Between Two Worlds

I gaze upon the entity before me, a Ghemin as they are known. Towering above like a metallic forest, brandishing firearms that rival the height of a man. At this moment, this Ghemin is flailing its weapon at me, uttering incomprehensible sounds. "What do you mean? Your words are lost on me!"

"I instructed you to proceed to the Genetix Lab; it's time for you to be feasted upon," the being articulates in English now.

"What? Impossible, it isn't even Lottery Day!" I protest as it nudges me onward with its massive limb.

"Indeed, it is that day, and fate has selected you for demise! Accept your token," it declares, presenting me with a diminutive square of paper.

I extract the white sheet, carefully unfolding it to reveal an ominous, ebony letter X smeared across. "This can't be right! This belongs to Arnold, just there! Mine was unmarked! Please! This is a dreadful error!"

"Irrelevant. You've been selected, Rayanna. Your end has come!" With that, the entity emits a bone-chilling cackle, seizing my left leg. Ascending higher and higher, far above the tallest tree, my head pounds as blood surges to it, the earth beneath me a blur. Peering down, I'm suspended in the air, far above the creature's crown. It flashes a gaping maw filled with sharp teeth and suddenly releases my leg. The jaws expand as I plummet towards them.

◆◆◆

I am roused from sleep by the sound of persistent knocking on my bedroom door. Sitting up swiftly, I scan the room. It was just a terrible dream. Naturally, it had to be a dream; Ghemin aren't that towering, nor do they consume people—at least, that's what I believe. The light struggles to seep through my bedroom window. Last year, I had tacked a bedsheet over the window to block out the intrusive morning light, as I am more nocturnal than diurnal. That action landed me in hot water; my elder brother reprimanded me for an hour. Nonetheless, I prevailed, and the sheet remains draped there to this day. Taking several deep breaths, I attempt to steady my racing heart and noticed my clothes are drenched in sweat. That dream was exceptionally intense.

Get out of bed already!" shouts a male voice. It's my brother, Wolfe. He's a good man; he sacrificed his childhood to care for me. Our father passed away when Wolfe was nine and I was only five, and our mother had died a few years earlier. Dad bore a strong resemblance to Wolfe, yet he was more laid-back. He was always full of laughter and enjoyed making jokes, his robust laughter was infectious. I have no memories of our mother. Wolfe tells me I'm the spitting image of her and that I even possess her inquisitive nature. Perhaps that's why he's so tough on me, harboring resentment towards our mother for being selected in the lottery and leaving us behind. But it wasn't her choice; it's just one of life's harsh realities. Given the option, nobody would willingly pick the lottery. We'd all rather continue with our everyday routines; however, as I understand it, the lottery serves as a means to manage population levels and prevent us from "overbreeding."

I'm already up, relax," I call out. Stretching, I then sit upright.

Wolfe insists, "Come have your breakfast; you know today is significant."

I wait for the sound of his footsteps to fade from the door before rising and taking the four steps needed to traverse my modest bedroom. On the opposite wall, a small, handcrafted calendar hangs. Its top features a picturesque river landscape with azure waters and verdant plants adorned with vibrant blossoms. Wolfe is the artist behind this image; it showcases his remarkable creativity since the only river I've ever witnessed is one that's toxic and murky. Naturally, he conceals his artistic flair, arguing that it "won't fill our stomachs," as he phrases it. Below the scenic depiction are squares outlined in black ink with dates penciled in. My finger traces over the squares, crossing off the past few days—I had forgotten again—and checks today's date. After reconfirming by counting the last few days again, I realize today is the eighteenth—my birthday. A sense of dread settles in my heart. It may seem strange to dislike one's birthday, the day one becomes an adult. But that's because today also coincides with the lottery.

The Lottery" signifies a day of demise for at least fifty individuals. It was once said that to win the lottery meant to gain wealth. However, those days are long gone. Now, it is synonymous with death. As I reach the age of twenty-one, I am compelled to participate in the lottery as well. I must join the queue and press a button on a device, held by a Ghemin soldier. Annually, all individuals aged twenty-one to thirty-five are mandated to undergo this process. The vast number of people within this age bracket must press the button. Those who "win" are taken to the Genetix Lab, never to be seen or heard from again. On the other hand, the "losers" are allowed to return home, free to enjoy another year of life.

