Uncontrolled

Twelve hours before everything changes

Red letters on the cold screen hit my face like a slap: “Embryo Rejected.” My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. I’ve been waking up from the same nightmare for days. I try to comfort myself with, “It’s over.” But no matter what I say, the fear remains.

When I wake up, a poster I hung in my closet greets me. At that moment, reality and dream feel indistinguishable.

I had picked up the poster from a wall in front of the school, letting it flutter in the wind. It displayed the five criteria already etched in my mind.

Everyone knew them, yet they were reminded every single day: health reports, psychological evaluation, intelligence and skill tests, potential for contributing to society, and future generation simulation.

Like every Cryenor citizen turning 22, my future would be determined by them. Tomorrow, I too would take the Control test.

In the late afternoon, we were having tea, living our last normal day at home. As the hours passed, the house seemed to shrink, while my parents and I felt like we were growing. The warmth of our breaths felt like it was suffocating us.

But they didn’t notice. They tried to find the right words to start the conversation.

Of course, my mother couldn’t resist and finally spoke: “I’ve laid out your clothes on the bed. We used to dress at the Center in a hurry. You, new generation, are lucky. The gift package even reaches your feet.”

“Are we really lucky?” I thought to myself.

“Yours seems lucky for you, but…” I said to my mother. She sensed the uncertainty in my voice and let out a faint sigh.

No one in our family had ever failed this test.

“The more relaxed you are, the faster time will pass. And in the end, Control will give you a home. Imagine how you’ll decorate it.” My mother had a talent for comforting people.

Thinking about what the test would provide rather than the test itself made things feel lighter.

Yet, a small darkness inside me overshadowed the good feelings.

My father watched quietly, his face serious. He nodded as if approving, like he wanted to say something but thought, “No need now.” Words were searching for a way out of his mouth, but he held back, biting his tongue. Perhaps he didn’t want to confuse me before the test. Seeing him struggle like that, I couldn’t help myself.

“I think my dad expects me to fail,” I said with a smile. My father finally seized the opportunity: “I believe you’ll pass. But if you fail, don’t think it’s your fault. Maybe the problem…” he hesitated, unsure of what he was saying.

Then he continued: “Maybe the problem is with us.”

I didn’t understand what he meant. His voice carried guilt.

Just as I was about to ask for more explanation, an announcement echoed from outside: “Healthy society, healthy children, a peaceful future. Control will always protect you.”

As I was heading to my room, the doorbell rang. Standing up, I opened it. My neighbor Zana and her daughter Pera, two years older than me, were at the door.

“Surprise!” they said, smiling. Pera’s nose was red from the cold, her curly hair crackling with static. Her mother looked healthy, cheeks flushed from the cold.

Seeing homemade cake and Pera, I felt both joy and embarrassment. Pera had taken the test two years earlier but had failed.

Unsure what to say, I invited them in: “Come in, it’s freezing outside.”

After handing over the cake, they settled on the couch.

Zana was acting as if she were taking the test tomorrow, excited to share her experience and pride in having passed it.

Zana: “If you want to pass, avoid too much eye contact with the examiners,” she said, hinting at something.

Pera looked at her mother with a mix of anger and surprise, then spoke with determination: “My mom thinks I failed because of this. But I think the test isn’t as easy as it seems. Don’t pressure yourself too much.”

I thought she was underestimating me because she had failed herself. “Our family has never had a failure, I’ll pass too.”

“Sometimes you meet all the criteria, but Control rejects what no one else can see. Maybe what’s missing in your family is in you.”

What did that even mean? Was it an excuse for her own inadequacy? She continued without slowing down: “When you find out you didn’t pass, no one will be there for you. Prepare for that.”

Pera scratched her arm as she spoke. The pale, whitish veins on the inside of her wrist flickered and pulsed like a heartbeat. It was as if something other than blood was flowing through her body, and she wanted me to notice. For a moment, I was both excited and startled but then I thought it was probably just my eyes playing tricks on me, which made more sense.

I replied to Pera: “If I fail, we can still waste time together. Isn’t that better?”

Pera murmured a fake smile: “Yeah, that would be great, right? Better than dying alone, we could die in misery together.”

Just then, my mother arrived with the cake, changing the atmosphere. To avoid pressuring us further, the topic shifted to Zana’s new furniture. But I didn’t hear anything about the furniture.

Only one sentence kept looping in my head: “What if I don’t pass the test…”

A torn package at the door caught my attention.

A small note on it read: Warning: Participation is mandatory. Be present at the central building at 09:00 to maintain your citizenship rights. Results cannot be appealed.