The Harvest

Can I be waking up already? I try to lift my arms, but they still feel heavy from the sedation. My eyelids feel heavy too, trying to force them open takes too much effort, so I lay still waiting for my strength to return. The attendant should be coming to check on me soon. I remember another Number telling me she would think of her Friend when she was waking up and it helped her to get through it. But this wasn’t my first procedure; I had been here many times before. My Friend wasn’t strong like the others. Thinking of her in this way never brought me comfort.

I’m not angry, though. I understand my duties; this is what is expected of all Numbers.

There is a loud noise somewhere close, maybe in the hall outside my room. It sounds like the scraping wheels of the meal cart; however, it wouldn’t be stopping for me. Numbers aren’t permitted food after a procedure because it can cause sickness. I feel a sudden pang in my stomach realizing it has been nearly two days since I have eaten anything. I wish they would stop for me.

I’m starting to feel stronger now that the sedation is waning. Moving my fingers to feel the coarse sheet covering me, I slowly open my eyes. It is the same room from before my procedure and I am glad. I feel more comfortable in familiar surroundings. There is a little light coming through the small window on the wall directly across from me, which makes me think it must be early afternoon.

Wondering what could be taking the attendant so long, I try to sit up on my own. It’s not as difficult as I think it should be, and I attribute that to my frequent experiences in this very building. Looking down at my arms now, I see the small IV needle held fast by a piece of tape. The sight makes me cringe; I have never liked needles. I begin to feel around my body, checking for anything tender. I wasn’t told what my procedure was for. I was just told my Friend needed my help. After a quick check over, I decide nothing feels out of the ordinary. So I wait, guessing it may have been a transfusion of some kind.

When I am bored or nervous, I sometimes pick at the cuticles of my nails. They are almost completely groomed to perfection when there is a gentle knock on the door to my room.

“Come,” I say politely, indicating whoever it is may enter the room. It is as I expected, my attendant. She is not a Number like me, she is someone’s Friend, but she works to care for me after my procedures.

“How are you feeling?” she asks me in her quiet and calm voice. “I see you are sitting up on your own.” I raise my arms over my head as I yawn and stretch.

“I feel fine,” I tell her. My attendant wears a long black smock that clothes her small frame from her neck all the way to her wrists and ankles, with an ornamented silver belt garnering her waist. Her head is covered with a black head covering, making it impossible to see the nature of her hair, but I’ve never been too curious about it anyways.

She does her routine inspection, checking my eyes and reflexes. She tells me I have nice skin as she assesses my temperature, which I find strange. I’ve never paid much attention to the quality of my own physicality; only when it pertained to my Friend was I concerned.

“Everything looks in order, I can let you go back to your residence if you like,” my attendant offers. I eagerly nod my head and allow her to assist me to the door.

The Medical building is already overrun with attendants and Numbers, all moving quickly around each other to get to their destinations. My attendant leads me away from my recovery room down the narrow hall that eventually ends in the main lobby I am so familiar with. Nearly every chair in the waiting area is occupied, leaving me to believe today must be Harvest Day. I sigh in relief to myself because I have already undergone a procedure, and they wouldn’t dare attempting another so soon after my recovery.

“Thank you,” I say to my attendant when we reach the entrance. I wait as she gives me a clap on the shoulder before going on her way, a custom of farewell. Then, with nothing left for me to do, I exit the lobby through a large open doorway leading to the Medical building courtyard. From there, my residence is only a short distance away, one that I can easily walk in a matter of minutes. But I decide to take my time as it is a sunny day and I like to admire my surroundings when given the opportunity. Numbers are rarely expected to return to normal duties immediately after a procedure, so I have no fear of being disciplined for my wanderings.

Moments later, I find myself standing on the bridge overlooking Plaza Gardens. It is a beautiful place covered in exotic flowers and trees, a welcome retreat after a long day of duties and tasks. The rest of our village is fairly bland compared to the Gardens, and I have always assumed it is to keep us focused on our purpose. However, our caretakers have allowed for the numbers to build and maintain this lovely garden, and I like to volunteer in its continuation at least once a week.

