Dystopia: Are we living in one?

In the world of genre’d literature, we have an array of fantasy, sci-fi, and dystopian novels filling bookshelves, libraries, and bookstores. Everything from Tolkien to Orwell, Rowling to Collins, and Sanderson to King! And if books aren’t your thing, there are always streamables on Netflix, Stan, Prime Video, Disney, and the new Binge. But why is it that we are addicted to these worlds so far from our own? Why do we want to escape to Narnia, Middle Earth, or Westeros? Why do we want to immerse ourselves in the lives of Katniss Everdeen, Harry Potter, or Clary Fray? Why do are we ‘shipping characters like we are playing a non-interactive version of The Sims? Escapism isn’t new; hearing tales of brave knights or hero gods dates back to the beginning of time. Perhaps we want to know that there are forces defending us against the realities of society? Alas, we don’t have heroes defending us, fighting for our freedoms. At least not in the same capacity.

With the excepting of activists like Martin Luther King, Malala Yousafzai, and Greta Thunberg, we lack the heroes who lead rebellions against evil galactic empires, or school-aged wizards and witches against racist warlocks. It can be argued that we are not faced with diabolical villains with endless resources and legions of henchmen to give rise to groups like The Avengers or The Justice League. Elon Musk isn’t building a suit of armor to bring peace and justice to the mortal realm, Bill Gates isn’t fighting crime at night dressed as nocturnal, flying mammal (that we know of). I have yet to see any successful protest led by a charismatic vegan assembling the masses against the corrupt leaders of the free world.

Let’s be clear, I am not ignoring activism here. With phrases like “I have a dream” or “How dare you!” we have seen charismatic figures sparking movements that amend unjust laws. Yet, there are no movements since the age of mass global revolutions that have caused such upheaval that governments have toppled, the rich lose their heads, and the working class barricade themselves against oppressive mounted police in the goldmines. No, now there is the illusion that the democratic system has ‘cured’ all injustices in the world, or at the very least, given everyone a voice in which they believe they can make such changes. In reality, we have just created a system whereby we elect either of two atrocious parties whose hate for each other is only surpassed by their ineptitude to deliver what is actually needed for the citizens of their respected nations. It’s like we live in an episode of the Simpsons, ‘Treehouse of Horror’. Whether we elect Kang or Kodos, we still end up in economic chains which distract us with overwhelming poverty and oppression living in an dystopia believing we have achieved the elusive ‘Utopia’ of Sir Thomas More.

Utopia essentially means “No where”. It’s an unobtainable pipe-dream sold to us by populists politicians speaking ‘truths’ that are anything but. In truth (ironically), we have never lived in a utopia, despite the nostalgic, shared false memory told to us by our parents and grandparents completely oblivious to the civil rights crimes committed against minorities brushed off with a simple “it was a different time”. As one group lives in a ‘utopia’, we seemingly always ignore the plight of those subjected to the realities of dystopia. Even Jesus explained, ‘we will always have the poor’ as He welcomed expensive perfumes to be washed over Him. But as I misquote the text with little regard to the actual context of this message, so to are we misreading our own privileges. We seem to think that the poor are their of their own accord. That their laziness is an inherent trait of people based on their ethnicity, will-power, religion, or whatever other excuse we tell ourselves to justify the cutting of their welfare payments. That is until those in places of privilege are finally facing the muzzle of economic collapse whereby welfare payments are the difference between keeping your house and car, and renting in a one-bedroom townhouse close to public transport because you can’t afford your repayments.

The pandemic hit the world like it was Surtur returning to invoke Ragnarok upon Asgard. Covid-19 took to the global economy like Hela shattering Mjolnir. Until that moment, the world thought Mjolnir, much like capitalism, was indestructible and was the solution to every problem thrown at our heroes. But unlike Thor’s resolve to build a new weapon, Stormbreaker, and even use it in tandem with Mjonir, governments around the world have decided that the best way to combat this new threat to the global bank is to completely ignore how fragile the existing system is. They stand in the furnace of a dying star, believing their god-like abilities will be enough to protect them against the radiation expelled. Capitalism is built on a system where the workers are also the consumer. Capital grows because the value of the product is determined by a unique balance between supply and demand. this balance completely relying on the needs, affordability, and income of the worker-consumers who keeps the machine moving and growing. But the system is fragile; GFC, depressions, recessions, inflation, all these and more bring the system down as quickly as a Jenga tower as pieces of itself are removed from the bottom and placed on top to ‘grow’ the tower higher and higher. But why are we not producing more bricks to replace those at the bottom? Why not, as Marvel’s Thor knew to do, create a new weapon to continue the fight against the pandemic? Why don’t we have a Stormbreaker?

