhaps there will be a difference made. Not immediately, but someday, there will be a difference made.

So long as there lay the memories, there lay hope.

Jonas

Animal Stories

Slipping into the comfort of my thick quilt, I close my eyes in silent contentment as my father tucks me in.

“Goodnight, girl!” my father booms and then squeezes me tightly, squashing my arms to my side, like he always does, then lets go. Lazily, I snuggle further into my blanket and mumble a slightly incoherent reply, something along the lines of “I want to sleep”.

My father does not hear what I say. In his childlike mood, he teasingly adds, “You want a bedtime story? It’s your favourite, the Adventures of the Animals! What shall it be tonight? ‘Monkey and Elephant’ or ‘Giraffe and Crocodile’? Hmm?”

Suddenly, memories come rushing back in a blur from years ago. Dad’s laying down beside me, his head resting casually on his arm and asking me for two names. One for the Bird, one for the Cat. I choose “Kitty” for the Bird and “Birdie” for the Cat, pointing clearly at two imaginary figures in the air with my stout arm. I recall his reaction that day, and on the many other days akin to this; the chuckle that seems to reveal he knows something I do not. I feel uncomfortable. I don’t like being left out of the secret, but for tonight I will let it go. My father then proceeds to recite a ten-sentence long story about Kitty and Birdie who meet in a backyard one day, becoming friends though Birdie secretly wants to paw down Kitty and eat her for dinner. Eventually giving in to temptation, she does so one evening. I wince at the ending, but my beat has already tuned itself to fit my father’s odd rhythm. I am not surprised. “Don’t say things like that again, Daddy,” I scold, reaching up to pinch his nose. “Especially when Jie Jie’s around. You know she loves animals,” I whisper, frantically stretching my neck to make sure my sister’s asleep. “Yes, ma’am! Point taken!” My father salutes, slapping away my fingers from his nose bridge. I sigh.

That is my father; not the overly protective and loving dad, but the juvenile and carefree dad who would tell his five-year-old daughter such a story at bedtime and risk keeping her awake the whole night due to nightmares from his horrifying story. I roll my eyes in exasperation at my father’s childishness, fighting back a yawn threatening to come out. I feel a surge of frustration.

“Dad, this is no time for jokes! I’m really tired now, I have to wake up for school early tomorrow and I don’t have time for your Animal story! That was ten years ago. I’m too old for that kind of story, Dad! Maybe it’s time you realized that. Please, let me sleep now!” I say, voice bordering on yelling. I do not mean for it to come out so brusque and rude, but tonight I feel particularly short-tempered and at my limit of tolerance towards my father’s jokes. As I turn around to show my father my expression of weariness, I do so in time to catch sight of the absolute shock and hurt on his face.

“Okay then, goodnight now, girl,” my father whispers as he leaves the room. I cannot help but notice the pain and anguish in his words. I reflect on my actions and find that I have truly been out of line. That is not the proper respect shown to one’s father, I hear a voice taunt. That is the same voice that haunts me whenever I read The Giver; that cold, empty, malicious voice that reminds me of what our world could one day possibly come to. A world without any true emotion. A world without any decisions. A world that could one day be mine. Can I imagine a world without the love of my family? Live in a world without the teasing and bantering of my joyful, juvenile father? I do not think I can come close to that idea, for fear of breaking down.

Slowly, my thoughts digress to Jonas. No one could understand him, or his actions. The suffering he went through for the sake of the selfish who seek to control, the agony he felt when he could do little but stare on as his fellow citizens continue to commit the unthinkable, and the despair he felt when the people he loved more than anything in the world rebuked him when he asked a seemingly simple question, “Do you love me?”

I can only imagine his pain as he suffered alone with the huge burden of Receiver without the support and love of anyone except the only person who understood, The Giver. As I repress a small sob threatening to escape my lips and hastily wipe away a layer of mist forming over my eyes, my mind floats back to my father and his Animal stories. Each time my father completed a story; he would hug me tightly, gently whack me over the head and send me to sleep. It was routine. A familiar one, and each night I would anticipate it but still thoroughly enjoy it. I struggle to recall why so, and after a period of time then realize it was because I felt assured of my father’s love for me. True, I would be slightly annoyed that he would clip me over the head, and it stung, but what mattered most was that he would send me to sleep with a lovely bedtime story and a hug. An act of love from my father. I have the privilege and comfort of love, but Jonas had no way to experience it with his own parents. Sympathy for Jonas and his community fills me. For his community because their lives are so pathetic, without knowing love; and for Jonas because of the unrequited love he has for his family.

