Unfit

by Karma Chesnut

  The library was just as it had been the night before—cold, dark, and yet strangely wonderful. John immediately went to the aisle where he had met Buck, but no one was there. John hadn’t even realized it until now, but he had been hoping to talk to Buck again. He wondered if he would get the chance before he left the asylum.

  Turning down aisle after aisle, John tried to remember where he had found the journal. It was in the history section, but the history section took up half a dozen aisles and all the books looked alike. He traced down one aisle, then the next, passing endless rows of identical books, waiting for something to stand out. It had to be there somewhere. It couldn’t have just disappeared.

  And there it was. On the last row of the last aisle, John finally spotted the edge of a small, black, leather book sticking out from behind the rest. He hurried to the bookcase and quickly pulled out the journal, letting out a sigh of relief. It was still there, right where he had left it. He flipped it open and again saw the passage he must have reread in his mind a hundred times. These are my sins.

  Closing the book, he carefully tucked it into the waistband of his jumpsuit and turned to head back to his room. He almost didn’t see the old man sitting one aisle over, in the middle of the floor under a mountain of books, or the little boy sleeping in the corner next to him.

  “Do be careful,” Buck said, smiling as John stumbled to keep from tripping over him.

  “I was hoping I’d find you here,” said John, returning the smile. “May I join you?”

  Buck nodded, and John sat down next to a sleeping Tim in one of the only spots on the floor that wasn’t littered with books. John picked up the first book he saw, a particularly large and heavy book about someplace called France, and flipped through the pages and tried to read, but his mind was buzzing with so many distractions that he realized he had reread the same line at least three times and still had no idea what it said.

  “I wasn’t sure we’d see you tonight,” Buck’s voice came from over the top of his book.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again at all,” John replied and placed a hand on Tim’s sleeping shoulder. “I met with the knifer today.”

  Buck’s eyebrow shot up. “Already?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” John replied.

  “Then that means your time at the asylum is coming to an end,” said Buck.

  “No more than a week.”

  “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  John thought about that for a moment. Congratulations didn’t feel like the right word for it.

  “I’m sick,” John said.

  “You look fine to me,” replied Buck, his face still buried behind his book.

  “For now. The knifer said it will eventually kill me.”

  Buck set his book down. “I wouldn’t worry too much about what the knifer, or anyone else, has to say. We’re all dying when it comes right down to it. I find it’s best not to obsess over ‘what ifs’ when it comes to one’s own mortality.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It is simple,” said Buck. “Right now, at this moment, you are in perfect health and you’re one week away from leaving here forever.”

  “Perhaps. Mandatory sterilization doesn’t seem like the kind of thing to congratulate someone for, though.”

  “At least you get to go home. That is definitely something worth celebrating,” Buck said.

  “Guess I just don’t feel like celebrating then,” John said, picking absentmindedly at a loose thread in the inside leg seam of his gray jumpsuit. “I suppose that makes me a hypocrite.”

  Buck leaned in. “How do you figure?” he asked.

  “It’s my duty, isn’t it?” John said. “This is how the world works. Some people just shouldn’t be allowed to have children, so when the unfits get taken away, it’s supposed to be a good thing. ‘Thin the herd. Cut out the poison.’ I’m not sure I ever actually agreed with it, but I accepted it because that’s just the way things have to be. Maybe it’s my pride talking, but I honestly never thought I would be part of the herd that needed thinning.” John tugged on the string, unraveling the seam and opening a hole in the jumpsuit near his ankle. “Everyone here tries to make it sound like this whole experience is honorable somehow, that we’re making this amazing sacrifice for the greater good, but I just keep wishing I didn’t have to go through with it and everything could somehow go back to the way it was. “

  “That doesn’t make you a hypocrite,” Buck said. “It makes you human. I’d think there was something wrong with you if you wanted them to castrate you.”

  “I honestly thought I was going to pass,” John said and rubbed his eyes. “Even today, meeting with the knifer, part of me thought he’d say there had been a mistake. I always wanted to be a father one day. I guess knowing that will never happen is a lot harder to swallow than I thought it would be.”

  Buck chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” John asked.

  “Nothing at all, I just haven’t seen very many boys your age come through here who are legitimately upset about the fact that they’ll never have kids. Most of them are too worried about whether or not everything else will still work after the surgery. It’s refreshing is all.”

  “I’m married,” John said quietly, almost reverently. “I’ve never actually told anyone that. I was arrested the day after our one-year anniversary. We talked a lot about having kids. I wanted four, but she wanted two, so we settled on three.” John caught himself smiling at the memory of it. “It didn’t feel like we were asking for too much at the time.”

  Buck’s smile fell, the dim candlelight casting a harsh shadow on his face. “I don’t know what to say.”

  John shrugged. “It’s all for the best, right?”

  “No. It’s not,” Buck said firmly, shaking his head. “Letting them sterilize you isn’t going to magically save the world. This system, this survival-of-the-fittest obsessed system, favors a very specific group of people who are arrogant enough to claim they are somehow more human than the rest of us. Meanwhile, they’ve long forgotten the one thing that makes us human in the first place.”