It’s purposeful that I use the Thor’s Stormbreaker as a metaphor here. As we approach the greatest threats of our generation; climate change, growing financial inequality, and a global pandemic, we find ourselves at the edge of the water watching a storm building, ready to tear down all that we have built. Meanwhile, our leaders choose to continue business as usual, believing that ignoring the threat will be all that is needed to protect ourselves from all that is to come. Some may argue that Stormbreaker could be as simple as democratic socialism to double our efforts against growing inequalities. Like Thor dual-wielding Mjolnir and Stormbreaker against Thanos (The Space Hitler who thought genocide was the ultimate answer). But Thor wasn’t alone in Endgame, immediately in combat with the arch-villain, Ironman and Captain America delivered a fury of powerful blows. Meanwhile, Captain Marvel, the Scarlet Witch, Groot, Black Panther, etc etc etc, all fought against the powerful alien army that threatened to bring space Hitler’s dream to fruition. The problem with space Nazis (or Nazis in general) is that they don’t know they are villains. Like Hitler, Thanos was the hero of his story, as was another infamous space Nazi who arguably held the spot as the greatest of all villains, or all time! And like Thanos, believed that he too was creating a better, safer, and stronger galaxy.

As a mature Anakin Skywalker rushed in to find the Jedi Master, Mace Windu, standing angrily over a frail and injured Chancellor Palapatine, he struggled with the internal dilemma of whether to help Windu; the figure of authority who always seemed to keep Anakin at arms length, or his mentor and friend, Palpatine; the stern leader who had a wealth of undelivered promises waiting to resolve every problem facing the Galactic republic. As onlookers, we had the full story, pieced together by five previous films that revealed both his past and future in incredible detail. For Anakin, he was the hero, the Chosen One that was meant to save the everyone. He had a moral obligation to save those who were oppressed and defeated. For years, he had fought against an aggressive enemy wanting to rip apart the fabric of stability that was the Republic. Born of ideals and dreams, he became the one man he believed the galaxy needed protect itself from, well, itself. If this complex sounds familiar, its because it is. Every leader could arguably be a victim of this complex. Anyone who has the audacious ambition to run for office, must have this desire that they are the voice that can make change to help save the world. We see this in leaders like Trump who showboats to cover dire mistakes, to Obama whose charisma and decorum created a facade that shielded us from the horrors of middle-eastern conflict. We watch on and Scott Morrison takes holidays in the middle of national disasters, and Kevin Rudd plays handball in the school yard in lieu of kissing babies. These leaders may not be on the same level as space Nazis believing that genocide is some kind of cure-all, however each one of them believed they were, in varying capacities, to be chosen ones destined to right the wrongs and save the world against the others.

This complex, I believe, is what has created the modern dystopia. We watch our youth tear each other apart for our entertainment, we keep them locked away in schools despite the growing dangers, we channel them into pre-destined groups in which they must remain in for the rest of their lives. We do this, ignorant of the change happening beneath our very noses. The 21st century has shown us that jobs are harder to come by, harder to hold onto, harder to find permanent positions, and pay less than they did only a few decades ago. And then there are jobs that are not considered ‘future proof’ whereby machines and robots threaten to make the worker obsolete. But a world without workers means a world without consumers. A world without consumers means capitalism is going to be left giving its final throws. The Jenga blocks at the bottom have all but run out. But there is no Original Trilogy to foresee the fall into darkness, and there is no time machine to go back and undo our greatest mistakes. Our society is faced with the ultimate trolley-problem: do we save the fragile old man as he is lying defeated, barely alive? Or do standby the old monk who holds the lightsaber at the neck of capitalism? If we save capitalism, how many times can we rehash this franchise? And what of the old, inexperienced leader? Windu could lead the Jedi in ways of the Jedi, but is this theory transferable? Does socialism, with its terrible track record and furiously defamed economic revolutionary ideals have a chance to stand up next to the relative strength of neo-liberal economics? Propaganda destroyed the Jedi before they even had a chance to fight back. Socialism had its chance, but not democratic socialism. Some nations might have used it successfully but it is unknown whether the model can be readily rolled out to other nations.

