Infirm

By Inklings Publishing and C.S. Morales

Sixteen-year-old Kira is sick, dying, and on the government's list for termination. But Kira's not giving up. She's ready to battle both the disease and the system. She is fighting to live, because... love is worth bleeding for. Can Kira save herself? Find out in this first installment of Kira's story by CS Morales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inklings Publishing
• Release date: Jan 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781944428242

Inklings Publishing

Inklings Publishing is a small press organized under a traditional publisher model.  Our goal is to create opportunities for authors to publish work, attend writing workshops and retreats at minimal expense to them, and build dynamic writing careers. We publish the books we would love to read!

Book preview

INFIRM

Other Works by CS Morales

Poetry selections featured in

Vol. 1 Perceptions: Special Needs compiled by Fern Brady

INFIRM

C. S. Morales

Infirm

Copyright © 2017 by C. S. Morales

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Copyedited/Formatted by D Tinker Editing

Cover Design by Laura Jinkins

ISBN: 978-1-944428-24-2 (ebook) by Inklings Publishing

http://inklingspublishing.com

First US Edition

Printed in the United States of America

21  20  19  18  17  1  2  3  4  5

To my three children,

Jaime, Isabella,

and Teresa.

They are who I bleed for.

Contents

Acknowledgments

One: Bleeding

Two: Hermann Dormitory

Three: Dee and Me

Four: Good Thing

Five: Normal

Six: Wilder

Seven: Angry Night

Eight: The Date

Nine: Metal Cages

Ten: Crash

Eleven: Somewhere to Run

Twelve: Changing Courses

Thirteen: Plans

Fourteen: St. Hugh’s

Fifteen: Facing the Monsters

Sixteen: Being Held Together

Seventeen: At Odds

Eighteen: The Wolf

Nineteen: Torn

Twenty: Uncaged

Twenty-One: Flight

Twenty-Two: Red

Twenty-Three: Explain

Twenty-Four: There’s No Place like Home

Twenty-Five: Goodbye

Twenty-Six: No

Twenty-Seven: Peace in the Pieces

Twenty-Eight: Slamming Doors

Twenty-Nine: Hold On

Thirty: Aftermath

Thirty-One: My Worst Nightmare

Thirty-Two: Exam Day

Thirty-Three: Better than Like

Thirty-Four: Crack Down

Thirty-Five: The Run

Thirty-Six: Not Without a Fight

Thirty-Seven: Messy

Thirty-Eight: Dumpster Warrior

Thirty-Nine: The Journey

Forty: Academia

Forty-One: Union House #5

Forty-Two: Avoiding the End

Forty-Three: The Basement

Acknowledgments

I would like to acknowledge all those who have bled for a better world, the Book Ends Critique Group, my family, and those who encourage the dreamers.

One

Bleeding

45 years earlier . . .

UN to Meet and Address Health

Initiatives and the World Economy

Photomatch technology has come a long way. The damn thing even updates the extra pounds that I fluctuate up and down. But who cares? This is my favorite version of me yet. The background is a downtown building about ten blocks from the dorms. It’s one of the underground clubs I’ve been to. But that’s not why I love it most. I love it most because in it, the photomatch has caught the best versions of me. My long platinum hair is full, and the wind catches it just right. My eyes are killer, with the bluest blue and thick black eyepaint to line my already big eyes. My cheeks, post club, are so rosy against my porcelain skin and covered by this shimmer powder I only wear there. I freakin’ glow. And my smile, the one my brother Robert used to call model-perfect, really shows me in a joyful moment. Like I said, the best version of me to date.

Whatever. I look better in the match frame than I do in real life. I’m matte and pale today. I wonder how many pictures it took to make that perfectly conglomerated portrait of me that pops up in the door at the library. My face is the badge to get in. That, and a quick scan of my U-card as payment. If it were free, more people would come.

"Shalom, Shanee," I say to keep the pretty librarian thinking I only come here to learn languages.

Ooh, Kira. I don’t recognize that language. You got this specialty field in the bag. You’ll compete for only the best OneWorld jobs for sure, she says.

