Life or Death

The fog machine blows directly into my face, choking the last bit of oxygen out of my lungs. The roar of the crowd blends with the whirring fan as I step through a curtain of mist, taking my first breath of non-recycled air in over a week. It isn’t as sweet as I remember. There aren’t any real trees in the City, at least none that I’ve seen through the tiny window in the cell where I was kept, but at this point, anything is better than the chemicals they pump into their buildings.

By ‘they’, I mean the Producers. They run the City like a socialist republic, forcing their citizens to ‘share the wealth’ in exchange for ‘justice’ and ‘protection’. They hold elections every six years unless there is a death, in which case an emergency election is held. I only know all of this because they have force-fed their propaganda down my throat ever since I was abducted.

The crowd chants my name, but I ignore them, keeping my head down. I don’t want to grant them the gift that is my face when they could already see too much of my body. So I stare at the red carpet, an old tradition from a bygone era when ‘celebrities walked upon a bed of red velvet as they received the glories of their adoring fans’, or whatever they’ve brainwashed me to believe. Though I have to admit, the velvet is quite soft. When my stylist, Delia (a horrid City name) was prepping me for tonight’s Entertainment, she told me to enjoy myself and ‘play to the crowd’.

I can’t imagine anyone enjoying the torture that comes with being an Entertainer.

After I pretended to adore the City doctrine (self-preservation and nothing more) I had to watch what the people of the City refer to as ‘Entertainment’. A pitiful excuse for it if I do say so myself.

“In days of old,” the announcer says at the beginning of each night’s programming in her nasally voice, “we watched our beloved celebrities become idols, symbols, people we could look up to. But the Cataclysm changed that. We learned through much tribulation that fame is not what sustains us. However, after many years we recovered and built our great city, Beannacht.” I have to gag each time I hear the word butchered in the mouth of the announcer. It sickens me to hear the language of my people used in such a profane way. Even though non-English languages had died out before the Cataclysm, the Producers have chosen the Celtic word meaning ‘blessing’ to represent their city because they believe their survival is a blessing from God. Nary a more foolish sentiment has been ever been proclaimed.

“In our recovery,” the announcer continues, “we discovered that although it is not necessary for survival, entertainment is necessary for our sanity. Thus, Entertainers were born.” More like stolen.

No person within the walls of the City would deign to become an Entertainer. Only people from the Outside (like myself) are chosen to become the Producer’s pets. It wasn’t always this way. In the early days of the Entertainment Era people would volunteer to perform skits or play music or dance, but over the last century it has devolved into a reality game show where contestants are selected (or in my case, abducted) and required to perform for the audience in a stadium that holds thousands of City Dwellers. The same gimmicks from before were used, music or dance or playacting, until eventually the Producers realized what the people cared about most: sex.

Now, Entertainers (like myself) are basically ‘porn stars’, a term I learned from my older sister years ago when she was in her ancient history phase. Each Entertainer is sent into the stadium and must strut down the carpet in whatever garish outfit their stylist designs to the center where a place we Outsiders call ‘The Room’ awaits. It’s basically a glass box on a pedestal with a mattress on the floor. Crude, if you ask me, but the City Dwellers eat it up.

As I walk the red carpet, hands shackled together, I try not to glance at the hungry faces seated on either side of me. This is the first time in over a month that the City has had ‘Rookies’, aka new Entertainers. I’m not even surprised when one lady with pink hair and matching eyeballs reaches out to me with hot pink talons.

About halfway down the aisle, I peek at the screens around the edges of the stadium, each one alternating between images of me and my new co-star. Something in the waves of his blue hair catches me off guard. It isn’t rare for Entertainers to be changed after their abduction to become more appealing to the crowds, but this guy’s blue curls perfectly match his eyes in a way that makes me look twice.

I’m suddenly grateful for my naturally red hair. The stylist had straightened my teeth, removed a few freckles, tweezed my eyebrows, and added drops to my eyes to make them swirl with color. It had been disorienting at first because the colors got in the way, but now they mostly remained inside the iris. The only thing she didn’t touch was my hair, which no doubt would have been made red if it wasn’t already.

As I near the steps to the Room I begin listening to the crowd. Their chanting has become unintelligible as they rise to their feet, but that doesn’t stop them from chanting even louder. The way the stadium curves up from the stage makes the din echo like a cave. Guards in black suits line the outside of the Room, wielding their trademark electric batons that could just as easily kill as stun. They are the reason I haven’t turned around and run. I guess I’m afraid of dying.