There is this one-size fits all approach that seems to be the toil of economics. When the Berlin Wall fell, followed shortly thereafter by the collapse of the Soviet Union, Capitalism was declared the winner of the Cold War. Mao Zedong and Pol Pots distorted Marxism like force lighting ruined Palpatine’s face. Socialism was taken like a glove that could adapt to the user like it was Ironman’s power gauntlet. The function of the glove was fine, it achieved what it was designed to do, but it was the user that suffered the effects of the fallout. The Hulk nearly died and Tony Stark actually did (spoiler alert! (better late than never)). These despot rulers who utilized socialism as an effective tool to mold fascist states have been the target for pro-capitalists worldwide. Themes of liberty (as long as you’re not a liberal) ring true to defend the right to keep what you earn even if it was at the expense of others lives. Unlimited capital growth appealed to those who would never be able to reach even the low hanging fruit. Trickle-down economics encouraged us to reduce our own income in the hopes that it was eventually pay off as company’s CEOs would hopefully and benevolently decide that raising the minimum wages was far more appealing than purchasing their forth Caribbean yacht. But now something remarkable has happened.

Right now, we are watching in real time as the capitalist dystopia that is the United States of America has started down the path of fascism. Federal agents have been called in to arrest citizens for protesting against injustices. READ THAT AGAIN: Federal agents are arresting citizens who protest injustices. There is no partisan argument here. Whether or not one believes in the cause, no government in the free world should be arresting its own citizens for protesting. Some may try and say they are causing civil unrest, rioting and looting, and that is left to a matter of interpretation for sure. But the reason these people are being arrested is not for their crimes they are committing, but for the political justification that law and order should be preserved above the right to protest. The very reason why Americans are reluctant to relinquish their right to arms is because they truly believe that they have the right to march against the state if their liberties are encroached upon. In other words, if the government becomes a fascist state. The current administration believe they are standing up for the very people they are oppressing. The President will march his white soldiers against black protesters while declaring that he has done more for black people than any other president (except maybe Lincoln). This same government has continually ignored a rampart disease killing thousands upon thousands of its citizens in favor of continuing to enforce the dream of a failed economic growth. The United States Government is purposely oppressing its minorities while supporting the hegemonic, high SES classes. If you think you’ve seen this before, it’s because you have.

Hitler was no fan of capitalism. Much less a fan of the Jewish people he perceived to be the main benefactors of the system. This is historical fact, evident in the millions he and his Nazi regime killed to create a ‘better’ world. He created a system that enforced socialism for the privileged and slavery and death for everyone else. At the risk of Ad Hilterum, this same concept has serviced today. Much like the Jet Engine, we somehow appropriated this vicious classism in our western world. Now, we see socialism for the rich and harsh capitalism for the poor. If this is a hard pill to swallow, think of all the tax cuts favoring the rich, the subsidies and donations and all other fancy names for government support of rich multinationals parading billion-dollar quarterly profit margins. And while you try and justify this, think of how many times you’ve heard (or said) condemning government payments for indigenous populations, or immigrants and refugees. For some bizarre reason, we are far more complacent in allowing people to starve and suffer than we are to watching stock markets crash. There is a taboo in having to rely of help but never a taboo in ‘downsizing’ a department of workers. In Japan, there exists a culture where staff who have dedicated most of their lives to the company are encouraged to quite so the company can survive. The benefit of the many outweighing the benefit of the few – or of the individual. Yet this is never asked of the individuals at the top.

We all are struggling right now. As we watch companies fold, welfare lines increase, hospitals filling up, natural disasters increasing, we stand buy and rely of our respective governments to provide the helping hand, the spark of live into our economy so that we may continue living in our dystopia. Whether we fight against space Nazis, dark wizards, despots, or fascists, we merely watch on as those less fortunate slowly disappear off-page or off-screen while we cheer of protagonists at they struggle between moral dilemmas of whether they should take a pay cut or cut the pay of their workers. Meanwhile, protesters are arrested, activists are ridiculed, and deaths become collateral. As we slowly slip into fascism believing we are heading for liberty, let this act as a bold reminder: there is no chosen one, you are not in a utopia, and your privilege has blinded you. No one is going to lead you into a revolt against the oppressors. In fact, the oppressors are probably your heroes. If there is a glimmer of hope, it’s neither in reality or fiction. While we try and construct our own Stormbreaker, and rise above our messiah-complex, there is always one certainty above death and taxes – The poor will always be with us, but we will only have our heroes for a short while.