A slight breeze carries the scent of a thousand flowers past my face, filling my senses with sweet perfumes. I hear the tiny buzzing of the flower angels as they land so delicately on each plant, carrying the seeds for future generations on their tiny legs. I am always amazed by their role, how they seem to have so little choice in their nature, and yet, still seem so content.

“I thought you might be here,” a familiar voice says behind me. I don’t know how long I have been leaning on the bridge railing, counting the petals on the yellow chrysanthemums below me, but it’s probably been a while judging by the marks in my elbows. I turn around to see 540, a good friend of mine.

“I like the smell of the flowers,” I say. 540 comes to stand next to me, leaning over the railing as well. “They always calm me.”

“Are you feeling anxious?” he asks. I turn to look directly at him, not at all uncomfortable or disgusted the way other Numbers tend to be. 540 is a young male, but he is terribly disfigured, and seeing a fellow Number in this way can be shocking to some, but not to me. His form his sound, but his skin is scarred and discolored to a pale red over most of his face and arms. I’ve never thought to ask why this is, the relationship between a Number and their Friend is a very personal thing, and it would be rude of me to ever bring it up. But he has always had a pleasing disposition and been kind to me.

“Not anxious,” I say slowly, trying to decide exactly how I am feeling. “Maybe unsettled.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks soothingly. “Maybe I can help.” I smile slightly at his efforts, trying to decide if I want to say anything.

“I know it’s personal,” I begin, folding my hands together over the railing. I can feel the rough wood on my palms. “But I think there is something very wrong with my Friend.” 540 looks concerned.

“They haven’t told you?” he seems shocked at such a notion. I shake my head.

“They haven’t told me anything, but every month I go for a procedure,” I say. “And I never know what for.”

“That is unsettling,” 540 agrees. “I would have asked what was going on by now.”

“You’re much braver than I am,” I laugh. “I’m too much of a coward.”

“Well,” he laughs, “I’ve been through enough.” I have the thought to ask him what he means, but decide against it.

“Would you like to walk with me?” I ask. 540 nods, and the two of us walk over the bridge and towards the center of the gardens. We pass bright colored foliage on either side of the cobble stone path as we walk and I make a mental note of how many I have personally planted. I think perhaps I may have spent more time in the gardens than anyone else is our village since I have lived here. Some Numbers have no interest in nature, not me. I relish the tranquility.

“What task did you perform today?” I ask 540 as we approach a concrete bench sitting on the side of the garden fountain. The fountain is the largest feature of the garden; it is a large circular pool with a gold colored pedestal in the very center supporting a statue of the All Father and All Mother, which stands at least 20 feet tall. They are both strong, young figures with flawless features. The All Father has a strong, masculine jaw line, thick curly hair, and his arm is carved out beautifully around the All Mother. She is beautiful in her own right, with long flowing hair that curls around her shoulders and down her sides, full lips and figure. They are very lovely to look at.

“The food service center was shorthanded, so I helped out making sandwiches,” 540 said, sitting down on the bench.

“Sounds tasty,” I say sarcastically. Of all the tasks I could perform, food service is my least favorite. 540, on the other hand, is there at least three times a week, sometimes even delivering the rations to residences. It’s always funny when he brings me mine, because he pretends to be very official about it.

“What? I happen to enjoy sandwiches very much,” he laughs.

“And it shows,” I joke, implying that he is overweight. He pats his lean, muscular stomach and tosses his head back, his thick reddish brown hair tussled by the movement.

“You’re right,” he intentionally agrees. “I should lay off, huh?” Then he stands and makes his bow to the All Father statue. “Oh Father, increase my metabolism so I can continue to be glutenous.” I giggle a little at his impetuous nature.

“If the guardians could see you behaving this way!” I say, pretending to be shocked. He turns back to me.

“Ah, what do they care? They don’t have to pay homage to centuries old statues and traditions like we have to.” I can hear the distain in his voice as he touches one of the red blotches on his arm. “Sometimes I think I remember something different.”

“We owe them our existence,” I say. “Come on, we should probably be heading to our residences. They’ll be bringing rations soon.” 540 nods to me. Together, we stand in front of the statue and pay our real respects reverently with slight bows before walking towards the garden entrance. Is there anything different? It has indeed been a long day, and I am tired.