CRADLE - Chapter 1

CRADLE– Chapter 1

"Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetops,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all."

I woke with a sudden start, my heart feeling as if it had exploded from my chest. My breaths were heavy and my hands shook with untraceable fright. For a moment, I had felt as if the skies were passing above me and the sidewalk was quickly approaching. I had remembered the calling of a siren, the beautiful young Lienna, ushering me to the edge of a treetop only to guide me off a building. Her slender fingertips and her umber brown eyes called for me to make that step. She looked at me with the most graceful smile, her pale pink lips curving into a delicate expression of love. Her flowing dark hair tussled with the wind but her demeanor appeared soothingly calm.

Breathing heavily helped me to collect my thoughts and nerves. My hands instinctively gripped beneath me to clasp the soft fabric lying underneath my frame. I gulped while my senses returned to me. I recognized the ivory ceiling and the feeling of floating on water. I shook again. With a sigh of indescribable relief, I noted that I was in my room, on my bed, waking in start from another vivid dream.

I do not recall when such dreams began. Perhaps a few years ago or perhaps even before that. I had always had a vivid imagination but my sleeping world grew in realism. Lienna, Lienna, my mind repeated the name of the girl, my guardian, my beloved, my truest best friend. I had not felt that she had betrayed me even in that reality, but that I had somehow betrayed her. Guilt consumed me. Though it was a dream, I had felt that I had lost her and the feeling would not leave.

The voice of my mother drew me back into reality. She called from somewhere in the house, "Noah, Noah, it's the first day of school. You don't want to be late, do you?"
I groaned lowly and turned onto my stomach. With my face buried into my ivory pillows, I mused in disgust. It was not that I did not value education, for I did. I had simply believed that, having died in my visions, I should be blessed with at least a day of rest. As a sigh escaped from my lips, I pushed myself to sit up, and eventually stumble onto my feet.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror across from my bed. I wondered for a moment if this is how I appeared to the mistress of my dreams or if I had an entirely different appearance. Perhaps I was taller or more masculine. I stroked my young slender jaw and stepped towards the glass, somewhat disappointed that I had not matured since yesterday. My eyes remained round with youth, almond shaped like I had always remembered. The golden brown locks of my hair framed the side of my face, fairly straight and only lightly tussled from sleep. It fell just above my eyes. I was dissatisfied with my appearance. While grasping the glass almost desperately, I wished I would look more mature. Here in my reflection stood a boy when I had imagined a man.

"Noah," my mother called once again, this time with a tone of strictness in her voice. "Are you going to go to school or not?" Though she scolded me with sound, she did not with touch. She did not come upstairs, nor did I see her on my way out.

As I pushed back the gate surrounding my house, I noticed a familiar young redhead wailing, "Wake up, sleepy head! How many times do I have to call you?" He jumped upon seeing me, propped his blue bicycle up, kicked its stand, and smiled brightly. While hopping onto the seat, he chimed, "You're up!"

I smiled at him, though he was admittedly quite annoying in my eyes. He had been a friend of mine for a few years, though I cannot say that I am in any way emotionally attached to him. So, perhaps he is just an acquaintance. Despite so, he had been kind enough to wake me up every day this semester. Still, he was quite a peculiar fellow.

He went by Aoi, meaning 'blue' in some foreign Eastern language I do not quite recall. After all, nationality does not quite exist as it used to. Such a thing is trivial now. What matters is the country of your home, not your heritage. There are no real cultures, no traditions, and no religion: just a patchwork of geographical areas of mixed nationalities. When you ask someone: "What is your home?" They will tell you, most definitely, not the home of their ancestors, but the country that they reside in. An apparently Eastern man will not dub himself as Eastern if he is raised in the Western world. Still, I would say that Aoi is perhaps part Irish, maybe Canadian, mixed with in with some Polish blood, though such speculations I draw from not his name, but his appearance. He is a young fellow who stands a few inches shorter than I, with the most roundish childish, blue-grey eyes I have seen in a young man. His eyes always seem to be smiling, and although some find it charming, I see it as immature. Even his side-swept strawberry blonde hair kind of irks me as being so childishly suiting to his demeanor. His face, his stature, his voice, everything about him reminds me of a boy. Though we are both sixteen, I believe that he is at most fourteen by his appearance alone.