  “And what is that?” John asked.

  Shifting his gaze to Tim sleeping peacefully at John’s side, Buck simply replied, “Compassion.”

  The word hung in the air, commanding a presence of its own.

  “Maybe things are different now than they were before you came to the asylum,” said John. “Haven is not completely devoid of compassion.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Buck corrected. “At least those in control are. Otherwise, the Genetic Fitness Evaluation would not exist in the first place.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  Hearing the skepticism in John’s voice, Buck immediately backed down. “You’re young,” he sighed. “You can’t possibly understand.”

  “Then help me understand,” John urged.

  Buck studied John’s face for a moment. “All right,” he said hesitantly. “You see, the entire Genetic Fitness Evaluation process demands that we judge everyone ‘honestly,’ but in so doing we are forced to set compassion aside because it becomes a liability. Caring for someone who is too sick or too feeble to take care of themselves is a waste of time and energy, so we simply cut them out. Then the cycle begins all over again and therein lies the ultimate fallacy.”

  A shock ran up John’s spine as he began to understand. “Because it can never stop.”

  “Exactly,” Buck said, excitement rising in his voice. “Where is the line? There will always be someone who needs help, someone who has less than everyone else. So we keep cutting, but with each cut, we uncover someone else too weak to be tolerated, someone else who must be eliminated. By nature, it can never end. We just keep cutting and cutting, and good, honest people just like you will keep suffering until we eventually destroy ourselves.” Buck looked far away now, deep in thought as his entire body started shaking. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be. This isn’t
what we intended.”

  John hesitated for a moment. “We?” he asked softly.

  Buck quickly turned to face John, as if waking from a trance. “What?”

  “You said ‘we.’”

  Buck shook his head again. “I meant the collective ‘we,’ the all of Haven ‘we.’” Clearing his throat, Buck continued, “My point is if you had a child, would you take care of him?”

  “Of course I would,” John replied.

  “Right, of course you would. You would work yourself ragged to make sure he had enough food to eat and a warm place to sleep. You would do whatever it took to ensure he was safe and healthy. You would keep yourself up at night, wondering how you could be a better parent tomorrow than you were today, and you would love that child so much that it made your heart ache because that’s what any decent parent would do.”

  “That’s the whole point of all of this though, isn’t it? Because it’s not just decent parents who are having children.”

  Buck was looking John right in the eye now. “Do you honestly believe that whatever condition the Council is convinced you have would keep you from being a decent parent?”

  John shifted uncomfortably for a moment, unsure how to answer. It was a question he had never considered before. Buck must have sensed John’s discomfort, however, because he quickly moved on.

  “All I’m saying is, maybe loving your child as much as you possibly can is all that matters. What right does anyone have to say it isn’t enough? One imperfection doesn’t make someone any less human.”

  There was a twinge of pain in Buck’s face and a hint of sorrow in his voice as if all of this was coming from someplace deeply personal.

  “I’m sorry,” Buck said, waving his hand dismissively. “I didn’t mean to go off on a rant. I’m tired and old and I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.” Buck turned to check the candle, now all but melted on its base. “Time to go.”

  Buck moved to wake Tim.

  “Let him sleep,” John said. “I’ll help you carry him.”

  Gathering up the books and scooping Tim up in his arms, Buck led John to the east side of the asylum, towards the terminal ward.

  They hadn’t traveled far when John noticed a crude, red line running along the wall. The line was uneven and meandered up and down the hall—thick drip lines trickling down from it as if the painter had simply run down the hallway with a wet paintbrush.

  Buck’s and Tim’s room was just like John’s in the temp annex of the asylum. It was just as small and just as dingy, but only two dirty mattresses laid on the floor instead of half a dozen.

  Setting Tim down gently on the nearest mattress, John whispered a quick goodnight to Buck and turned to leave, but as he headed towards the door, Buck pulled him aside.

  “I know this probably doesn’t mean much,” Buck whispered, “and it’s not my place to say. But for what it’s worth, I think you would have made an excellent father.”

  A pit settled in John’s stomach. He looked away from Buck and back into their dirty little room in the most hopeless wing of the most miserable place in Haven. His gaze fell on Tim, still sleeping soundly on the floor, and as John watched him, he realized he didn’t feel quite as defeated as he had just earlier that night. Maybe he was in denial or maybe reality hadn’t finished sinking in yet, but whatever the reason, he felt hopeful, as if there were events in motion that had yet to play out.

  “You too, Buck,” said John. Then, nodding to Tim sleeping soundly on his bed, added, “Then again, you kind of already are.”

  Buck smiled. “Goodnight, John,” he said and closed the door.

  Standing in the darkness, John turned and headed back the way he came, but as he approached the first hallway intersection, John had to pause. He hadn’t paid close enough attention to where Buck had led him, because he wasn’t entirely sure how to get back to his room.

  If I can find the library, I can find my way back, he told himself, but he wasn’t entirely confident he knew the way and the darkness made it all the more disorienting.

