Planet Quarantine

• Alyssa Fourmile, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2018

The woman’s jaw was no longer clasped together for dear life, the grinding sensation of her teeth faded. Her baring nails released its grip from her husband’s hand as the sounds of her blood-curdling screams that rebounded off the walls ceased. The sight of her veins being imprinted into her skin vanished as her once bulging eyes relaxed as tears of relief and happiness rolled down the sides of her face.

“Can I see my child?” she breathlessly whispered in a hushed tone to the mid-wife, finding it hard to regulate her breathing patterns. She was exhausted to say the least, but the sheer determination to see her baby was enough to keep her awake. She had to see her child.

The lady’s eyes were fixated on the child, her demeanour grew cold and merciless, her lips curved into a snarl. She held the baby close to her chest, forbidding the young parents to see their child. The lady snapped her eyes to the mother, a bitter look presented itself as she tried her best to silently translate her concerns. This is for your own good, the mid-wife mouthed in secrecy to the couple, her eyes anxiously darting around the room. Discreetly, she lent towards the mother, revealing the face of her child.

A sharp pain struck in her chest as her lip quivered, agony taking hold of her as prisoner. Her child’s lips were a mix of a dark blue and purple, its skin deathly pale.

Without hesitancy, the lady began to exit the room, ignoring the tender pleads from the parents. “The Doctor will see you very shortly.” She twisted her neck slightly, so they were now visible in her peripheral vision, “Mention anything about your child being infected, and I will take the pleasure of murdering it in cold blood.”

The mid-wife jumped as the door knob began turning, she looked at the doctor momentarily as she feigned innocence. She positioned the child so only the doctor could examine it before she departed into the dim corridor.
The room was silent, the doctor not even attempting to provide support or sympathetic gestures to the hurting couple. He pulled up a vacant chair and positioned himself opposite the couple, paperwork’s in hand as a sadistic smile danced across his lips.

“I’m truly sorry to inform you, Mr and Mrs Hemming, but your child is infected with the Death. It’s a deadly epidemic that happens to be a genetic mutation passed down from mother to child that affects the lifespan of the infected. Unfortunately, it is incurable, so you are left with two decisions. Either, you send your son to Planet Quarantine, where all infective’s live peacefully until their death,” he paused, his full attention directed to the father with a sinister, dark expression, “Or my personal favourite, Prolicide.”

The father’s heart swelled with guilt as he was compelled by the doctor’s suggestive smile.

“You have an hour to decide,” the doctor chimed as he handed them the paperwork.