My apologies…

Why do we apologise? To admit our guilt and accept the punishment?

Perhaps, one alternative to apologising all the time is to thank them.

Instead of: “Sorry I’m late.”

Say: “Thanks for waiting.”

This could change your life.

More importantly, what if we rethink how apologies work?

What if we stop thinking that apologies are always about telling others we are wrong for doing but that we are wrong for not understanding?

“I am sorry that my actions have been seen to upset or offend you. Tell me how I can help make this better (for you, me, everyone)”

And the last part, my friends, is key!

An apology means nothing if we don’t follow through with a willingness to move forward and learn, then ‘sorry’ is just another word.

I’m sorry but… we cannot apologise and then retract our apologies. An apology is an act to repair or rebuild a misunderstanding or for amelioration.

“I’m sorry, but you made me mad”

This phrase does not adhere to the concept of a true apology.

Thank you for reading!

Quick thoughts on future economics

But does trickle-down economics really work?

For this to work, we must understand that trickle-down economics relies on such favourable economical conditions that businesses are encouraged to increase wages and benefits for staff. The truth of it, is that profits never were intended to wages but to shares instead. Investors. There is nothing, obviously, from stopping employees from investing their money in businesses. And many do.

I recall a time when, instead of bonuses, a business awarded shares to their staff. As the business became more successful, the staff reaped the rewards. It was a wonderful relationship. Until another company offered to buy the shares from the employees high above value. Who would say no? Needless to say, the company was bought out and closed down in no time. Captialist conquest at its finest.

Before I make my next point, we must understand the twin peaks of economic disaster. Firstly, debt. For those savvy on the workings of capital growth, you would understand this concept of debt is a powerful tool for growth. In a nutshell, loan money, money returns a profit. Only in economic mathematics, however, can the equity of the loaned money still count towards a company’s overall capital worth. I.e. loan $1m and still technically have the money despite not physically holding it anymore. But that says nothing for the poor chap that borrowed the money.

The second mountain is stagnent money. This is money that sits in coffers and isn’t invested. When times are tough, people hide money away. Especially those who don’t trust banks. And that’s fine for a rainy day. But when enough people do this, money doesn’t circulate. What would big business do if people stop spending? Perhaps loan them money to encourage them to spend again? Put prices up enough that saving becomes harder, perhaps?

And what’s with credit? Once, we would walk into the bank and pitch a business idea, show our worth, and perhaps get a small loan to start our dreams. Buying a house? Show them our income – our worth. Now? We apply online, pre-approved, microloans, high interest. Next thing you know, you don’t have any saving, your expenditure is greater than your income, and owning a house is but a dream reserved for Boomers and businessmen. So what do we do? Find solace in more small debt to fill our financial depression with trinkets and avocado toast.

The Boomers before us though, they lived in hard times too. They worked hard to pay off their five-digit home loans. They didn’t have the temptations of luxurious cars, iPhones, or computers. There wasn’t a cafe on every corner, and pubs weren’t filled with ala carte restaurants and craft beer. The economy grew strong since their generation but so did inflation. Debt cornered us and instead of fighting for us, they blamed us. Told us to stop spending and start saving. Despite income stagnation and hyperinflation, their argument was incapable, they thought.

“Once more unto the breach”, they tell us. Like soldiers going over the top, they believed the tried and true method of bayonets and cavalry charges was enough to overwhelm an enemy with tanks, planes, machine guns. We can’t save money anymore. Tax breaks won’t encourage us to spend and ‘bolster the economy’. They refuse to raise our pay but instead dangle trinkets in front of us – cafes, tax breaks, and microloans. Short term political promises are nothing less than tactics deployed by yesterdays generals against an enemy armed with credit cards and Zip Pay.

So, if investments got us this far, why do we pretend that mindless spending will get us further?

