~
"Being called the first shots in the War Against Ugliness, the petition for the so-called Narcissism Bill was presented to both houses of Congress today by the President of New You Incorporated, Jeremiah Ambrose. Following an impassioned speech about the horror of school bullying, Ambrose's followers gathered on the National Mall, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, began a chant of "Make them all beautiful!" The petition was also presented to the office of the president and to all fifty-five state governors. The validity of the petition has been called into question by those opposed to the Mandatory Corrective Surgery Bill. They state that the use of the Internet to gather signatures has rendered the document a complete fraud."
~
"They will never get that stupid crap to pass. It's insane to even think of something that silly becoming law," said my dad. "Bunch of freaks, the lot of them. Damn, New People, my ass!"
Sitting on the floor in the hallway, listening to my parents talk about the news, I couldn't understand everything they were talking about, but I knew it had something to do with my baby sister, Bellatrix.
"Stranger things have happened, when the majority of people wanted it," said Mom, disagreeing with his every statement as normal.
"They're not the majority! Not by a long shot! They're just a bunch of DNA hacking, rich fuckers that think because they're Hollywood superstars they can dictate to the rest of the world!" Dad spat.
"Honey, please watch your language," Mom fussed. "I just put Ares to bed, he's such a light sleeper."
Very light, given that I was not asleep. Holding my favorite toy by its stuffed arm, I leaned my head against the door frame to listen some more. Looking past them, I saw the man on the TV and I almost laughed. I covered my mouth to keep it in. He looked a lot like a plastic doll. Except dolls don't scream.
"What if it passes?" Mom asked after a moment.
"It won't," Dad insisted.
"But if it does...you saw what it said. All children under the age of two. What will we do? How will we afford it? I mean I want Bellatrix to have the chance to have those surgeries. She's just an infant, yes, but she doesn't deserve to be mistreated by mean kids at school. She's young enough still to not remember surgery being done. Maybe we should go ahead and get her signed up? Beat the rush."
"It won't pass." Dad got to his feet quickly, and turning, saw me sitting on the floor by the door. "Ares, What are you doing up boy? It's way past your bedtime."
Before I could answer, Mom hopped up. "You woke him up with all your yelling and profanity, obviously!" Mom took my hand, pulled me to my feet, lead me down the hall and back to bed. She looked at me with a sad expression on her face. With a sigh, she brushed my hair back from my face.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Will I have to have...surgeries?" I asked, scared. I've been to the doctor before, I know how those needles they use hurt.
She shook her head, that sad look in her eyes growing. "No dear, you won't. You're too old for them to be effective anymore." She suddenly made like she wasn't sad. "You have to be under two and you're a whole big five years old!"
"So what about Bellatrix?" I asked. Most days I didn't like my baby sister and wished they would take her back to the baby hospital where they found her, but I suddenly didn't want them to hurt my little sister. Those mean doctors!
"Oh, don't cry. She's going to be fine. All they are going to do is make her beautiful. Make her perfect." Mom smiled, and wiped at my eyes with the corner of the bedsheets. "Now get to sleep young man; you have school in the morning."
Why I cried once she left, I don't know. Maybe it was the real joy I had heard in my mother's voice at the idea of my sister becoming perfect. Beautiful. Joy that one of her children was going to become one of them. One of the New People that Dad was always saying swear words about.
Maybe I cried because it wasn't going to be me.
** ** ** ** ** ** **
The high school I attended was more of a piss-smelling trailer park in the parking lot of a burnt out building than a proper school, but it was all that the government school board would spend money on for us "normals" to get an education. I can't say I minded the way the school smelled or the way the books would fall apart if you touched them. It was the antique desks that pinched my ass whenever I sat down in them that I minded. That and the fact that there was not a single girl at the place that would rate above a three.
Of course they didn't rate a "normal" even on a scale of one to ten anymore. We started at negative nine, so saying there was a three at this school was actually high praise. With a bit of decent schooling and some luck she might just manage to get a job doing telemarketing.
That was the best that a "normal" three could hope for in this...New World. A job where you won't be seen.
Me? I was already being groomed as a sewer cleaner. Or maybe a toxic or radioactive waste handler. That, one was popular with the general public lately. Since the Mandatory Sterilization Bill had failed to pass anyway.
I heard it was already being presented again though. The New People would ram that bill through just like they had all the others these last thirteen years. Bill after bill made Irreversible Law. That was their word for what they were doing. Irreversible...bills, surgeries, politics, elections. Everything with them was Irreversible.
In my worn gray coverall that was the school uniform here at Hell High, I made my way down the hallway past the other "normals." All of us walked with the head down posture we were trained to use in grade school. I still remember my fifth grade principal yelling at me.
"Don't look up, you might make a New Person have to see your face!"
I think they have a bill in the works to make that a crime as well. Wouldn't surprise me. The list of crimes a "normal' can commit is getting longer and longer every year, since the election of President Ambrose.
"Get to class children!" called out one of the teachers. Mrs. Graves, her voice a rusty harp string tuned too low. She wasn't as bad as a few of my teachers, the ones that resented my whole generation as if we, the last "normal" generation of children, had somehow kept them from teaching the New People. As if that act of blasphemy was ever going to happen. A teaching position for those schools had a minimum two million in plastic surgery to correct any possible flaws in appearance that could cause mental harm to one of The Perfect.
The Perfect. The New People. The Beautiful People.