  John turned in the direction he hoped was the library and set off. But before he could even make it to the end of the hall, John heard footsteps coming down the corridor towards him. Panicking, John ducked around the nearest corner. Should he try to run for it? No, they’d hear him for sure. His best chance was to stay put and hope the men wouldn’t come this way.

  Pressing his body against the wall, John tried to make his breathing as quiet as possible.

  “Can you believe these ridiculous hours they’re making us work?”

  John stiffened. The voices were much closer than he had originally thought.

  “It’s down-right unreasonable if you ask me,” another voice replied, getting nearer and nearer. “Those chambers haven’t been used in over a century. I doubt they’ll ever be functional again, no matter how many all-nighters we pull.”

  They were even closer now, the light from their lantern spilling around the corner, threatening to illuminate John’s hiding place. He backed away as silently as he could, sliding further down the corridor, away from the lantern light.

  “Did you hear that?”

  John froze, his heart thumping in his ears.

  “Hear what?” the second voice asked.

  He could hear one of the men moving towards him now, light flooding around the corner as the footsteps drew nearer. Maybe he should have tried to run for it after all. Maybe it wasn’t too late to run now. John peered down the hallway into the darkness, but without knowing exactly where he was going, he doubted he would make it very far before they overtook him.

  A loud wail vibrated through the corridors.

  “You’re hearing things. Let’s get back to work.”

  As the footsteps disappeared down the hall, John let out a gasp. He had been holding his breath without even realizing it.

  John headed back to his room, his panic fading with each step. He wondered what job the men could have been talking about. There had to be close to a hundred different chambers in the asylum, and almost all of them were in disrepair, so that didn’t exactly narrow things down. As he walked, the same familiar clanging that occurred almost every night shook the entire asylum and rattled John’s insides. Almost instinctively, John’s hand went to the waistband of his jumpsuit, ensuring the journal was still there.

  The halls were quiet now, and even though he knew it was stupid and risky, John pulled the journal out from his waistband and ducked under a nearby lantern. It was burning low and barely gave off enough light for John to see his own hand in front of his face, let alone read anything, but he couldn’t resist any longer. Opening to the first page, his eyes strained to read the familiar line: My name is Theodore. These are my sins.

  John quickly turned to the next page.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been here now. Twenty years? Thirty? It’s starting to all bleed together. But I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m going to be here until the day I die, which may not be much longer now.

  The guards informed me I’m not allowed visitors anymore. Not just me, in fact. The entire terminal ward. The Council is beginning to suspect someone inside the asylum is responsible for inciting the rebellion. Paranoid, senile old men, the lot of them. They’re right, but they’re still paranoid.

  Cutting me off from the rest of the rebels isn’t going to change anything, though. The rebellion is all but dead. We tried our best, but in the end, we just didn’t have the strength to overthrow the Council.

  I thought I could fix it. I tried to fix it. I tried so desperately to undo all of the mistakes the rest of the Original Team and I had made, but it’s taken too strong of a hold on Haven. They’ve accepted our half-concocted theory as truth and based their entire sense of morality around it. But it’s not moral, it’s not inspired. It’s lies and filth and depravity. And it can’t go on.

  John closed the journal. He couldn’t believe it. Right here, in Emerson Asylum, he had found the journal of one of the m
embers of the Original Team.

  Morgan woke that morning feeling worse than she had the day before. Every part of her body ached as she climbed out of bed, already exhausted.

  It was as if a ten-pound brick sat in her stomach, a hot ball of fire that made her insides twist and turn, looking for the fastest escape. Weeks of stress and loss of appetite were taking their toll on her weary body. It had all been worth it though. The knifer had guaranteed her that John would be home in just a few more days.

  Morgan swallowed hard, willing herself not to be sick as she got out of bed and feebly began to get dressed. If ever there was a day to stay in bed and forget about the outside world, today was the day. But she doubted she would be able to ignore the stress fluttering in her stomach anyway. Besides, the fresh air will do me good, she said to herself as she slipped her dress over her head.

  The air was crisp that morning, and the bite of cold helped Morgan take her mind off her aches and pains as she walked out of the apartment and down to the street, where Katherine and Charles were already waiting for her.

  Together they set off towards the breach, to where the medicine woman lived. She was an aged doctor of sorts Morgan had never heard of. Not surprising, Katherine had commented, considering Morgan had grown up in the most elite part of Northridge and had never found herself “in trouble.” The medicine woman was famous in Southend and even shady parts of Northridge for discreetly taking care of any needs a young lady might have, including off-the-record prenatal check-ups.

  They walked to the edge of Southend—past the shops, the houses, and even past the unfit colonies— to where the buildings were barely more than piles of loose brick. There, among the rubble, was a tiny shack that, upon first glance, barely resembled anything more than a pile of bricks itself. The whole building was barely taller than Morgan and leaned dangerously to the left. A cracked, warped plank hanging by one hinge served as what Morgan assumed was supposed to be the front door.

  Katherine knocked on the makeshift door of the tiny shack and took a step back. A moment passed with no answer. Perhaps no one was home—a thought that relieved Morgan—but then the door slowly creaked open. An ancient woman with wild graying hair peeked out from behind the door.