I awoke this morning without warning. My hiatuses never last quite as long as I want. I was in the middle of the dream I always remember. I was entrapped by the same colors—green, blue, yellow, orange and brown. They spoke to me though they were dependable beings; they urged me to put my faith in them. Whenever I asked a question, they would engulf me a bit more. Tonight, they gripped so tight; I thought my blood would no longer run just red.
When my gaze adjusts to reality, all I see is black and white.
My own scrawl covers the pages in front of me. I straighten out the pieces.
I know that when I read over whatever I’d thrown together last night it will never appease me — it won’t be long enough to suit my standards or detailed enough to suit the standards held by my readers.
Maybe that’s why I was given my task and maybe that’s why from the moment I was born I was shown the way to being the Scribe, the task I’ve never viewed as being anything but destiny.
It was never about the ability to write well, it was about my ability to recall and to retell things accurately, and as I was born into the perfect family of intellects, I was born with the incomparable gift of effortless memorization.
I wish I was able to remember the time I spent with my family before the Voices of the United People came to me and announced I was the next Scribe to the nation. I would be the one, the only one, who would remember the events that had past, while everyone else was allowed to live in the present—strictly in the present.
I couldn’t have been given tasks that I could’ve pursued with a best friend. I’ve heard of best friends, I know they exist. I never had the privilege of living with another long enough to forge that sort of bond.
When I was taken — I couldn't have been more than eight — I had to break all my ties before they even truly existed. I was taken with the previous Scribe, Emmoria, though she let me call her Em. At the time she was still keeping all formal records; I do not remember much before my time with her. Once she took me we immediately got to work, for she had limited days left before retirement and had so much to teach. On my first day I learned to record the actions of others, and that’s when she taught me about the responsibility of having long-term memories, like people used to. We, unlike the rest of our nation, have been absolved of our responsibility to take our nightly capsule, which disbands the memory of that day one year ago. She explained everyone else began taking the Cura pill at age nine, so as not to forget the basic skills of walking, talking, reading and writing learned. I was given the privilege of this knowledge through Em, who learned this from the man she succeeded, and so on. Scribes have to be very trusting.
I miss Em some days. She was the only person I ever remember having contact with. I wish I remembered her face, but I was never permitted to see her. Em told me the reason for this is if I ever see a face, I will “see emotions and will create bonds with people. It will make my writing bias and the government will accept nothing less than factual.”
There is nothing left of her, really. Once she retired, her house was taken down and the government reconstructed my ideal home in its place.
I know she is living and well, though. She is at the Sanctuary, where they send all the retired Scribes. I only learned this because I have been notified that my successor has also recently been notified that he is the newest Scribe, and I will be allowed to retire to the Sanctuary.
I am terrified to retire. I have only known this life, enveloped by the past.
Truthfully, I don’t write of just the past. I have to pass time somehow, and over the years I’ve read all the history books I live with in my private quarters. I began to write “fiction”. It used to be taught in schools, but now teachers focus only on core subjects. No time for made up tales.
But I’ve all the time in the world for them. I write of heroes and heroines and friendship. I write in the past and the future, because the right now, the present, never seems to humor me as much. I tried to write of “love” as past Scribes did many, many years ago. I don’t believe I can realistically capture it, so I was quick to abandon the concept.
I truly enjoy reading the fictional works of past writers. They always told such glorious and triumphant tales; at first I thought they must have just been glorious and triumphant people.
This is not the case, though. I later looked at the time an author lived and the historical events that were also occurring at this time. These men and women all seemed to live during some of the low points of our society. I think about this sometimes, and I think about how my writing is happy when I am more aware that I live a miserable existence. I’ve concluded that these types of writers were cowards.
Several nights ago, I shared my inhibition with a woman from the government. She spoke to her superiors, and she came back with the news that once I had taught my successor to keep records of the events that would some day be known as our history, I would be allowed one day in the world.
And today is that day.
I never asked for this, but I think this “day off” is truly to help me and the government gauge the preparedness my successor. He seems to be quite indifferent about being given this position; I sincerely hope he can learn to find some enjoyment in his task.
I’m not quite sure how I will do in the world again. I haven’t seen any person since I was eight, and I don’t even know if I have been visualizing a human face correctly. There are no mirrors in my quarters and the only idea I’ve ever had about how the human face looks is through feeling my own. And, I’ve come to realize that it has changed over time.

I have just been transported away from my quarters. I am in a train, and a young boy is doing my job. And I am about to see the world.
I close my eyes and think about the characters of my stories. I know this experience will not be like any of these fables, but the childish piece of me hopes I will be able to make a friend like every protagonist does.
I am being taken to a city I am not sure the name of. We are slowing; I think we may have arrived.
We’re now at a stop and the driver has announced I am allowed to exit the train. I recollect my thoughts and direct them at the experience I am about to have—and remember.
