Title: E Pluribus
Disclaimer: The character is mine, but the world belongs to people much smarter and richer than I am. Mainly, Joss, ME, and Fox.
Distribution: I'll be flattered if you want it. As long as you ask first.
--
In every generation there is one.
My name is Mikayla. I turned 18 years old last month.
I'm not her.
I get to live. I get to have a life, and get married, and have children. I get to walk down the street at night without being on guard. I get to carry lipstick and eyeliner and boy's telephone numbers in my purse, not weapons. I get to worry about what I'm going to wear on a date. I get to be normal, and I figure I'm probably supposed to thank God for that, every day of my life - which looks like it's going to be a lot longer now.
That's another thing.
I get to believe that there's a God.
But I don't.
I get to be Kayla. I get to have a job and a best friend. I get to have a life. I should have one.
But I don't.
I get to forget what walks around when the sun's not out anymore. I get to forget why so many graves around the world are empty. I get to ignore the headlines in the paper about missing children and bodies found in caves and sewers and alleys. I get to move back to Chicago and imagine that muggers are the worst of my problems on the way home from school.
But I can't.
I get to go to school now, but I can't do that, either, because no college is going to accept a girl who didn't finish high school. Didn't finish ninth grade. Didn't even live in the country for four years.
I get to go back to all my friends and family members who haven't seen me since I was 14, but I can't, because to them, I'm gone. Missing, dead, kidnapped. A runaway. I'm nobody, now.
I get to live somewhere other than a compound with other girls who don't really like me, don't talk to me - don't talk to anyone, sometimes, because they don't always speak English. I get to have friends who aren't middle-aged men who want to throw things at my head, who stare at me, at all of us, when they think we aren't looking. I get to live in a nice apartment I don't have to pay for, pick when I get up, what I eat. I get to buy my own clothes, my own books. I get to sleep at night if I want to, not during the day.
But I won't.
No, I can't.
Can't stay in at night anymore, even if I'm not sleeping. Can't pretend I don't know what's happening while I'm safe inside. Can't eat, read, watch TV if I haven't gone out and killed something first. Can't be expected to go out and fight every night, but I do anyway. Can't help it - four years, and that's who you are. No time to pretend you have a choice.
I don't get to sit around and wait for some girl in California I've never met - was never allowed to meet - to up and die, already. I don't get to watch girl after girl pack their things and leave as they hit that magic number. I don't get to stare anxiously at the calendar - the one I was never technically allowed to have - as my birthday approaches, steadily. I don't get the hate that girl in California for not knowing what she has, not appreciating her life for what it is. For taking it all for granted. I don't have the right, not anymore.
I don't get to be the slayer.
I'm 18.
I'm too old.
And I should be happy.
But I'm not.
The part of my brain that is still fourteen years old, is still working right, tells me I should be happy. It's very convinced this is a wonderful thing, and that now I can live again. I get to live outside the loop my life has been stuck in for the last four years.
But I can't.
I get to walk out into the sunshine with everything I own in my bag. I get to wish the younger girls luck, and let them decide whether I'm hoping that they're called, or that they aren't.
I get to be Mikayla. Kayla. Kay. Not Ms. Pierre. Not 'Candidate,' not 'Trainee,' not 'Potential'. I get to be me.
And I don't want to be.
I remember when I was 16. Another girl in the compound turned 18. Packed her bags, and left. Ran into me on the way out, and smiled, pulled me aside, gave me a hug. Her name was Leigh. I always liked her.
"E pluribus Unum," she told me.
From many, one.
But not me.
Disclaimer: The character is mine, but the world belongs to people much smarter and richer than I am. Mainly, Joss, ME, and Fox.
Distribution: I'll be flattered if you want it. As long as you ask first.
--
In every generation there is one.
My name is Mikayla. I turned 18 years old last month.
I'm not her.
I get to live. I get to have a life, and get married, and have children. I get to walk down the street at night without being on guard. I get to carry lipstick and eyeliner and boy's telephone numbers in my purse, not weapons. I get to worry about what I'm going to wear on a date. I get to be normal, and I figure I'm probably supposed to thank God for that, every day of my life - which looks like it's going to be a lot longer now.
That's another thing.
I get to believe that there's a God.
But I don't.
I get to be Kayla. I get to have a job and a best friend. I get to have a life. I should have one.
But I don't.
I get to forget what walks around when the sun's not out anymore. I get to forget why so many graves around the world are empty. I get to ignore the headlines in the paper about missing children and bodies found in caves and sewers and alleys. I get to move back to Chicago and imagine that muggers are the worst of my problems on the way home from school.
But I can't.
I get to go to school now, but I can't do that, either, because no college is going to accept a girl who didn't finish high school. Didn't finish ninth grade. Didn't even live in the country for four years.
I get to go back to all my friends and family members who haven't seen me since I was 14, but I can't, because to them, I'm gone. Missing, dead, kidnapped. A runaway. I'm nobody, now.
I get to live somewhere other than a compound with other girls who don't really like me, don't talk to me - don't talk to anyone, sometimes, because they don't always speak English. I get to have friends who aren't middle-aged men who want to throw things at my head, who stare at me, at all of us, when they think we aren't looking. I get to live in a nice apartment I don't have to pay for, pick when I get up, what I eat. I get to buy my own clothes, my own books. I get to sleep at night if I want to, not during the day.
But I won't.
No, I can't.
Can't stay in at night anymore, even if I'm not sleeping. Can't pretend I don't know what's happening while I'm safe inside. Can't eat, read, watch TV if I haven't gone out and killed something first. Can't be expected to go out and fight every night, but I do anyway. Can't help it - four years, and that's who you are. No time to pretend you have a choice.
I don't get to sit around and wait for some girl in California I've never met - was never allowed to meet - to up and die, already. I don't get to watch girl after girl pack their things and leave as they hit that magic number. I don't get to stare anxiously at the calendar - the one I was never technically allowed to have - as my birthday approaches, steadily. I don't get the hate that girl in California for not knowing what she has, not appreciating her life for what it is. For taking it all for granted. I don't have the right, not anymore.
I don't get to be the slayer.
I'm 18.
I'm too old.
And I should be happy.
But I'm not.
The part of my brain that is still fourteen years old, is still working right, tells me I should be happy. It's very convinced this is a wonderful thing, and that now I can live again. I get to live outside the loop my life has been stuck in for the last four years.
But I can't.
I get to walk out into the sunshine with everything I own in my bag. I get to wish the younger girls luck, and let them decide whether I'm hoping that they're called, or that they aren't.
I get to be Mikayla. Kayla. Kay. Not Ms. Pierre. Not 'Candidate,' not 'Trainee,' not 'Potential'. I get to be me.
And I don't want to be.
I remember when I was 16. Another girl in the compound turned 18. Packed her bags, and left. Ran into me on the way out, and smiled, pulled me aside, gave me a hug. Her name was Leigh. I always liked her.
"E pluribus Unum," she told me.
From many, one.
But not me.