Sector 831

By Kelly M O'Rourke

Adira Vos has lived her entire life in isolation. Her parent's generation were the first to test out the idea of Sector's - small, bubble-like isolation units that were built to house one family each. The Sector System is supposed to give the earth time to heal from the damage of civilization. Adira's generation was promised a world healed from

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelly M O'Rourke
• Release date: Dec 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578818177

Book preview

SECTOR 831

Kelly M. O’Rourke

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by Kelly M. O’Rourke

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form on by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN 978-0-578-81816-0 (print)

ISBN 978-0-578-81817-7 (e-book)

Dedicated to

everyone who encouraged me to dream.

Chapter 1

It is with a heavy heart that I place the rose beside my bed, in front of my parents' portrait. The last gift of condolences I will receive from the Main Sector. The extent of their care for my grievances. I wonder why they only send a rose on the day of a death and the one-year anniversary. As if by the second commemoration I will thrive in solitude, not having shed a tear since I received my last package. I sniff and relish in the aroma the rose fills my Sector with. If the lone flower is useful for anything, at least it livens up my otherwise bleak surroundings. My mother would have laughed at the irony.

Her classical vinyl mutes the silence. The same track has played in the background throughout my year of solitude. A constant soundtrack to what has become of my life. The rain bouncing off of the top of my Sector adds a new flare to the tune. The melancholy beat being altered to best fit my day. If I ever need a change of pace, I'll switch it out for something upbeat. There are times where I swap the records for no other reason than to experience a semblance of change.

I realize I had given my late mother a moment of silence without thinking and smile. My father would tell me stories of religion, and the customs that generally followed a person's death. I grow prideful in giving my mother what she once thought she might have. Though, in the Sector System, it is dangerous to grieve too long. Too many rumors have circulated of those from my generation left alone after their family had passed. They would go mad, scratching at the Sector walls until their nails bled or fell off. Desperate to escape the only life they have ever known. My grief does not make my Sector too small, but rather too big.

I had paced the expanse of my home all morning. My parents used to explain the layout of our home as a classic peace sign, but with a slight growth protruding from the top where the greenhouse resides. I leave the room that belonged to them to be a makeshift time capsule. The previous year I had attempted to tidy up in there, but it felt wrong to touch anything, as if I were tainting the memory of them. I settled on leaving it. I have to admit to the eeriness that their bed sheets are still ruffled from the last time they used them. This always gives me a ghostly feeling of hope, and I forget for a moment the room doesn't belong to anyone anymore. The loneliness becomes so tangible when I acknowledge it.

I remember loving the greenhouse when I was a child. It is the only room in the Sector that provides authentic sunlight. For a short time of my life, I saw the outside strictly through the blurred glass of the room. Until, finally, my parents figured out how to use our television screen. Funny how even a couple of scientists can have difficulty with modern technology. The three of us spent the rest of that night watching Sector-issued TV footage of nature. My father would tell me the names of different animals shown, or explain which landmarks belonged to what city. They would both laugh and talk about their travels while I listened with a wonder only a child could possess.

My favorite story was the day my mother found out she was having me. My father had been working on an extensive project for months, so my mother convinced him to take a weekend off and travel as they used to so often. They were riding a carousel in Rome and had just reached the top when her doctor called with the news. Both of them shook the cart they were in so bad with excitement they were kicked out once the conductor brought them back down to earth. To be born before the system seems magical, as much as the Main Sector will try to tell us otherwise. They designed these television programs to show us the way the world could flourish after the Sector system has run its course. Vibrant greens and healthy wildlife. The greenhouse only made me sad from that point forward. As if I was looking at the Earth, but through smudged and broken glasses.

The rain slows down slightly, but I will it to continue as I move towards the muted sunlight. I sigh at the short expanse of greenery. How wonderful it would be to see an open field full of greens. To run down the rows of crops as the wind blows through my hair. I imagine the day we acclimate to life outdoors. Some days all I do is picture a life outside of these walls. I have collected twenty books over my twenty years of life. Not including the ones my parents left behind. On these days of restlessness, I breeze through the stories, soaking up every interaction between the characters. Every smile or hug or kiss. It is a wonder to me that the generation before mine took things such as friendship and love for granted. A bitter part of me thinks it a waste they were the ones with the chance to experience them.

Every day since my parents' death has blended together in a long expanse of nothing. I tried to keep up our normal routine, but it felt off being the only one in the Sector. I would read out loud to keep my voice active, I still do sometimes no matter how much the action makes me think I'm going mental. One of the many things my mother ingrained into my daily regime was our morning yoga. I would wake up every morning to a new melody, a more upbeat one my mother loved by The Mamas & the Papas.

Good morning, my love. She would smile when she entered my room, her hair already pulled up in a ponytail.

I had always been convinced our yoga routine was more for her to keep to her daily agenda she used to have on the outside. But it slowly integrated itself into my own over time, leaving me with something to look forward to every morning. We needed that one song to be playing while I went through the motions or my entire day felt like something was missing. Some days we would play the tune over and over if we craved more exercise. I'm not sure if I can honestly call it that, but I guess it was the most active we could be in a Sector.

Whisper a little prayer for me, my baby. I hum as I pick my food from the greenhouse. The first time I played the song after she passed, I threw up sobbing. The next day I did the same. A week passed before I came to terms with the fact that I am alone in this now. In every aspect of my day, I am truly and utterly alone. It took a month for me to listen to the familiar melody without shedding a tear, and a month and a half for me to get through our full routine without an awful nausea.

