Darklandia Read Free Page B

to a ration dispenser, though sketchy places like that were becoming much less common. Pretty soon every street corner and every room in every building in New York would have a ration dispenser and lifesavers would be obsolete.
    I entered the concrete-block apartment building through the service door to the right of the entrance door. The wooden entrance door had been boarded off for more than seven months after the last attack of the rebels. The rebels had entered all the apartment buildings after nine o’clock curfew and painted a single red star on the front door of hundreds of apartments and darkrooms in the city.
    As I walked past the silver door of the darkroom in our apartment building, I could just barely glimpse the outline of a star etched into the surface from the acid used to strip the paint. My mother sent a message to the Department of Community requesting to have the door replaced to “erase the dark reminder imprinted on its surface.” The request was denied within hours. Her subsequent request to the Department of Felicity never elicited a response.
    I climbed four flights of stairs to the third floor and, by the time I reached apartment 307, I had made my decision. No matter how thirsty or hungry I became tonight, I would not drink my water ration.
    I held my sec-band inside the security scanner to the right of the doorframe. The titanium band flashed with green light and the door to apartment 307 slid open. I stepped inside and found my mother seated in my father’s old armchair with a basket of yarn at her feet and a half-finished baby-blue scarf curled in her lap.
    “Good evening, Sera,” my mother said, without looking up from her busy fingers.
    “Good evening, Mother,” I replied, as I unzipped the front of my gray tunic, my school uniform, and hung it on the coatrack.
    The thin, sleeveless dress beneath the tunic clung to my back from the August heat. My morning ration had worn off and my sense of smell had returned. The stink of sweat and vitamins steamed off my skin and dress, neither of which had been washed in more than two weeks.
    “Our wash request was approved this morning,” my mother said, as I passed her on my way to our bedroom. “Sweet felicity.”
    The tickle in my throat returned as I thought, “It’s my stench that reminded her of this.” I shook my head trying to ward off my defiant thoughts as I entered the bedroom. Of course, she couldn’t smell me. I was being paranoid.
    My mother and I shared a twin bed. I used to sleep with Grandmother until my father was purified. Mother thought it would be better for me to sleep with her after that. She didn’t want Grandmother’s diseased thoughts to saturate me while I slept.
    That’s how it happened. If you spent too much time with a darkling, after a while their presence cast a shadow over your every thought. It happened to me four years ago when I was thirteen, after my body began to change. My ration dosage was adjusted, just like Darla’s was when she turned thirteen three months before I did, but the new dosage wasn’t strong enough. I began to see everything differently. The rations tasted like salty blood, which I could only stomach for a few seconds before I vomited them. Every time I vomited, the gloom became more solid; disorienting and smothering like a thick autumn fog. I considered rapturing myself or turning myself in to the Department of Felicity to be purified. Anything to make the blackness go away.
    My body fell softly onto the bed and I sighed at the coolness of the blanket against my skin. It was nearly eight o’clock but the sun hadn’t gone down. I desperately wanted a sip of water after my four-mile trek down Broadway, but I had to resist the urge. Maybe if I took a nap the thirst would go away.
    I closed my eyes and hoped my mother didn’t come in to collect the dirty laundry. The dim-red sunlight shining through the window penetrated the thin skin of my eyelids and swirled in my vision, a dance of