I say invest in schools, hospitals, infrastructure, innovation, and technology and science. Don’t just throw money at the problem and hope it goes away…

The Witch

The Witch

Her own parents discovered her. She was covered in long gashes and bruises, and her neck; an unnatural contortion. My wife and I offered our unwelcomed condolences though returned home promptly.
‘A witch!’ her father declared.
Mr Moreau had a heavy hold on the small town. Now that it is his own daughter who is discovered dead, there needn’t be merit behind his accusations. They’d pulled a mere child, suffering from an affliction of the mind, from her home. Despite her condition, she had never shown any violence.
‘Burn her!’ demanded the town.
The Witch accused had no trial – her guilt was her sickness. The façade of a Witch, it was argued. They held the execution at dusk, on a pyre out the front of church. Her parents’ protests were lost beneath the voice of Father Armand and his congregation while he shouted selections from Leviticus and Exodus at the poor child.

Soon thereafter, there was another murder. Undoubtedly proving the innocence of the first girl. The next victim, whom my wife had come to know, had started spending some time with the traveller boy from the outskirts of town. My wife failed to warn her of the dangers of consorting with such folk. But her insinuations were to be ignored. The boy’s mother was taken and the pyre was once again ablaze with the town’s fervour.
The murders had ceased after the travelers execution and the town returned to normalcy. It was almost as it was when we first arrived. What had inspired us to stay in the first place.

Father Armand was found draped over the altar. His insides spread across the chancel as if ravaged by some wild beast. The next night, they’d found a headless Mr Moreau. His head ne’er found. The renewal of the murders gave rise to a new horror. At night, groups of brave men took to the streets. They pounded on windows and banged on doors. They came to our home at least once a night. Trudging about with dirty boots, opening cupboards, searching underneath bits and things, in and under our beds, and even checking for loose floorboards. Heaven knows what kind of evidence they were trying to find. Only the midnight tolls from the church would welcome a reprieve, summoning the men back to their homes.

I found my wife hunched over a bucket one morning. These sleepless nights were hard on us both.
‘My dear! Tell me not that the plague has finally found this town.’
‘I am fine, Husband’ she smiled. ‘Indeed it is good news. I am with child.’
Elated though fearful, we decided it was once again time to leave. We would head south where my wife’s cousin could house us until we could get back on our feet. We could try again.

The morning came and I stayed to pack while she went out to fetch some bread for the journey. I should have gone with her but she insisted she would be safe. The bakery was not far. We planned our rendezvous in the square before we would leave.

‘Witch!’
The square was filling with people. They had encircled the dead woman lying at the centre. My wife was restrained by several men as if they believed her to be some animal. I feared the worse; she would be blamed now for Mrs Moreau’s death. Then from the crowd, the barrage began:
‘She killed her!’
‘They were planning to leave this morning – that’s what the fight was about.’
‘This all started when she arrived in this town!’
‘She is an agent of the devil!’
‘She must be the Witch!’

I felt powerless. The crowd flooded in past me, carrying my wife away. They tied her to the middle of the pyre. The curate stood watch, Bible in his hand. I cried and screamed, pushed and pulled but I could not get to her.
‘Please,’ I cried, ‘She is with my child.’
But they had finally caught their Witch red-handed. A combination of her pregnancy and fear caused her to regorge, confirming their beliefs. I could do nothing. I was powerless to stop them. Powerless to save her.

It was late when I returned after burying my wife. I found our cart ransacked. Everything was gone: furniture, clothes, even the pony I’d bought was let loose. There was nothing left. I remained immune to the blessings of a peaceful night’s sleep which befell the town. Hindered by my tears, my pain, I was losing control of myself. I was losing myself. Inside their homes, a stillness, a silence. Most believed the threat was over, yet still a few of those brave men paraded the streets just to be sure. They paid no mind to the lowly widower with mud on his boots.

My search for solace took me to the church. That audacious pyre stood guard outside, ignorant of the embers fading at its roots. I walked towards Christ, ever-absent, hidden away in the sanctuary. How could He have allowed such atrocities? My knees bent at the altar. I began to pray for the strength I’d lost. I was interrupted when the church welcomed another. Since the death of Father Armand, the curate took the responsibility of tolling the midnight bells, thus calling the last remnants of the mob back to their homes. I don’t know if he either ignored me or just didn’t notice me. Either way, his duty took his focus. The light from his lantern wavered across the floor as he approached the tower. He then positioned it to see the dangling ropes. Dong. Then I noticed it. Dong. Even in the dimness, the familiarity of his new, ill-fitting shirt. Dong. Could this man of God have been amongst those who raided my cart? Dong. I approached the curate, hoping I was mistaken. Dong. I moved closer, each step drowned out by the bells. Dong. But each step brought me closer to the truth. Dong. I was so close I could smell traces of myself emanating from my old shirt. Dong. Each ring took from my fleeting sanity. Dong. Then, the thought crossed my mind before I let myself go. Dong. Will they ever find their Witch? Dong. Will they finally catch me? Dong

