2.A

Somewhere, in the world, there is a city. An enormous, sprawling thing, built of harsh blocks of concrete and steel, the only notable landmark being the black shining spire casting long shadows across the dense artificial jungle. The shadows stop just as they touch the ten-foot-thick blast walls surrounding the edge.

Somewhere, in the city, is a neighborhood. Not a rich one, not comparatively, but not a poor one, either. Rows and rows of identical suburban houses trace the flattened landscape, twisting and turning into a maze of perfect lawns and white picket fences.

Somewhere, in the neighborhood, is a house. It looks just the same as all the other houses, walls painted a stark white, with two small rocking chairs seated next to the front door.

The door opens.

—

A child drifts. She wakes, up, goes to school, says all of the appropriate words, does all of the required tasks… and then she goes to sleep. Then, the next day, she does it all again.

There are small variations, of course. Sometimes one of the others will say something new, or unexpected, and the child will have to guess the appropriate response.

She never has to guess twice.

The child is good at this. The routine, the expectations, the days rolling by like a foggy morning that forgets to end.

So good, in fact, that not one of the others has seen it. They only see what she wants them to see; a good, well-behaved young lad with a bright future ahead of him. Someone at the top of his class, with a stable relationship and his life in order.

Somehow, they don’t see the rot. The gnarled, twisting thing at the center of her heart, crawling its way through her veins, desperately scrabbling for a chance to break the surface of her skin.

She won’t let it.

And so the days roll by.

—

“Hey, babe, what’s up?”

“Hey, Jake! Y’know, the usual. Penny was acting up again in History. Swear to god, I’m gonna kill that bitch.”

The child laughs. It’s the correct response, here.

“How am I gonna kiss you if you’re in jail?”

“Mhm. Speaking of which.”

The child plays her part.

“…Oh, didja see the new kid?”

“No, I don’t think so — who is it?”

“He’s a little fuckin’ runt, y’know? Got those silly glasses too — the circular ones. Kinda fun to mess with.”

The child stifles her initial reaction. She’s learned since the last time.

“I guess I’ll have to meet her at some point. Is he from…?”

“No, no, not a foreigner. He’s from the… downtown area, apparently.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Hafta’ teach him the pecking order soon. Here — meet me outside, at lunch. Bet I can come up with something by then.”

The child smiles. It’s an effective one. She’s had to work to perfect it.

“Sure, Livvy. Anything for you.”

—

That day, the child meets another. She is small, frail, and avoidant.

She has that same spiral of rot twisting inside her. The others — they see that she is other, they understand the difference, but they do not see, not really. The decaying core of someone that was once human lies splayed out for them to poke and prod and break and still they see nothing.

The child thinks she is not as good a liar as she thought.

She affects an air of disdain.

“Think he’s had enough?”

“Oh c’mon, Jake, you barely started!”

The child rolls her eyes. “Nah, this is boring as hell. I’m sure he gets it.”

She leans forward. “Right, little guy?”

The other smiles, serene, if not a little smug. “Something like that.”

“Jake. Kick his ass.”

The child stares. The other stares back, shrugging almost nonchalantly.

“No. I don’t think I will.”

The child walks away.

—

The other is not… rotting, like she should be. The child has been breaking script, and even if she knows it is wrong she cannot seem to help it. She can’t bring herself to act out the daily show, to conform to her role anymore. She feels as though some crucial thing has been shattered, something changed irreparably.

And the other will not rot.

The child must know why.

“Hey, dipshit.”

“Hey yourself, blockhead.”

Blockhead? The child hesitates, despite herself.

Still. She makes herself sit down, next to the other in an empty area of the school’s cafeteria.

“…How are you doing it?”

“Doing what?”

“They — we treat you like shit.”

“Oh. Uh.”

The other takes a bite of her food.

“Well. My dad’s usually pretty stressed out lately. I don’t wanna make him worry more than he has to.”

“And anyway, I’m kind of used to it by now.”

The child ponders.

“You… don’t have to be. Right? You could just be normal.”

The other shakes her head. “No. It’s either this, or… nothing.”

Nothing. The child thinks she knows what that’s like.

“Well, hey. You can call me Sera, yeah? My pronouns are she/her. I like hibachi and reading trashy fanfics. How about you?”

The child shrugs. “You know my name.”

The other stares.

A sigh. “…I like carpentry and keeping up with the Dolphins. Nice to meet you.”

The other snorts. “The football team? No the fuck you do not.”

“You don’t know. I could be a football fanatic.”

“I bet you don’t even like carpentry either.”

Against her will, a smile stretches across the child’s face. All of a sudden, lying isn’t so easy.

—

Slowly, the child changes. It isn’t quick, or drastic, but it is… something. One day, the child has a thought.

She doesn’t really like the Dolphins anyway.

The posters on her walls all come down, scrawled over with permanent black and red sharpie. They end up stuffed into a box in the back of her closet.

When her parents ask, she says she plans to replace them.

Meanwhile, the other changes so quickly it makes the child’s head spin. She changes outfits, interests, nail polish, all swapped out almost weekly. She seems to revel in the change, the simple act of trying something new.

The child doesn’t quite understand. The thought of exposing herself like that is completely foreign, terrifying in some fundamental way she can’t explain. She knows the play, she’s memorized her lines and she is good at lying. To do otherwise, is…

One night, the other asks the child if she wants to paint her nails. She agrees.

The child finds she doesn’t really enjoy painting her nails.

“Well, ‘least we found something you don’t like, yeah? I think it’s a start.”

—

The child distances herself. The people she would perform for no longer know her, and as a result, she no longer feels the need to keep them close. They keep speaking to her and expecting someone else.

She has stopped humoring them. Her responses are short, curt, efficient. She knows the lines, but she will not say them.

A small act of self-definition.

The lights dim, the audience moans, and actors scramble for purchase.

The play is falling apart.

—

On the last of those halcyon days, the child sleepily stumbles down the stairs, clicking on the TV while she prepares breakfast. It’s a weekend, so thankfully she can take as long as she wants.

The child is looking forward to a meet up with the other — with Sera. She’s always so passionate, so full of life. So determined to do the right thing, always. The child hopes she can be even half of what Sera is.

She idly glances at the TV while reaching for a dish.

The child drops her bowl.

It shatters.

—

There is only one rule in this city. One fundamental truth that stands in spite of divine constructions and impossible feats saturating every last backstreet corner.

Nothing lasts.

The child would do well to remember this.