As the two of us rode our bicycles through the neighborhood, rushing to make it on time for first period, I admired the landscape. Of course, Aoi was talking about something but I did not quite pay attention to his chatter. Instead, my eyes stared at the passing houses, so large and full of wealth that I felt proud I lived in such a place. The roofs nearly touched the skies, and though they were houses, I felt as if they were buildings constructed for the most worthy of men. The windows of the homes seemed to me as large eyes, welcoming all to stare into the lives of those inside. I imagined their lives to be like mine: beautiful, bright, and hopeful.

Within ten minutes of high-speed bicycling, we passed through my neighborhood, District 8, and entered the downtown square. With people bustling and hurrying across the streets, we jeopardized everyone's safety by remaining on our bikes. We discussed whether we should just walk, but with time cutting short, we concluded that we would definitely be late. Of course, I would not mind, but a part of me felt obliged to support Aoi into arriving on time. After all, he was a student who truly admired education. He told me once that if he could, he would go to school even on weekends.

We eventually arrived on time but with all the hurry, both Aoi and I had our uniforms ruffled. The black cardigans had tucked themselves over the white collars of our white dress shirts underneath. With a frustrated sigh, I fixed my appearance using my hazy reflection on the classroom window but I did not bother to tell Aoi that he looked like a mess. I look at my unsatisfyingly at my appearance one last time before taking a seat at my designated spot by the window.

The day passed slowly and like usual, I had found myself staring outside at the city landscape. People were bustling right by the window and I wondered if schools had always been placed in such busy places in my parent's age. Back then, I wonder, did they have schools in neighborhoods and not smack down in the middle of a downtown district as if they were just another corporate building? Of course, from what I've heard and seen, private schools still reside in such solace. Public schools like my own, however, have been so heavily institutionalized that –

The teacher called my name. I looked up and stared at the adult with curious eyes, wondering for what reason I would be called. It was then I noticed that our regular teacher was not teaching, but a substitute. Huh, and to think I did not notice until now. I suppose that it was happens when you wonder about—

"It's your turn to read the next passage," the substitute teacher instructed. I blinked and took a moment to process his sentence. When I realized what he had asked of me, I awkwardly looked at my classmates who whispered amongst themselves. One girl took it as her responsibility to let the teacher know.

"Noah is dyslexic," she denounced boldly. "You'll give him a headache if you ask him to read, Mr. Jones. Besides, he does not really pay attention in class. He probably doesn't know where we are right now."  

"I can read," I argued quietly. My gaze shifted at the girl who looked at me curiously in disbelief. Oh, she was just being funny. I could tell by her smile. Though she rolled her eyes at me, I believed that she was only kidding. The class representative was intelligent, but I suppose not intelligent enough to make a good joke. I was in no way distracted, either. I was simply pondering about—

The teacher gave me an awkward stare. He narrowed one eye, widened the other, and one side of his lip twisted up into a nervous smile. He seemed to be waiting for me to either read or admit my handicap.

I read the passage before me,

"With the fall of the American economy about a hundred years ago, the Western world lost much of its power to the Eastern nations. The price of oil and natural resources grew to an exceptional high, and with it, the overall price of living. Disease, war, famine, greenhouse gasses, and population grew, and with the major first world nations faltering, the world began to downwardly fall. There became no distinct nation of power and governments began to fail. People took matters into their own hands, and thus came years of civil wars, breaking up countries within themselves. Those with money kept it, and those without, fought for it. Class division grew and humanity seemed to be dividing into different species: those who could afford medicine, shelter, arms, and genetic engineering and those who could not.

Some rich were then identified by their unnatural appearance. Scientists have discovered ways to turn on and off genes in particular fashions so that they may produce a child with eyes or hair of artificial nature. Though traditional aristocrats kept their children looking as natural as possible, the flamboyant rich gave their children perhaps lavender, lime, cobalt, perhaps even red eyes to set them apart from others. However, scientific advancement slowly halted to a stop as civilians refused to fund such trivial research. Genetic engineering did not advance any further.