Slowly, I start to recall the things that my family members have done just for me. Enduring sleepless nights while tending to me when I fell ill; offering advice and consolation when I was down; a simple hug, a simple story, a simple “I love you”. I have so much, and yet I push it away. What others would do to experience what I have. I do not deserve this. My heart fills with remorse and regret for my actions; and with affection and care for my father.

I compose myself, and trudge out of bed to my father. Shyly peeking out from behind the wall, I call out, “Dad? Are you busy?” My father’s head swivels around at lightning speed, shoulders jolting. I have accidentally startled him.

“No, girl, I’m not. What’s the matter? You couldn’t fall asleep?” He asks in concern. His voice is lined with worry, but behind that I can sense the sadness and hurt. My heart is suddenly heavy, but I ignore that.

“Could you tell me an Animal story? My mind can’t rest, perhaps a story might help,” I reply, crossing my fingers behind my back. Please forgive me, I desperately add inside my head.

My father smiles warmly. “Come on, let’s get you inside and back to bed. High time you fell asleep already, young lady. What’s bothering you?” He questioned curiously. “It’s unusual for such a person who loves sleeping more than food to willingly let precious sleeping time pass by her like that,” he adds with a mischievous grin. Back to normal, I see. That is good news. Maybe, just maybe, I am forgiven. It wouldn't hurt to hope.

I return the grin with a toothy one, eyes like crescent moons and laying back down in bed. My father whacks my side, eliciting a small giggle from my lips. “Move over now,” he reprimands, pretending to be angry. “Who will it be today?”

I wrap my arms around my bolster and contemplate for a moment. We look a sight, father and daughter crammed onto one narrow mattress. I could not care less. I make up my mind.

“The story about the Bird named Kitty and the Cat named Birdie. That one,” I determinedly say. My father’s eyebrows shoot up so high they almost disappear from his forehead.

“That story? Hey, kid, you’re the one who told me never to tell such stories again. I had to alter my whole storytelling concept because of that!” My father whines, scratching his head in confusion. I roll my eyes, but in my heart I feel a strong wave of love for my father sweeping over me. No, I cannot imagine a world without my father.

“It’s never too late to realize a mistake you’ve made and rectify it, Dad,” I say in a solemn voice. “Besides, I kind of grew fond of that story and Jie’s not around now!” I cheekily add. My father lets out a sigh.

“Okay kid, you said this, so here goes! Once upon a time, there was a Bird named Kitty and…”—

A daughter who just woke up to the fact that everything that was worth anything at all in her life was right in front of her eyes; and that it wouldn’t kill to lose a few minutes of sleep.

First Thoughts

As I finish the last sentence of Lois Lowry’s ‘The Giver’, I can still feel sheer shock reverberating around my head, the tangible pounding of my heart against my chest. Reality then hits me a few seconds later, and I feel myself slowly being sucked away from the world of Jonas’s, and back into my own. I take in a deep breath. In, out, in, out. I realise how lucky I am to live in my world. Filled with sorrow, greed, jealousy, pride and pains; yet bursting with colours, freedom, joy, love—life, simply put.

“Darling, where are you?” A voice calls out. I lift my eyes from the book’s slightly browned page, and find my mother’s warm eyes looking into mine, etched with concern. She swiftly enters the room. A wave of hot air filled with the smell of sweat hits me as my mother approaches. Result of a day’s work.

“I’ve been calling for a million times and you haven’t responded! I missed you, darling.” Precision of language, a sarcastic voice creeps into my head, jeering at the misuse of the word million. I focus on my mother instead, an effort to push the thought to the back of my mind. She wraps a hand around my shoulder, and then gives a gentle squeeze. I try to hold my breath, but as I’m held in my mother’s embrace I can’t help but respond by hugging her back tightly, spilling out all my suppressed emotions. Result of an inner turmoil caused by today’s reading.

“I missed you too, Mum. Welcome home.” I manage to say, my voice muffled by my mother’s shoulder. She then smiles softly, and proceeds to leave the room. “Continue with what you were doing, dear. Don’t let me interrupt your concentration.”

I stare at her retreating figure. The lady I call my mother. She’s not the type of woman that would set heads turning at a glimpse of her, and God knows she’s definitely not supermodel material. Far from that kind of beauty. But in my eyes, she’s the most beautiful woman I could ever meet. I would never change a single thing about my mother, because her imperfections make her perfect. I don’t think I would change anything about my life either, although I occasionally wished that it would be less complicated. But its imperfections make it perfect, in my eyes. I am thankful for that little fact. Second by second, I cherish my life more and more. I cherish it for what I have, and what I will never have.

So many have tried to perceive and achieve perfection throughout the course of Mankind’s history. They do in vain. In the end, what it is that matters most to us? I suppose the answer to that question will be forever out of our grasp.

Memory is the mother of all wisdom.
-Aeschylus