Obviously, she believes everything I tell her. It’s not her fault that’s a lie. It’s my burning desire to figure out illnesses and wars and all those historical things I suspect are made to look pretty and tolerable. "Toda," I thank her in Hebrew.

What? I hear her say as I make my way to the media chairs.

I can stream way more stuff here than anywhere else. Plus, they have archival information that you can only get here. So, I sit down and pull up my digiscreen, which instantly places me at this location with the appropriate access level as determined by the regulatory numbers assigned me.

Yes! The code I created to crack my media reg number worked. I now have access to better media choices. I can’t help the bubbly, happy feeling I get when things work out. I figured it out. I instinctually know which time period to choose for my answers on the final war. I’ll go to the year before they started. With a tap, the stream for the visiscript begins to play.

Visual Transcript of UN Meeting

A small army guards the entrances, transportation, and the very space that houses the attendees.

Translator buttons are attached to the necks of every representative in the white-walled room. The Worldkeeper presides. The camera zooms in on the gray, almond-shaped eyes of the Worldkeeper. The slight slant upward hints at an Asian heritage, while her golden-hued skin points to a more exotic culture. The perfect genetic combination makes it impossible to classify her as anything other than radiant.

Welcome to Summit #35 of the United People’s Government. We are here to address the overburdening of the United Care System. Please welcome the Minister of the United States of Europe, Dr. Gertrude Jager.

Dr. Jager is visibly nervous as she discloses the analysis of her assignment to the summit attendees. She stands before the other eleven representatives, who sit at the round gilded table in the center of the windowless room. Their assistants sit behind them in chairs lining two walls of the long rectangular space. The Worldkeeper holds the place of honor on a pedestal against the far wall.

Jager’s words wreak havoc on the room. Everyone is uncomfortable, except for the Worldkeeper. Jager concludes with a summation of her assignment. "Unless there is a population shift, increasing the number of contributors while decreasing the number of recipients, the system’s overburdening will only become more severe.

The studies before you illustrate trends that will help you understand the situation and our projections for the current course. I also included data demonstrating the result of the resolution initiative proposed.

The North American minister responds first. This is immoral.

Austrai-Japan’s minister stands up and points a pale finger at the North American minister. "Still trying to push that abolished morality on the masses? It won’t work here. Your mentality is unscientific, illogical, and what got us here to begin with. My constituents are dying while you ponder your dead God. He’s not saving you. We are. This system has brought forth world peace. Your morality bred death and hate."

Africa’s representative stands, crosses her arms over her generous bosom, and clenches her jaw tight. My people have always died of hunger, famine, and war. Yesterday’s diseases were eradicated because of the People’s Government. The population is controlled, and my people do not starve as before. We must do what helps the most likely to survive. It is our obligation to them.

This was the way Africa always cast her vote, with gratitude toward the UPG.

It is not for us to make decisions about who is viable and who does not deserve to live, says the South American representative.

The North American leader, Dr. Ashley Zerachiel, leaps up in response. I agree, but that is precisely what we’re being asked to do!

Silence! With the power of a twelve-nation army comes the voice from the pedestal. The Worldkeeper is impossibly beautiful and powerful, and her intelligence has no earthly equivalent. Must we always repeat what history has shown to be unsuccessful? Moral discussions are welcome when the world is not depending on you for salvation. Cast your votes for or against the initiative and find peace in your decision.

Once she speaks, no one else dares. The Worldkeeper brought about the negotiations for peace during the wars. She headed the system that treated the ill and fed the hungry. Once the world united and the United People’s Government came into power, she was assigned the position to oversee the ministers of the newly defined states remained free of corruption. She became the incorruptible hand of peace.

I sigh deeply. That transcript was a lot to process. I sit quietly, placing media pieces together, like puzzles, inside my mind, forming a collage to the stuff I have learned so far. Journal, I say. My journal pops up onscreen. By hand, I write in some notes and draw connections to media pieces I have bookmarked on the subject.

Five years after the People’s Party came into power, CTCI was born. The Caps on Total Cost per Individual plan won by a majority popular vote. The United People’s Government, the UPG, literally taxed families to death. A sacrifice suffered for the good of all. It’s part of our school curriculum. Even I believed it was an acceptable sacrifice, until I got sicker. Now I know I’m at the chasm’s edge and CTCI is the hand on my back, gently nudging me closer.

