No one should be nning their suicide before reaching adulthood.

I have.

Tonight will be the longest night of the year and will also mark my birthday. I had never bfeared /bthe arrival of ba /bday the way I fear this one. Since I can remember, I’ve been warned about my terrible fate—the one that awaits all firstborns in this new society.

“ra!” My mother’s voice pulls me from my daydreams. b“/bDinner is ready!”

I look at my reflection onest time before rising from the vanity and descending the rickety stairs to the living room where my family awaits. The stairway is lit by a half–consumed candle resting in a wall sconce. Since their arrival, progress ihas /istopped. We’ve been condemned to live their way. Damned nostalgics with an aversion to technology. Everything I know about the “advanced world” is what I’ve been able to read in old books or seen in photographs that are already beginning to fade and crack. We’ve spent over a century going backward in time, adapting to their way of life: we travel by carriage, wear pompous and ufortable clothes, andmunicate by letter. I was born whenputersb, /bcell phones, and gasoline–powered cars bwere /balready just ba /bmemory in the minds of the oldest people.

I step on thest stair, which bcreaks /bunder my weighti, /iand find my entire family gathered around the table. My mother serves soup with adle, filling the bowls with ba /bsmile, because being able to offer us this meal tonight is not somethingmon. We are not a wealthy family, not even middle ss.

“Sweetheart, sit down, it’s getting cold.”

I take my bce next /bto my seven–year–old sister, Abigail, a little girl with copper–toned curls and honey–colored eyes. She smiles at me with her gap–toothed grin.

“Don’t be nervous, maybe they won’t choose youb./b”

My father’s voice is sweetb, /bbjust /blike he is. Sometimes I think he’s like that with me because I’ve been marked since birth. Being the firstborn had branded me and condemned me to a miserable fateb. /bbA /bfate where I’m seen as a mere source of food for those cold, sadistic, soulless beings.

“I’m not nervous,” I lie. b“/bI’ve spent eighteen years preparing for this.”

I know the smile doesn’t reach my eyes, though I try to convey as much calm as possible. This isn’t easy for them–how could it be for any parents? In a few hours, it will be my eighteenth birthday, and in just a few days, there will be a full moon, which means entering the Red Auction. bIf /byou’re lucky, maybe no one will buy you, but clinging to that hope is foolish. We’re products, we’re just blood. They’ll end up buying us, whether you’re attractive, bony, or sickly. Sooner or bter/bb, /bsomeone will be willing to feed on you.

“To be exact, it’s been seventeen years and three hundred and sixty–four days,” says my brother, trying to lighten the mood. “Don’t ask me to be more precise with hours, minutes, and seconds because on that I might fail you.”

I roll my eyes; this bis /btypical of himb–/bresorting bto /bsilly humor when situations overwhelm him. Silvanob–/bwhom we all call Ssb–/bis my younger brother by ten months, yet he insists on acting older than me. He has ba /bbroad, stocky body, strawb–/bgolden hair, and honey–colored eyes like Abigail. Mine bare /bbgray/b, empty, without color. Everything about me seems to bck /bbrightness, from my eyes to the dark shade of my hair.

I grab the spoon and take a bit of soup. My mother’s gaze is on me, waiting for me to say something or breact /bin some way. I smile at her, and she seems to brx /bin her bseat/b. Her hair is the same color as my brother’s, slightly graying and tied in ba /bblow /bbun at the nape of her neck. And although her bgaze /bis the sweetest I’ve bever /bseen, it’s also the saddest.

b“/bIt’s delicious, Mom.”

1 force myself to keep eating, even though my stomach bis /bclosed from bnerves/b. I’m a terrible daughter and bsister /bfor what I n to do tonight. Surely they won’t be proud to have raised such a selfish daughter, willing to end her life out of fear of living it bto /bthest breath with those insatiable, sinful

creatures.

“So you say you and Lea are going for ba /bwalk bnear /btheke…b” /bsays my father. “You know you shouldn’te back bte/bb, /bit’s getting dark. No matter what they promise, they’re dangerousb./b”

“I knowb, /bDad, don’t worryb, /bbwe’ll /bbe fineb.” /b

He strokes his several–day–old beard with his fingers while examining bme/b. Does he know my true intentions? Do I wear them all over my face? Finally, he turns his attention back to the bowl.

“Can Ieb?/bb” /basks Abigail. “Pleaseb, /bbplease/bb…/bb” /b

b“/bNo,” bwe /bball /banswer bat /bonce.

Abigail pouts and goes back to her soup. The atmosphere is more tense than expected; it shouldn’t be like this, but the threat bis /bin the air, and no one bis /bwilling to ignore it. In four bdays/bb, /bI’ll leave this bhouse/bb, /bmost likely for the rest of my life.

I don’t leave a single drop in the bowl before standing. I look at my whole family, imprinting them on my memory. I wish I could btell /bSs bthat /bbI /bhope he forgives me someday for bwhat /bmy bdeath /bbwill /bcost him, for the bway /bit will condemn him. I wish I could exin bthat /bbI’ve /bblived /bwith bfear /bfor

b1/2 /b

b12:17 /bPM

many years, and I can’t bear it any longerb. /bThat death feels like a walk in the parkpared to the fate life has in store for me.

I do none of that. I just smile at them onest time, run to my room, and there I grab a fur–lined cloak that Lea gave me years ago and which I’ve kept carefully, as it’s one of the few valuable things I own. After a few minutes, I slip out the door under everyone’s gaze. The cold air kisses my cheeks, and although the first snowfall hasn’t byet /be, I bfear /bit won’t be long. bI /bwalk the path to Lea’s house, located a couple of streets from mine. Thest workers walk the streets, eager to take refuge in the warmth of their homes, some women finish gathering theundry they hung out this morningb, /band shopkeepers are closing up their businessesb. /b

Lea is right at the entrance of the little path to her house, waiting for me, all bundled up in her cloak, her nose red from the cold. She smiles, and even if she doesn’t mean to, it’s ba /bsad smile. Her orange hair frames her face.

“ra!” She runs a bfew /bsteps toward me. “I thought you weren’ting!”

“Sorry, I got a little dyed.” I link my arm with hersb, /band we start walking through the dirty vige streets. “How’s the family?”

“Same bas /balways. Mom’s still waiting for Sophie’s letters every week, but it’s been two weeks since thest one.”

“The broads /bare bad, mail hasn’t been arriving oftentely,” I try to reassure her.

Sophie is Lea’s older sister. A year ago, she entered the Red Auction and was bought. Not everyone is lucky enough to have owners who allow them to stay in contact with their families. Most are torn away from thempletely, considered dead to the world. Sophie is lucky–she was bought by one who doesn’t care about anything other than having a midnight snack.

Theck of mail might just be ba /bcoincidence or, in the worstb–/bbcase /bscenario…

“Mom’s going to fall ill if this keeps up, and Dad’s been working too much. I think they’re starting to bfear /bthe worst, and I… I don’t know how to feel.”

“I’m sure she’s just dyed a little, don’t lose hope.” I stroke her hand with mine, giving her little pats. “How are yourtest readingsb?/bb” /b

I try to distract her by talking about those huge books that talk about the world before. Lea is a curious girl, ever since she learned to read she’s loved scouring the little market stalls for books that tell how life used to be. I love that about herb–/bI like sitting by theke shore and listening to her ramble for hours about how people our age used to rteb, /babout fashion, bso /bchanging, fleeting, and much morefortable than today’s.