Creative Writing: City Virus

As I walk down the cold, marble, soulless streets of Blackdale, I hear the birds chirping an almost programmed sound which reverberates across the tall, white buildings. I see a plain blue sky with cartoon clouds. Health agents are watching all of us. Why are they watching us? We’re not the problem, the virus is. The whole town is made to look wonderful; televisions line every blank, white wall, spoon-feeding us information. “The Health Organisation is great. Trust them.” Why do we have to be told to like certain things? Why can’t we think for ourselves? The air is clear with no smoke or fog, with wind trying to rustle the leaves of the plastic trees. The Health Organisation says it helps to prevent the virus. How does it help? Why do we have

Why do they do this every morning? After our fingerprint has been scanned we wait; hearts racing, palms sweating and goosebumps forming, in front of the scanning arch. This arch is the only silver, metal and shiny object in the whole city, everything else is dull and meaningless just like our city’s personality. Why does the arch have to be different? What is it hiding? Two coloured lights are at the top of each arch, one red and one green, to show if you are contaminated. Birds usually perch on the top of the arches and staring at the lights give you a very sore neck. You don’t want a red light, men in a black van come and take you away, no one knows what they do to you, as no one as ever come back. My friend Ethan was talking about the virus. Taken away. Steven talked badly about the Health Organisation. Taken away. Henry read a book. Taken away. What is the Health Organisation hiding? Why can’t we learn? What is the

Why does it have to be a Health Organisation psychiatrist? What do they want to find out? Usually I have the same conversation with the person. They always say I am crazy. Why do they think that? The meeting rooms are very crowded, even though there are only two people in each one. They have black walls, just like the Health Organisation’s building and van. Why do they have to be different? The psychiatrist is never clever they just say what ever they are paid to say. Why don’t they think for themselves?

As I sit silently in the waiting room, with my knuckles turning a lighter shade of white every second, I keep thinking about the questions I want to ask. Why? What? How? “Maxwell, room twelve please,” the receptionist said in a monotonous voice, making my hands shake. As soon as I sat down in the room I shouted, “ What is the virus?” I had never asked any questions in these meetings before. “ Calm down, I think you are a little bit stressed.” “ What is the Health Organisation hiding?” My face was becoming red, I had to know the answers to these