Still, those with peculiar eyes were treated with respect, for their irises were made of metaphoric gold. So the children of the wealthy were raped and kidnapped for their genes so that perhaps even the poor could have the appearance of wealth. Unnatural eyes and hair spread throughout the classes and it was not long before it was no longer a symbol of wealth. Instead, it became a memorial of a time of corruption.

While governments continued to fail and civil wars on the rise, a new private company rose from the dust to with an apparently long history of existence. The International Agency, or the IA, promised to all nations of the world solutions to the falling economy. Civilians and government officials alike were weary of the newly appearing business whose numbers were minute.

The IA announced that, despite having changed their name over the eras, their history could be traced back to ancient times. Since then, their organization went from being a quiet group of elites to a private company. They are a small group of extremely wealthy members who are either born into the company or adopted at a young age and trained to specialize in almost any trade. Their members are highly educated and specialized in whatever they do. For that reason, the IA announced that they have unlocked nearly the full potential of genetic engineering.

What is most absurd about the history of our modern times is not the appearance of the IA but their radical solution to the dying economy. They, with their specialized soldiers and high level of technology, mass murdered nearly a third of the population. The world was outraged but the members could not be persecuted for they were all too evasive. Within a decade, the economy rebounded and order was restored among nations. Civil wars decreased and governments implemented a law whereby parents must provide good reason for why they should be allowed to have a child. The population steadily decreased, allowing the world to recover.

Thus came the reign of the International Agency. From science to art to war, the small corporation seemed to hold the most capable individuals. Their scientists were the most intelligent, their artists the most original, and their soldiers the most tactical. The IA promised their whole alliance to any country that could offer them and their members the greatest sum of money. If another nation could provide more wealth and stability then the IA would betray whatever country held them beforehand. This is the world we currently reside in: the world that is monopolized by the IA—"

That is what I imagined to read, but in reality, I probably stood there staring blankly at the text, perhaps mumbling a few words under my breath. The teacher sighed at my attempt and assured me that he would not hold it against me. Still, why did I again feel as if everyone was judging me?

"No one is judging you," a feminine voice so soft and tender whispered to me. I looked to my right, away from the window, and smiled gently at my best friend, Lienna. She sat with her legs crossed and her body twisted towards me, as if she did not care for the attention of the whole class, only mine. Her dark cinnamon eyes curved into a gentle smile as her fingertips reached out to me from under the table. She stroked my thigh playfully and chimed, "They all love you Noah, even the class representative. She was only joking. We all know you can read perfectly well and you can write too."

She tossed her long, dark hair to one shoulder and turned her perfectly molded face to face the front of the class. Her dark lashes curled up as she closed her gaze and reaffirmed, "After all, aren't you writing a story in that notebook of yours?"
My eyes drifted from her lovely figure down to the notebook I had placed against the window ledge. No, I cannot write well but I can still speak. I reached out to the book and traced its binding before gently opening it on my lap. I looked down at my sketches of a story I never told: a story of a young boy who had lost everything but yet, nothing.

Eventually, the day passed and the students were let out. I took a look at myself in the window once more and saw, still, a boy and not a man, dressed in a simple white shirt and not a uniform. My reflection looked much better in my mind as so did those of the people around me. The supply teacher appeared more competent than he probably was and the students more intelligent than they probably were. They rushed out of class as if jail had released them, some with pants to their knees, and others with hoods and caps thrown over their heads. The girls wore skirts that barely covered their bottoms and halter tops that exposed the cleavage of their chests.

Aoi and I biked back to District 8, my neighborhood. As we rode our bicycles through the town, I was disgusted by the landscape. Of course, Aoi was talking about something but I did not quite pay attention to his chatter. Instead, my eyes stared at the passing houses, so small and in need of wealth that I felt disgrace that I lived in such a place. The roofs were barely lifted from the ground, and though they were houses, I felt as if they were buildings constructed for the least worthy of men. The windows of the homes seemed to me as small eyes, hostile at all who stare into the lives of those inside. Still, I imagined their lives to be like mine: neither beautiful nor bright, but hopeful.