Consequently, many in this vicinity marry young if they survive their initial lottery. Wolfe is an exception; perhaps he remained unmarried because he was preoccupied with caring for me. He certainly had no shortage of interested women; that was not the issue. I've contemplated asking him why but refrained each time, fearing he might perceive my curiosity as ingratitude for his sacrifice. Retrieving my hairbrush from the dresser, I untangle my long brown locks and style them atop my head, keeping them out of the way. Who knows—should I endure my first lottery, perhaps I'll encounter an intriguing man. It's best to be prepared, just in case. Suppressing my anxiety, I grab a shirt and pants from the dresser and dress swiftly. My desire is to conclude this day with haste. Peering into the small, fractured mirror, I notice a purple mark on my cheek.

Exasperated by the low-quality sheets, I vow to one day exchange them for superior ones that won't leave marks on my face as I sleep. This is, of course, contingent on not drawing an unlucky X in the lottery, avoiding attacks from wild beasts, or succumbing to starvation. On second thought, I decide to retain the substandard sheets. Approaching the bathroom shared with Wolfe, I knock on the closed door and hesitate, not wishing to intrude.

"Wolfe, are you in there?" I inquire.

"I'm in the kitchen!" he responds.

Upon opening the door, a wave of warm, moist air envelops me. His habit of closing the door when absent irks me. I flick on the light, enter, and close the door behind me. The mirror above the sink is obscured by fog, prompting a sigh as I clear it with a towel. Reaching for the handmade soap, I lather it over the purple blemish. The scent of pig fat is faint. Rinsing my face, I look up to find the stain has vanished. My skin is only slightly flushed and feels fine—my soap-making skills are improving. After drying off with a blue towel and inspecting my reflection for any remaining spots, I note my hair looks presentable and my attire is clean. Feeling prepared, I entertain thoughts of meeting an affluent gentleman who could help erect a fence against wild animals. Content with my reflection, I exit the washroom.

As I approach the threshold of the living area, I steel myself for what's to come. Wolfe, my dear brother, places immense significance on birthdays, perhaps as a way to fill the void left by our parents' absence. For him, it's an extravagant celebration; for me, it's a stark reminder of the inexorable march towards the dreaded lottery - that ominous rite that looms over us all. Stepping into the living space, it's clear my predictions were accurate. Wolfe has erected a modest banner emblazoned with 'Happy Birthday, Rayanna', complete with a sketch of dawn breaking over a verdant peak.

"Happy Birthday, Rain," Wolfe greets me warmly. 'Rain' - the moniker he bestowed upon me in our youth, inspired by my penchant for reveling in the rain showers.

Thanks," I murmur, settling into my seat at the kitchen table. My gaze drifts to the small container of artificial sweetener beside the cereal box. Wolfe had thoughtfully added it to our otherwise tasteless breakfast. His considerate gestures never cease to amaze me; he's the epitome of selflessness, always placing my happiness above his own. He would have excelled as a spouse and parent, I muse with a heavy heart.

"Eat up, we can't dawdle," Wolfe urges, breaking into my reverie.

"Understood." I spoon the sweetened grains into my mouth, savoring the rare indulgence. As I near the end of my meal, I muster the courage to voice my fears. "Wolfe?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm frightened."

He pauses, his utensils clinking softly against the bowl. "I know you are. But remember, I'll be by your side through it all," he reassures me, then resumes eating. Despite his youth, Wolfe's features bear the marks of constant concern, aging him beyond his years.

It's selfish to dwell on my own anxieties, especially when our fates hang in the balance. Yet, I can't suppress my worries. "Wolfe? If you're selected and I'm not... what becomes of me?" My voice trails off, laden with guilt for my self-centered thoughts.

He exhales deeply, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. "You know, survival becomes second nature when you're on your own. Perhaps, after fortune smiles upon you in the lottery, you'll encounter someone special. Marry, maybe start a family."

A somber silence envelops me. I remain fixated on my steaming bowl of grains, unable to lift my gaze.

"I've passed on all my knowledge to you. I had to fend for myself much earlier than you ever had to. You'll figure out how to make it through," he assures me, but his voice carries an undertone of uncertainty.

The tears threaten to spill from my eyes as I manage a feeble nod. "Yeah, perhaps you're right," I whisper, my voice barely above a murmur.