I stand and walk out of the open train doors. I follow flashing indicators out of the tunnel and find myself walking into a light.
And then I emerge. I find myself in a city unlike anything I would’ve ever imagined. I see people, real people, move about me, but everyone is in a rush to get where they need to go and I cannot bring my eyes to focus on one person’s face. I walk, and realize I cannot distinguish anyone’s features.
I find a person, a man I assume based on his voice. He’s talking to a person beside him.
I touch his back and say, “Excuse me, sir?”
He will not look towards me. He and his constituent continue moving away.
I frown, and try to obtain the attention of another person. No one acknowledges me. In fact, they seem to be making a point to look away from me.
I begin to yell for anyone to please, please just recognize that I am here in the world with them, and then I begin to scream. Nobody flinches.
Is this the world I’ve been dreaming of all this time? The world I’ve been recording? Have I truly misjudged them through what I have heard? Are they actually this much worse than I had imagined?
I sprint back to the tunnel, into the train. I press the intercom on. “Take me back to my quarters at once,” I order, out of breath. I’m not sure if the running induces this, or the fear of my own species. Could they have become so heartless, they cannot even acknowledge a new presence? I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.
The trip to my quarters is brisk. When we arrive I run back, feeling like I’ve finally returned home after years of being away.
I enter, and know something is wrong. The air is humming.
I’ve heard this sound before. It occurs when a government official is calling to check in.
“Hello, I have returned. I apologize if I kept you waiting.”
I can never move past how unnatural it feels to speak aloud to no one.
“No, I just arrived, as well.”
It was a woman. I do not recognize her voice.
“What can I do for you?”
I sit at my desk. The familiarity is soothing.
“Just listen to what I have to say and answer a few questions.”
“I can certainly do this,” I answer. She is not getting to the point, as the government workers usually do. Curious.
“So, you had your first real experience in our world today. How did you enjoy it? Please be candid.” She has the voice of someone you want to trust.
“Honestly, I really appreciate the opportunity, but I think I prefer it here in my quarters.”
“But, surely you must be tired of remembering for these people? Surely being our Scribe must be overwhelming at times?”
“Well, yes, at times. It’s a laborious task but I am trying my very hardest to do my part.”
“And we would like to reward you for that. You’re time has come to retire, you’ve reached the age in which your memory may begin to erode, and you know we need nothing less than the best records. And now you can live with other Scribes, other kind Scribes, and not look after the beastly actions of the humans in the world. I promise after today we have seen your successor is trustworthy and ready to thrive on his own. Will you move into the Sanctuary as so many before you have?”
I close my eyes, and use the palms of my hands to rub them. Then I begin to nod. “Yes, yes I am. I will retire to the Sanctuary.”
My doors are kicked open suddenly, overpowering the sound of the woman somberly murmuring, “Excellent,” before cutting off connection.
I grab hold of the arms of my chair as a group of persons in white masks run into the room. “What’s going on?” I yell. No one seems to hear me, and I have my arms and legs grabbed.
I am carried into the upper level of the house.
As I am carried, I thrash and squirm, but say nothing. The fear seems to paralyze my vocal chords.
This is my government, I think, they have never done a thing to harm me. This cannot end badly. Should I resist?
I’m placed down in my bedroom. Someone barks, “Stay right there!” at me. I stay, immobilized.
They seal my door shut.
Once I am alone, I stand up slowly and move onto my bed. I sit there with my knees tucked into my chest, listening with unblinking eyes.
They are taking my books. I hear their leader barking orders to do so, to move in sections to finish the job as efficiently as possible. My whole library is being stolen.
For some time I just heard aimless shuffling, but I realized they were moving with a purpose when I heard a man yell, “Do a final sweep and make sure all the books have been retrieved, or else they burn with the house.”
What about me? What are their plans for me? I wonder. I pull my legs closer.
Maybe five minutes after I hear the man yell I see movement. My door is opened, and about six bodies move in. My door is closed again.
One tells me, “Get up, and move to the center of the room.” His voice is gentle, and I obey.
The men gather behind me, aside from the one who had spoken.
“Am I going to burn with the house, too?”
And then the one who spoke surprises me. He takes off his mask.
I see his face, and he is beautiful. This is what it is like to see another human. He is much more flawless than I could have imagined. The colors have been perfectly and masterfully selected; I’m not sure who chose them but it is the most pleasing arrangements of colors.
But upon second glance, no, something feels wrong. It’s his eyes. They’re cruel and unforgiving, and I find it does not seem to match with his smile, which is soft, almost comforting.
“No,” he responds in a steady tone. “Me and these men, are going to take you to the Sanctuary.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He stands behind me with his other men. I close my eyes.
“Masks on!” he commands.
I smile.
“Fire!”
I am aware of the sudden firing of guns behind me. I know one thing as everything goes red, and then white, and then blank.
I have just seen a face.