This makes sense only in light of what humanity has survived over the last hundred years. Apparently, the wars started with a series of antigovernment protests. People fought UN regulation of religious practices, sparking sects of extremist believers. Then militia groups formed to protect their gatherings from government.

Factions united and attempted coups d’état. Some were successful, others failed, but the wars had begun. In unison, governments fought the militia groups and won. Since then, those belief systems have been banned and erased from history.

The only place to get history is at the library. Information is accessible, but for our safety, it is centralized. Forms of individual communication existed before the wars. Now, we rely on the government for mass communications and computer networking. Individual communication is limited to the electronic posting system and, of course, speech. This makes it hard for people to socialize electronically, but it also makes it difficult for a militia group to set up an antigovernment meeting. So, communication is monitored and limited by the government to protect us from threats. I look up from the tablet to the large painting on the wall of the library. The Worldkeeper is much older in the memorial picture on the wall. The far wall of the library has a clock, and I make note of the time. I have an appointment today.

I’m here early for my appointment. Tuesdays and Thursdays are the highlights of my week because I can stop obsessing about Harley. Nervous excitement pumps through me as he strides into the plain white-walled room, looking like last night’s dream.

Kirabel Dux. He exhales, smiles, closes his eyes, and then whispers, Kira. He does all this before he sits on the plain white chair designated for the phlebotomist.

Just do your thing, sexy, and make sure it doesn’t hurt. I’m flirting while pretending to be annoyed that I have to be here. I have said some version of the same thing sixteen times now.

Stop complaining, Kira. We both know you like the way I do it. He weighs my reaction from under dark lashes, and then a coy smile tells me he’s flirting, too. He seems proud of himself. He must have practiced that one line all weekend. I’m glad he did.

Finally!

For three months, I’ve seen him twice a week. And twice a week, I do everything in my power to let him know I’m interested, in my own rough, unrefined, I-don’t-have-a-clue-how-to-catch-a-guy way. That is, I have done everything short of telling him I’m actually interested. I guess I’m not an aggressive sort.

Today, Romeo calls to my balcony and asks me to jump.

For a second, I study the white tile floors in hopes that I can hide my stupefied smile. I don’t like it, ever. Getting blood drawn hurts, I fake-pout.

Harley’s voice is soft, and I can tell I have wounded his ego when he says, But . . . you’d never see me otherwise. He continues prepping the needle. He’s right. This is the only place I see him.

Okay, it’s better when it’s you, but just slightly.

A toothy, heart-consuming smile takes over his beautiful face. Is it all right to say a boy is beautiful? Harley is. I’ve never seen a boy like him. I don’t think there’s ever been one. His cheeks lift and his green eyes crinkle around the edges, giving me a heart-stopping moment of unblemished joy. His jawline extends smoothly into a curved chin with a perfectly centered cleft. There is a gentle symmetry to his face. His dark, chocolate-colored hair is clean and neat, exactly as expected of a future doctor.

That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, he says as he pulls out the needle and quickly removes one glove, making the latex snap. There, all done. See, it wasn’t bad at all.

Using the remaining gloved hand, he applies pressure at the injection site with a cotton ball and a strip of tape. Then he trades hands and removes this glove, too. When he touches me, it feels like he’s reached into my stomach and set loose a swarm of bees, both hurting and tickling at the same time. Is he supposed to remove his gloves? He’s never done so before. I don’t think he’s supposed to, but I’m glad he has. His skin on mine feels so much more than good.

You’re only my favorite because the others are butchers. I try to maintain my tough exterior, but I can’t keep the happiness canned. His powerful hand may be holding my tiny arm, but it’s lifting my heart into another dimension. I don’t want him to let go, and because it normally takes between five and ten minutes for the bleeding to stop, he doesn’t.

Harley is a physician intern. He’s seventeen, older than I am by half a year. He’s two years into the seven-year program, which means he must have passed his qualifiers the first time he took them. That’s amazing, as almost nobody passes the first time.

