Rosemary has not been assigned.
Rosemary has been selected.
Words swirl around, seemingly reaching the ears of the audience but barely able to reach her. Receiver of Memory. Successor. Intelligence. Integrity. Responsibility.
Pain.
The applause rings out, and her name is carried across the Community, shouted rhythmically in a chant: ROSE-MA-RY! ROSE-MA-RY!
The Chief Elder raises her hand, and the Community falls silent. The Ceremony of Twelves has ended.
In a blur Rosemary is descending the steps, her mother catching her arm and leading her towards the bicycles. Her brother Matthew, now a Nine, stands by the bicycle rack, wriggling impatiently. He watches Rosemary with what appears to be awe and reverence, but is really an ill-disguised attempt to hurry them up so he can ride home on his gleaming new bicycle.
They ride home.
There is a single list in her assignment folder, of seven things she must do. The first two give her directions. The third exempts her from rudeness. The fourth, fifth and sixth are things she cannot do. But nothing prepares her for the seventh.
You may lie.
The next day, Rosemary makes her way to the Annex entrance behind the House of Old, and finds herself in a comfortably furnished room with plush chairs and shelves piled high with books. Rosemary, having never seen so many books in one place, runs a finger along the thick spines wonderingly.
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
Rosemary turns, feeling strangely guilty, to face a wrinkled, elderly man with pale eyes and a graying beard. He sits in a chair by a table that somehow escaped her notice. The man's eyes crinkle as he sees the surprise in her eyes.
"I've always felt drawn to books myself." The pale-eyed man rises from his chair, and walks towards her. "Welcome, Receiver of Memory."
Ten minutes later, Rosemary is woefully confused.
"But if I'm the Receiver, and you're the Receiver, then does that mean we both are?" Rosemary is stumped; for once, precision of language has failed her.
The old Receiver laughs. "No, Rosemary. From now on, you are the one and only Receiver."
"Then what does that make you?"
The old man's eyes crinkle again. "Call me the Giver."
The Giver gives her memories.
The first are of happy things. The Giver gives her sunshine, rain, snow, boat rides, forest hikes. But Rosemary wants more.
"You said there would be pain."
The Giver is hesitant in his reply. "There is pain," he says haltingly, "in some of the memories. You are not yet ready to receive those memories."
Rosemary looks at him curiously. "Why not? I can handle pain just fine."
"This is a different kind of pain."
"Then let me feel it."
The Giver is hesitant, but Rosemary manages to persuade him.
He rests his wrinkled hands on her back and submerges her in a memory, and for the first time Rosemary learns that pain can come from within.
The next day the Giver gives her more happiness, more memories vibrant with color, with reds and blues and greens, colors Rosemary has never known before. It feels like the world is awakening.
But this time he gives her new memories, each darker than the last. He gives her fear, and grief, and sorrow, and loss.
Rosemary returns home, and she is unable to sleep.
Hopelessness.
It is a new feeling, and it bleeds through the memories she receives and takes root deep in her soul. There is suffering, Rosemary realizes. There is suffering outside of the Community, outside of the routinely towns that surround her. The world is more than a few towns. And somewhere in the world there is suffering.
It makes her feel something deeper than sadness. It makes her feel like nothing she could ever do will make a difference.
"Rosemary, are you alright?"
You may lie.
"Yes, Giver, I'm fine."
Release.
The word no longer scares her.
Now she feels a grim hollow where her heart once was; her heart, devoured by the pain she never knew existed. Rosemary feels her feet carrying her, one step at a time, to the Releasing Room. The door is unlocked. Rosemary steps inside.
"I would like to request release," she says, voice firm. Release, release. The word echoes throughout the chamber.
Two uniformed men enter. One carries a syringe and a jar of clear liquid on a semi-opaque tray. The other man guides her to the bed. Rosemary seats herself on the soft white sheets.
"Hold out your arm," the first man says, gently swabbing the joint between her forearm and shoulder. He positions the syringe above her arm.
"Wait," she says suddenly, and the syringe stops, inches away from plunging into her arm. "I would like to inject myself."
The syringe feels strange between her fingers. Rosemary pauses only momentarily before plunging the needle deep into her vein, pushing hard so that all the clear liquid flows through her bloodstream.
Rosemary jerks the needle out, but her movements are sluggish, and her ears feel like they're filling with water. Her head is woozy. The uniformed men lay her gently back on the bed, but she can barely feel their touch.
Blackness rushes in on her all at once, and Rosemary falls into oblivion.
A decade later, a wearied old man sits in a room filled with shelves piled high with books, at a table in the corner. A pale-eyed boy sits across from him.
The boy shifts, looking bashful. "Sir?"
"Yes?"
"It's just that I don't know your name. I thought you were The Reciever, but you say that now I'm The Receiver. So I don't know what to call you."
The elderly man's eyes widen, because for a moment it is not the boy that sits across from him, but a pale-eyed girl, filled with curiosity. A girl he will never see again.
"Call me the Giver," the old man says.
A/N: This is actually a Language Arts assignment.
Yes, you heard me. We were actually asked to write Fanfiction for a grade.
Crazy, right?! (Well, actually we were supposed to write a narrative related to the Giver, but that's pretty much a fanfic.) So if you have any constructive critisicm, PLEASE let me know! I love reviews :)