Chapter One

Have you ever wondered whether you are a New Soul or whether you are in a long chain of incarnations? In our world that can be answered for us. Well, it has to be answered; it is part of the rules.

I sit next to my Mother on the bus to school. I watch as the world speeds past us. Colours blend into one another. Greens blend into blues. I often think of it like an artist's pallet. Swirling colours together and trying to make something new. Sometimes it works and other times it does not. That is what art is: an experiment. I think our society is a little like an artist's pallet. You take a colour and mix it with another just the same as you take a law and mix it with another law and pray that it works. If it doesn't then you quickly add another colour or another law, but you can never take that law or colour away once it has been added. It seems as if it is trial and error, or as they like to think of it ... Trial and improvement. My Mother scolds me for thinking and saying such things. I can't help it. I like to think I can have my say, even though I cannot.

Mother says it is dangerous to think such thoughts and say such things. She says I should think before I open my mouth and speak, one of our government's many phrases. My Mother reminds me of such phrases so much that I swear she has memorized the government's book of phrases and commandments. I am sure I see my Mother visibly relax when she comes home and finds that I am not surrounded by guards and my wrists are not accessorized with handcuffs.

Something to that effect happened last week during out Historical Figures And Times class. One boy in my year, who had always been very cheeky and open, blurted out exactly what he thought about our government. The room had gone silent. Mr Jones had taught us what happened way back in the past, when our society was a democracy. Admittedly things seemed so much nicer back then. Not just one leader, but a whole group of people, all talking, arguing and reaching decisions together. It seemed like a great place, a much better place than this one that we currently live in. Not that I would dare admit that in front of anyone apart from my Mother and even then I get such a look of condemnation from her. I wonder if there is a place like that outside our city walls? I guess it was because of the arguing and shouting that our government took over. Apparently no one could reach decisions without starting wars and causing even more arguments.

Mr Jones stared at the boy who had said exactly what was on his mind. Mr Jones had always been a soft hearted person, he taught us what we wanted and needed to know and he nurtured us. I think it was due to the fact that Mr Jones was ever so kind that the boy thought he could say what he wanted to say. However, when that boy broke the law he had no choice, but to call up the emergency line. The boy begged him not to and he apologised so much but Mr Jones was forced to do his duty. So when the police carried the poor boy away to his parents in handcuffs, Mr Jones said:
'Let that be a lesson to you all, ladies and gentlemen, we all have a duty in this world and those who disobey the rules set must be punished. Class dismissed.'

As I walked out of that classroom, I shivered, the look of horror on that boy's face still painted freshly in my mind. His askew hair from shaking his head wildly in protest. His normally rosey cheeks had turned crimson with embarrassment and his sleepy eyes were wide and panicked.

He was lucky he was only fifteen; had he have been sixteen he would have been taken away and shot. In our society we become adult at the age of sixteen. There was one girl who did the same as the boy in my year the day before she turned sixteen, two years ago. She was one day away from becoming an adult and because of this the government decided to shoot her. They broke their own laws and yet no one got prosecuted but when we break their laws we get shot! How is that fair? Answer: It isn't.

I wonder where the lad is now? Probably in the Young Offenders Institue, where all the law breakers under the age sixteen are sent for three years. Those who are sixteen or older get thrown into prison for a couple of weeks or so before they are brought to a room and shot.

I look away from the artist's pallet and look at my Mother. You could easily tell that she was a New Soul. They are the most prettiest out of all of us. They are perfect in every way. In looks most specifically. You can spot them a mile off. The girls have long wavy hair and perfect cheek bones, whereas the boys have perfect locks and spare upper lips. They do not have a favourite subject and they do average in every single lesson.

Depending on what your past life did depends on what your favourite subjects are and what you do well in. It also depends what profession you choose. Your past life's profession would probably be very simular to your own. For example, my Father's past life worked in an office and loved ICT and English. My Father, in turn, loved the same subjects and became a journalist.

My Mother found that she was a New Soul, which didn't surprise her very much at all. Most New Souls are asked if they would like to work in government; because they are so good in every subject. Most take up that offer. Those who are not New Souls tend to stay clear from the government side of things as we are not wanted there, unless they are requested to go to the Prime Minister's palace and get a personal job set by the goveners. However, this rarely happens. My Mother did not want to work in government, although she was offered a place, and this was her first and only defiance of today's society. Instead of becoming a politician she decided to set up her own beauty salon, the only one in the city and it is very popular to this day.

My Mother turns her head towards me; she could obviously tell that someone was looking at her. She should be used to it though, what with the amount of blokes she gets staring at her. She studies me for a while before saying:
'You could be a New Soul, you know, Jessica?'
I laugh at her comment.
"No, I cannot, one: I am not pretty enough and two: I love Historical Figures And Times, PE, English and Debates class far too much," I explain.
It was true. I absolutely love English and I am the top of my Debates class every single time. I don't exactly like Historical Figures And Times class but I excell in that class far too much for me to hate it. So either I am actually good at the subject or Mr Jones has a crush on me. I mentally laugh at that bizzare thought. Had I have been a New Soul, the story may have been different.

PE is a good subject too. I enjoy both practical and theory. Maybe that is because I do not mind a bit of mud. The other girls, whether they are New Souls or girls trying to emulate their beauty, will not do something if they are at risk of dirtying themselves or breaking a perfectly sculpted nail.

Mother looks at me disapprovingly.
"You are pretty enough to be a New Soul, darling, and who cares about your preference of subjects? They aren't always right, you know?" She asks.
Now it is my turn to look disapprovingly at my Mother.
"Don't say stuff like that, Mother!" I scold.
Mother smiles ever so slightly. Ever since that boy was taken away in handcuffs last week, I have refrained from speaking my mind. I only think the thoughts that I should not dare to now. However I do not speak them, something I think Mother is greatly pleased about.

In payment for following the law, the government have something unique to give us. Information. From the age of sixteen we can be called up to recieve the information that will change out lives. To find out whether we were someone before we are who we are today or if we are a New Soul. Once you have that information, you leave school and go to one of the selected workspaces available to you.

I thought about my Father. Did he know what he wanted to become? A journalist?
"Mother, what happened to Father?" I ask.
Father disappeared ten years ago, when I was six. I barely remember my Father as a man. I only remember who he used to be and that one day when I was six. The last day I ever saw my Father. I remember that Mother was quite anxious that day. Normally, I would be able to get away with not making my bed, however that day my Mother told me off for it. I remember running to my room and immediately making my bed. I heard a knock on the door and I remember looking out of the window and seeing people dressed in black. I could not see their faces as they had their hoods up and masks on. My Father went with these people but I still do not understand why. Mother says she will tell me when I am old enough. She does not know what I witnessed that day, that secret has remained soley with me for the last decade.

I look at Mother for an answer. Her eyes go wide, she licks her lips, sorts her hair out and lets her arms fall limply to her side. I sigh. This has been the same routine for the last decade. I know I will not be getting any answers today.
"When you are old enough, I'll tell you," She says as she has for the last ten years.
I nod, my suspicions are correct. Is sixteen not old enough? I am an adult in the eyes of society, but not in the eyes of my Mother.

I sigh once more before turning my attention back to the swirling colours outside. My own unique artist's pallet.