Cassiopeia

I am led into a small room with plain, white walls and a dim, warm light. I am sat on the half-egg-shaped chair in the middle by the two burly escorts. The chair restricts a full view of the room. There is only a small steel chair in front of me, about three feet away. I look down at my sterile white outfit. It itches a bit. A loud thud. The two men are gone. The door opens again. A pair of important sounding footsteps enter. He appears suddenly, a short man, and sits on the vacant chair. His shoes are shiny. They must have taken days to polish. He has black pants and a white shirt and a black tie. His short blond hair is combed to one side and he is wearing a pair of thin eyeglasses. In his right hand, a notepad. A4 size. He opens it. He is missing the tip of his middle finger on his left hand. He readjusts his grip of the pencil he pulls from his shirt pocket. His remaining nails are chewed to the nub. He hasn’t looked up yet.

“Date of birth?” his voice is short and cold.

“March 13th, 2044.”

“Age?”

“Sixteen.”

“Name?”

“Cassiopeia Annealer.”

“Case number”

“Pardon?”

I see his green eyes, “What number did they tell you outside?”

“I don’t… I think… six-sixteen.”

He continues, “Gender?”

“Gender?”

“Male, Female, or fluid?”

“Ah, I’m a girl.”

Female?”

“Female.”

“Percentage?”

“I am at eighty-three percent feminine spectrum.”

“Sex at birth?”

“Girl. Female.”

“Sexual orientation?”

“Hetrosexual.”

“Mother?”

“Susan Annealer.”

“Father?”

“Marcus Annealer”

“Siblings?”

“One.”

“Name?”

“Danny…Daniel Annealer.”

“Date of birth?”

“April 1st, 2042”

“Gender?”

“Male.”

“Date of death?”

“April 1st, 2059.”

“Cause of death?”

“Do I have to answer that question?”

Those damn green eyes. “In order for me to make an effective evaluation on your recovery, I need you to answer every question. Cause of death?”

“Asphyxiation.”

“Complete answers.”

“I can’t.”

“You need to answer the question, or I will be forced to reconsider your application to return home.”

I try to hold it in. My eyes are cloudy, “Suicide! But it was an accident!”

The man is still. I am crying.

“That will be all.”

He closes his notepad and stands up. His important footsteps end with the sound of the door shutting.

                                                                        ***

“This isn’t right. It’s not right…”

“It’s never perfect.”

“I don’t know if I can accept it.”

Her. She is a human being, she…she is real, Marcus. Isn’t she, Doctor?”

Half-moon reading glasses sit at the end of his hooked nose. He too, is dressed in the white shirt with the black pants and black tie. Company standard. Bright lights reflect off his head. His fingernails are otherwise immaculate

“We are the very best in asexual reproduction. Memories usually don’t follow all too well. In some cases, it’s for the best.”

“But what if she remembers something?

“There is always a chance. The hypnosis usually is ninety percent effective.”

“So, there is a chance she could find out the truth?”

“But of course, on-going psychiatric care is included in the price. Lifetime care.”

Susan grabs for a tissue, “It’s too late now, isn’t it?”

The doctor smiled. Black pupils; eternal darkness. They draw in the couple. “We do offer that, if you refuse to accept the purchase, the product is sent into foster care pending adoption.”

Product? That’s our son!”

Marcus murmers, “Daughter, Dear. We have a daughter now.”

The doctor pulls out two forms. Almost identical in every way including places to sign at the bottom. Setting them apart: the subject. The one on the left, an acceptance form whereby the company, Huang-Di Biogenetics Corp., forgoes all legal ownership of the child. The right: the company retains legal guardianship and the parents are released from any further legal or financial responsibility or obligation.

“I think we should sign, Dear. We paid all this money. I can’t bear to lose another child.”

Marcus reads the contracts.

                                                                        ***

“Dan! Danny? Dinner is ready?”

Susan pours the pot of pasta into the colander in the sink.

“Marcus! Can you go upstairs and get your son?”

Marcus pulls himself off the couch. Upstairs, he bangs on the door.

“Open the door, Boy. Your mother is calling.”