My father passed only a month or so before my mom, making the grieving process of them both blend somewhat together. One day I had a family unit to lean on and the next it left me to face this unknown world on my own. A fear of mine is that I've been on autopilot since then, filling my days with daydreams and routine to keep my mind from wandering somewhere else. Somewhere worse.

The point has come where I don't care if it is healthy because at least I am protected from becoming one of the grief-stricken Sector-borns. My parents would want more for me than rendering my hands unusable from scratching at the Sector walls. Or leaving this earth with them by replacing my hands scratching with my head banging. The Main Sector tries to keep those stories hush hush, but in the weekly obituaries they write mental difficulties as if the wording doesn't scream the true cause of death. Sometimes I think they want us to read between the lines, scare us into acting straight. Show us what could happen if we give into the hardships of this life.

I breathe in a sharp intake of air and pull my finger back from the plant.

Fuck. I swear. My parents always warned be to be careful when picking blackberries. The thorns on their branches small but painful.

Why wouldn't the Main Sector give us thorn-less plants if they are so powerful? I used to groan. My father would grin of approval from behind the pages of a book.

This is what it will be like in the real world, sweetheart. My mother would say while she cleaned up my scratch. You have to learn to avoid the thorns.

My eyes stare down at the blood on my finger now, a small part of me happy that the deep red is seeping from the wound. Sometimes I think my blood was replaced with complacent sludge.

The rest of my night passes by in a haze, as they all occasionally do. I've already read my book for this month, and finding one on our bookshelf I haven't combed through countless times proves difficult. There are some stories on the shelves I wrote when I was little. Instead of a book one year, I requested a blank one. A journal, my father informed me.

I flip through the pages, my child-like images of the outside putting a smile on my face. A story hasn't elicited a grin from me since last month, so the motion stretches my skin in a strange way. My eyes well with tears when I turn to a page titled Adira the Brave. I miss the version of myself who thought so firmly that the phrase was true. I yearn to find her again someday.

Adira the Brave

There is a girl who lives in a bubble named Adira. Think of the bubble like it is Rapunzel's tower. It is a place where she must first learn to be brave before she can be on the outside world. Except she wasn't locked there for evil. Her parents brought her there to keep her safe from the toxic outside air. Adira was born to face the outside world one day, though, and she will do it with bravery because that is what her name means, powerful and mighty. She will train every day if that is what it takes! Because her parents say it is her destiny to make the outside world her own once she can be in it.

One day, she finally breaks free of her bubble and breathes in the new and clean air. It is beautiful outside, there will never be rain now that they fixed the world. Only sunny skies. Her friends are waiting for her once she makes it to the special spot in the woods. They are sitting around a campfire, smiling.

This will be the start of their journey, traveling every place the outside world has to offer. It is then that her life will begin as Adira the Brave.

Chapter 2

I reread the tale from my younger self several times that night, trying to convince myself the outside world will soon become my reality. It is hard to picture being beyond the walls now after being sheltered for 20 years. I wish it were as simple as breaking out from the Sector and rejoice with my nonexistent friends, but I know acclimating to life on the outside will be much more difficult.

My parents used to attempt training me for what meeting new people would be like. We would practice handshakes and small talk, but it never felt genuine because the interactions were void of any anxiety. There will be an overwhelming amount of that when I first meet another person.

Adira, your wrist is loose. It's important to have a firm shake. Especially when you're at a job interview. My father said once, trying to hold my wrist stiff. I never said that the exercises seemed pointless. Everyone who I meet will be as new to formalities as I am. But it seemed like my parents had always prepared to teach their child things like this, and I felt too bad to deny them of the simple gesture.

Sleep is sparse once night comes, my mind preoccupied with what will happen once I am let out of here. I try not to dwell on when the release will take place, because I only drive myself crazy knowing more years will doubtless pass before I can leave my confines.

I wake up the next morning groggy with crust keeping my eyes shut. There is a small bathroom between my room and my parents' room that is just big enough to hold a shower, toilet, and small mirror. The sink we use to wash our hands is in the kitchen which my parents always complained about. I’ve heard there used to be sinks in bathrooms and kitchens, but to me that just seems like a tremendous waste of water.

My reflection stares back at me from the small mirror next to the toilet, my eyes are squinting in the dull light and my hair sticks to my forehead. Sometimes if I stress too much before bed, I wake up in a sweat which is an awful consequence and only makes my stresses worse. Not that anyone is around to witness it.

While my eyes remain locked at my reflection, I tell myself today will be different. I will find a book and I will have a day not full of sorrow, but comfortable solitude.

Our shower runs on a timer as to not waste water. That was another thing my parents had to force themselves to get used to. We run on filtered rainwater, which is very sparse these days, so it is important to use our resources wisely. Five minutes later, my showerhead shuts off and I stand glaring at silver for a moment trying my best not to become too frustrated. The day only drags on longer once my mood turns sour.

My herbs must be picked from the garden to refill the small sack we keep next to the stove. I am permitted enough drinking water per day to drink an absurd amount of tea, but the motion keeps me calm. I've made it a point not to count how many cups I need.

My thoughts are interrupted with a start. A thunderous crash disrupting the slow melody playing from the cassette. A loud sound can be jarring after so long living all alone. I say a silent thanks I was not holding anything fragile and dart for the opposite side of the greenhouse. A slash of red details the wall, and with it a square panel of blurred glass has