Long before I was born, but after the wars, it became necessary to train younger generations with the knowledge of older, more experienced professionals before their time. Now, thirteen-year-olds take aptitude tests to determine where they best fit the professional world. Based on the results, each receives a specific curriculum to study and learn. Then, at fifteen, everyone takes qualifiers for a field in the appropriate aptitude range. Passing a qualifier means you may begin your higher-level professional training or apprenticeship.

I can’t even test, not until I’m fixed. Our society sees illness as an expensive burden and the productive contributors don’t like to mix with those of us close to death. Harley doesn’t look at me that way. When our eyes meet, I feel like I am more.

He folds my arm over as if he’s handling fragile glass. He places both his hands on my bent arm and lends me his warmth. Don’t lift anything heavy; we don’t want it to bleed out. Oh, and Kira, be careful. You are looking so much healthier lately. It’s good. He runs one of his hands down to mine and lingers longer than he ever has before. He finally releases me, but it’s too late.

I’ve already begun to hope for things I shouldn’t.

A question forms in my throat as he clears his workstation. I’ve never asked this before, but today has been . . . is . . . different. Thursday, will you be here? I wince in embarrassment at my eagerness to give my heart to a boy who has already stolen it.

He lifts his head, meets my eyes with his, and smiles, really smiles. It’s as perfect as the rest of him. Something has changed just now, something big. It’s like I’m seeing him for the first time. His eyes are brighter, and his breaths come at irregular intervals. He looks at me the way I’ve been looking at him. The air around us thins, and it’s hard for me to breathe. He must know how I feel.

Harley’s voice is low, sexy, and serious. Aren’t I always here for you?

Yeah, you are.

My first week here, I had two interns. One was horrible, and I got a bruise the size of an orange. The other was good. I never felt the needle dig into my skin or slide out. The second week, Harley took my blood, and since then, he has been the only intern I’ve had. Until now, I’d never even considered the possibility that it was on purpose. The realization makes my heart flutter. Then he stands, and I soar to my feet.

You can’t have much of a personal life if you’re working all the time, I say.

Harley responds in a quiet voice. I’d rather be here. He focuses on my lips. He makes a handsome wall between the real world and me. His cheeks bloom like roses that contrast with his pale skin and dark hair. He reaches for my arm, his fingertips connect, and I hold my breath. My eyes close involuntarily.

He’s going to kiss me.

Ouch! I exclaim. He closes his fingers around the bandage, crumpling it. Why’d you rip it off?

He lowers his face next to mine, and I can feel his warm breath drawing me to him even as the stinging in my arm calls me to caution. So nobody knows you’ve been here. It might keep you off the List. The List is where we infirm go when we have cost the government too much. It is the end of an infirm’s journey.

No one has ever done anything so kind for me as to care if I am on the List or not. I am so shocked that I don’t see the other intern step into the sterile exam room.

The intern starts in on Harley. His gruff voice is almost a bark. Are you ever gonna be done in here? My four o’clock is out there, and all the other rooms are full. Why are you even working? Aren’t you supposed to be studying for the MD3?

Harley’s eyes widen, and his body bristles almost imperceptibly when he hears the intern’s voice. Instead of showing it, he turns and answers with a sharp stab to my heart. I’m done, he snaps. You think I wanted to come into work? I had to make up some time for leaving early last week so I could study for another one of the exams.

Harley doesn’t turn around to look at me. He exits with a final huff. I gulp and follow him out. Silent and humbled. Was it too much to want just one person to be there for me? Someone who didn’t see me as sick, but as beautiful?

Embarrassed and wounded, I walk to the closest restroom to hide my shame.

I enter, lock the heavy metal door, and lean against it for support. I hug myself and feel my morgue-cold skin. Some might call it flawless and porcelain. I say it’s cadaverous and frail. My wispy blonde hair falls forward to where my pale arms encircle me. Its length warms them ever so slightly. My legs are tired, and my small frame melts onto the icy floor. Here, surrounded by the plain white walls and the chemical smell of the sanitized air, I rebuild my defenses, using my tears like bricks. Hope is for the healthy.

I give him thirty more minutes of my time as I cry myself empty in this