The music is loud through the door. Danny doesn’t respond. Marcus tries the door.

“Danny. So help me, I will kick this door down.”

 No response.

“Marcus, Hurry up. It’s getting cold!”

Marcus watches the doorknob, expecting it to turn.

                                                                        ***

It’s just as I remember it. Mum and Dad follow in behind me, arm in arm. Mum always wore pretty dressess. I always envied them. Dad never put in the same effort.

“We didn’t change a thing. It’s just how it was when you…”

“How long has it been? It all looks familiar, but I feel like I’ve never been here.”

Mum and Dad’s smiles dissapear.

Mum is first, “Go upstairs. See your room. It’s exactly the same. The drumkit, the PS4, your clothes are…”

I acend, Mum stops. I head straight for my room and stare at the doorknob. I turn it.

Inside, mum is right. My bed is unmade; I never make my bed, the Pearl kit; still tuned, my vintage Lego pirate ship; free from dust, everything is… perfect.

“We prepared your room for your arrival. Fresh sheets but they’re as you like them; messy.” Mum is sweet.

“Where was I? Why can’t I remember anything?”

“Your brother’s death hit you pretty hard, Cas. I don’t know how you got on the drugs, but it’s over now. The doctors said you’re all fine. You can start over. Start back at your old school.”

“I need some time alone.”

“Of course, Da-Dear. Anything you need.”

The door shuts, and I am alone. I pick up a pair of sticks, but I can’t bring myself to play. Zildjian and Pearl stare at me, longing for a jam. I inspect my desk. My stuff is still the same. Dad enjoyed building the Lego sets with me when I was a kid. One of the better memories I have.

“Dinner’s Ready!”

Dad will be up soon. I go to the closet. It isn’t at all as I remember. All my clothes are different. New.

“Your mother is calling.” I jumped. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to scare you. Dinner is ready. Your favourite; pasta.

“Dad. Where are all my clothes?”

“We donated a lot to charity after… We just didn’t want you to keep the ones your brother got you. We felt that it wasn’t best for you.”

“But they were my clothes. I don’t care that Daniel bought them, they were mine.”

“You have new clothes now. What’s the issue?”

“The issue is that they were my clothes. He bought them for my birthday. You had no right to take my things.”

Dad steps closer to me, “We are your parents. We discussed it with the doctors and they all agreed. We gave you a whole new wardrobe. We shopped at Forever New, Iconic – online, of course, but we got everything for you. To help with the change.”

“I don’t think I’m hungry. I think I’ll go straight to bed.”

Dad grabs my arm. It hurts. Tears form in my eyes. His face changes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “Your mother worked very hard to cook your favourite. I think you should really make an effort to understand how hard we worked to bring you back. If only you knew how much we gave up. How much this all cost.”

Dad leaves. I shut the door.

                                                                        ***

Marcus kicks the door in. Daniel jumps.

“Dad! You scared me.”

“What the hell is going on in here? What are you wearing? Where did you get that?”

“I bought it.”

“A dress? Why are you wearing a dress? You’re a boy! Act like one. Get changed and come down stairs and eat with the family. Your mother is waiting.”

“Dad, I took a test. One of those GenderMe tests. I may look like a boy, but it says that I am eighty-three percent feminine. The average girl is like above seventy-five percent.

Marcus turns to leave, “Rubbish! Get rid of those clothes. It’s embarrassing.”

“No.”

“What?”

“…No.”

“No what?”

“These are my clothes. I bought them, and I’m keeping them.”

“Them?”

Marcus turns back and opens the closet. Behind hanging shirts and jeans, he finds bags of clothes with Forever New written across them. He begins emptying the bags.

“What are you doing? I paid a lot of money for those clothes.”

Marcus ignores him. Daniel grabs at his dad. Marcus turns and pushes Daniel to the ground. He grabs an empty bag and is moving toward Daniel.

“You’re not my son.”

                                                                        ***

“So, there is no way to guarantee a son?”

“No, unfortunately. We are bound by international ethics law. It is a fifty-fifty chance. Not including intersex. Just like in nature. Gender spectrum, as you may be aware, is calculated as a percentage. There is a high chance the gender will remain the same as the sample, your son.’

Marcus stands up to leave.

“Wait,” Susan grabs his arm. It is unusually tight. It hurts. “Don’t take this away from me as well.”

Marcus sits back down. He picks up the pen.