Before I realize it, I’m at the steps. Eight, I count in my head. One; I think of my sister. Two; I remember my father. Three; my mother. Four; our house. Five; the tears spilling over my cheeks. Six; what’s this guy’s name? Seven; maybe death would be better. Eight.

The glass wall of the room slides closed behind be before I can even gasp. But I’m not gasping out of fear this time. It was something no one could have prepared me for. The inside of the Room, each square inch of wall and ceiling, was covered in mirrors.

They can see me, but I can’t see them. It’s a small comfort, but certainly better than nothing. I can forget about them. Only, I can’t. Their cheers penetrate the walls, reminding me of Delia’s instructions: “If the crowd doesn’t like you, you’ll be dead before you ever leave the box.”

It’s sadistic. Perverse. Barbaric. I run through all the words I can think of to describe the situation, a few of which I know my mother would not approve.

The chains around my wrists fall off as the doors shut, clanging against the metal floor. I glance down at myself, disgusted by my abhorrent outfit. A simple, translucent, sleeveless, white gown that buttons at the collar, at my chest, and just below my stomach. The traditional garment of ‘First Meeting’, where new Entertainers see each other for the first time. The traditional garment marking the rest of my life.

As far as co-stars go, the blue haired young man standing opposite me isn’t the worst I could imagine. He looks to be about my age and rather fit. Thanks to the simple loincloth that is the tradition for men to wear at First Meetings, I can see he is covered in thick, corded muscle, but not the kind that’s meant to show off. He has obviously done a lot of manual labor, which is unsurprising because so have I. So has everyone who ever lived in the Outside because there is no other way to live.

In the past, the Producers had paired up Entertainers as old as seventy and as young as fifteen, fat, thin, short, tall, and everyone in between. At least I’m not paired with a female. Not that there’s anything wrong with females, I am one myself, but since I’m forced into this disgusting situation, I’d personally rather have a male co-star. I wonder if the Producers know that.

I’m not sure how long we stood still before we notice the crowd has quieted. Are they waiting with bated breath, or (more likely) are they not entertained? I still can’t decide if this is better or worse than death, but my new co-star seems even more nervous now that there’s silence. Perhaps he’s afraid of death. Could I really be so selfish as to make this man die because of my own opinions?

I’m about to say yes, but then he opens his mouth. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I say back, my voice not as steady as I hoped. I don’t remember Entertainers talking, not that I paid much attention when they were brainwashing me, but still I seem to recall most Entertainers violently ripping each other’s clothes off as soon as the doors shut.

“My name’s Rolph,” he says. I’m not sure why he said it. Perhaps he knew I was going to let us die and he hoped that by becoming personally acquainted I would be more inclined to Entertain instead. Well, he was right.

“Pandorea,” I say. The name my mother insisted I have after Jessica, my sister, placed a white Pandorea flower in my hand the moment I was born. I will forever be grateful my sister did not pick the Carpobrotus blossom instead.

It seems strange to exchange personal information at a time like this. Surely the crowd has become bored already and we’re going to die at any moment. That wouldn’t be so bad if Rolph didn’t look like a lost puppy.

So, in order to save Rolph’s life, I step forward. My father always says I am a sucker for the helpless. I suppose he’s right, because there is no way I can let Rolph die for my selfishness. Not now that we’re acquainted. I suppose Rolph feels the same way because he matches my steps until we both stand face to face, though really it is my face to his neck.

Rolph gingerly lifts his hand to my head and brushes a stray hair out of my eyes. Not at all what I was expecting. His soft fingertips, free of callouses (no doubt the work of his stylist because Rolph looks like he could throw me over his shoulder and jog half a mile without breaking a sweat, not the look of a man with soft hands), run over my cheekbone and down my neck, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. Unfortunately for Rolph, this s not my area of expertise.

“We don’t have to do this,” he whispers. His fingers hover above the neck of my gown, hesitant to touch my skin again.

“There’s only one alternative,” I whisper back. It’s possible I had read his emotions wrong, and he would rather die like me, or he’s just being polite. I take his glance away as a sign he’s afraid of both options.

Could the audience really be entertained by this? They must be, otherwise we’d be dead. I try to imagine myself among the crowd and I ask myself if I’m entertained. I’m not. But I wasn’t raised in the City.

Taking a shuddering breath, Rolph leans closer to my face, his minty breath tickling my lips and distracting me from the audience. Now that they are quiet, it’s easier to imagine they don’t exist. His fingers find their way to the first button of my gown and slowly, gently pop it open. Well, I suppose this means he wants to live. And, if I'm being honest, so do I.