Author's note: If you have read any of my story, please post a review. I'm not sure if it's worth continuing with, but, as I have some idea of the plot's direction already, I will keep writing if requested to do so. Hope you like it so far! Thanks for reading. -Anya
Tiana rose, steadying herself with one hand against my low bookcase, and I wondered how much of the force of my anger had made its way into that punch. It looked abusive enough, for sure. I did not rise or even shift to watch her as she crossed the hall to the washroom and began cleaning herself up. Ordinarily, I would have been hovering, telling her to not use too much of this lipstick or that powder, but I had other plans. Her rabbit-shaped backpack was lying on the floor where she had left it. I scooted over and slid my hand into the partly unzipped hole at the top, forcing it wider.
A pair of jeans, a skirt, two shirts, a scarf, two bank chips on a keychain, a handheld computer, a cell phone, and several balled pairs of socks and underwear fell out. At the bottom was a collection of pens, tampons, and gum wrappers from previous days out. Wheeling around, I saw that she had already taken out a stick of deodorant and a small toilet kit when she searched for the list of reasons to move out. I opened the later to find a comb, a few bobby pins, and perhaps ten coloured makeup pencils. They were a new, still fairly expensive type which could be used as eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick, and even, in a pinch, mascara or nail polish, and I regarded them with envy for a moment before zipping the case closed and throwing it on top of the rubbish at the bottom of her bag. When Tiana came back in, I was busy cutting the necks out of her t-shirts.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, horrified. I looked up, and was gratified to see a large bruise already blooming around her left eye and upper cheek.
"Removing these," I stated dully, holding up a handful of what looked like ordinary barcodes. I had found them sewn into the necklines of her shirts and the hems of her jeans. "They're electronic trackers. Most clothing comes with them, and it's up to the parents to activate them if they want to keep track of the kids. They're slipped into clothes anywhere where the fabric has been doubled over, making a little pocket, such as the hem lines," I explained, gritting my teeth as I wiggled a long, narrow tracking device from the edge of one of her jeans pockets, "I remembered to do it when you said your mom's all tight with the YCF chief."
"The deputy," she corrected absently. "but how do we even know if those things are activated? I doubt my folks would be that paranoid…"
"We don't know," I said shortly. Raising my head to meet her eyes, where she still stood in the doorframe, I added, "I thought you were desperate to escape."
New resolution settled and hardened in her expression, along with a good measure of defiance. "I am."
Although I didn't let on, I was more than a little relieved to hear this. I had known only that I had to escape, and saw only one option: death. Now, perhaps, another one had appeared. I silently reached behind me and pulled out the messenger bag I knew would be hidden under my bed. I had found it in a thrift store in September, and persuaded my parents to buy it on the strength that I needed a book bag for school. Black canvas patterned with a grey tire mark running across, it looked just the thing to run away with, and was so old that it was unlikely to have any tracking devices in the crimson lining. I shook out the pile of anonymous rubbish from the bottom and began rummaging in my closet, throwing underwear, a pair of jeans, a scarf, socks, and a few other items I deemed necessary over my shoulder. Tiana had repacked her own bag and was pawing gingerly at her black eye.
"We should have a weapon, in case we're stopped," she said suddenly.
"What have you got?"
She shook her head slightly, frowning. "My parents are against that stuff. They actually helped organize the campaign to have kitchen knives outlawed and replaced by electronic, self-contained dicing units." She rolled her eyes, and made air quotes with her fingers, "'the presence of violent tools suggests to impressionable youth that violence is acceptable.' What a joke."
"I'll look," I offered, though not very hopefully. Government regulations only allowed very short, dull knives to be owned in homes, favoring slicing machines where a hidden, non-removable blade diced food into perfect, bite sized pieces with no risk of injury. My parents were pretty law-abiding, although my dad had grumbled when he had to throw away the antique switchblade he had kept as a curiosity in a small glass case. I left Tiana folding a pair of my knee socks and traipsed down the stairs to the kitchen.
I looked over the familiar room only briefly, and seemed to have my worst fears confirmed. On the immaculate marble countertops, three gleaming processors sat waiting to mix drinks, chop food, and provide such information as nutrition facts, cooking instructions, and a best before date on any meal. There was no stove, only a large oven with so many buttons on it that always felt I might have been trying to fly a plane rather than prepare my lunch. Sighing resignedly, I walked behind the kitchen table and began to open drawers at random, looking for something dangerous.
My fingers and eyes brushed leisurely past crockery and tools made of unbreakable plastics and non-rusting metals, to soft bags of flour, oats, dried peas, raisins, or tiny vials of spices and sauces, stoppered with corks or screw tops, or held together with twist ties. I opened the fridge, scanned the shelves, and closed it. At the freezer, I stopped to remove a frozen ice cream cone, pull the wrapper away from it, and continue my way around the kitchen with it in hand, taking occasional licks. I was supposed to be dead. I wanted to be dead! Alone again, it was more difficult to banish the thought. I would find a safety pin later, I told myself, and add to the latticework of cuts under the left cuff of my sweater. It was with this thought in mind that I noticed the strange thing about the cutlery drawer.
As with most cutlery drawers, this one had an organizer in it, to keep the different sizes of spoons from mixing or whatever. This organizer, however, was a perfect square. The cutlery fit, but there must, judging by the dimensions of the other drawers, there must be some space behind. Cautiously, I pulled the drawer out farther. The white plastic of the organizer, stained from long use, and warped, ended, and a new piece of plastic began. Had the second piece not looked so much more pristine, it would have been indistinguishable, and was clearly cut to fit perfectly. I drew in a breath and pulled the drawer all the way out, lifting it onto the kitchen counter. There was no mistake: a sheet of white plastic sat snugly over the back half of the drawer. I used a fork to pry it open.
There, in the space, was my father's old switchblade. I almost laughed. Of course! He had grumbled about having to part with his favorite antique, but it and the case that housed it had disappeared when they were decreed unsafe influences by the home inspector. I let my breath out and, almost reverently, picked the knife up. It had a black leather handle, and lines of polished chrome along the top and bottom. The button, too, was chrome. I pushed the lock down with my thumb, clicked it, and a four inch blade sprung out, glinting. I closed my fist over the knife, pushing the blade back out of sight, replaced the plastic sheet and the drawer itself, and hurried upstairs to show Tiana. The traditionally meek, obedient girl would have her wish: a weapon.