More old stories

I found another 3-year-old story, I named the file Defective. It’s weird to see how much my writing has changed. Sort of embarrassing.  Sorry for any errors you find. I’ve had not seen this since 2012.


It’s been four months now. I had to fake my pain. Every once in the while, I forced myself to cry. I needed to make it look like I loved him. I was supposed to love him, but how can I. The month before his death, he was assigned to be my husband. I was assigned to be his wife. We had two months to get to know each other. To fall in love.

On the day a girl turns fifteen, she is to get married. So two months before then, she is assigned a husband. A man to protect her. It was the rules. The city’s job is to find my soulmate. Find the person who has the right amount of differences and similarities from me. My mother says they always pick the perfect match. That you are guaranteed to fall in love with that person.

I always felt something was wrong with me. Though I didn’t have any proof to back it up. That was until I was assigned. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t love him. He felt too perfect for me. He had similarities and he had things I’ll never have, like patience. But, I couldn’t love him. That’s why I have to fake it. To look sane or maybe insane, I don’t know. Also, I had to stop those rumors. Four months ago, after he died. Everyone thought I killed him to get out of marriage. They said it happened before and it could happen again.

Several years ago, a girl killed her husband because she wasn’t “ready for marriage”.  She was terminated from the city. If I don’t fake it, I can end up like her. They said in five months, after I had a year to grieve, they will find me a new husband. I don’t want one and I bet no man wants me after I “murdered” the first.

“Salia! School begins in twenty-three minutes. You must get going.” My mother alerted me. I slowly dragged myself upwards and began heading for the front door. My father has already left for work and my mother begins working in the next hour. So neither really cares where I come or go. I stood there for a moment and watched my mother roam around looking for the card. That reminded me that I didn’t have mine. I quickly rushed to my room searching for it.

Everyone in this city has a card. You receive one the moment you’re born. It has everything about you in it. It holds things from your grades to your crime. It’s the key for our lives. It how you get into school, work, home, and how you purchased anything. The card holds everything.

I slid it into the door of my homeroom class. The small screen on the door lit up. It said:


AGE: 15



The door then beeped and I heard the lock open. I turned the handle slowly. My teacher was staring at the door. He knew I was coming, everyone did. When someone enters the room the board lites up with the person’s name. Forcing everyone to know you.

The room looked different than usual. There was about twelve bouquets of white and pink roses. On the board my name diminished and the words “Congrats Melva” replaced it. I completely forgot yesterday Melva turned fifteen and officially got married. The twelve bouquet of roses was the gift of the homeroom class.

All fourteen-year-olds surrounded her. I can hear them asking her thousand of questions about marriage. “ What’s it like?”, “ Is he nice?”, and my personal favorite “ Is he your soulmate?” What disgusted me was her answer. “He really is. I could never imagine anyone more perfect for me. The board really know what they’re doing!” Her joy and delight sickened me. Why couldn’t I be more like that? Who knows, but then again, I really don’t care.

I sat in the only empty seat which was right behind Melva. In an instance, all the girls trampling her went quiet. “Sorry about your husband.” One blonde said.

“Don’t be. These things happen sometimes.” I said with a wry smile.

“You’ll be assigned someone new soon. Then things will get better.” Melva suddenly said. I nodded my slowly, looking as depressed as possible. Five months. Then all this would end. Five months.


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