Filtered by G.K. Lamb

glad for the nap now even with its grogginess. I walk over to him, lift my mask up, and kiss him on the cheek.
    “I love you, darling,” he says.
    “I love you too, Dad. There is plenty of food in the refrigerator.”
    “Thank you, sweetie. I’ll get some later.”
    His voice aches of exhaustion. That passes as a good conversation as of late. I move back to my place at the window. Thinking about tomorrow, I try and recall how many days have passed since I started throwing away my new filters. Remember, a fresh filter everyday keeps death at bay! If the illuminated housewife on the billboard is correct I should havedied months ago. That’s one lie down. Now is the time to move on to the next phase of the escape.
    With the television’s dancing light obscuring the view it takes longer than usual for the billboard wear your mask to fill my vision. I am finally ready to take it on. I’ve tunneled under the prison walls; now I’m anxious for a taste of the sweet air of freedom. Glancing over at Father, already asleep sitting up, dancing blue light reflecting off his shut eyelids, I wonder if I can get my parents out of their prisons too. Or have they been in them so long that it has begun to feel like home? Excited by my escape attempt tomorrow, sleep won’t come easy, but I need to try. I switch off the television. The room looks calm in the dark. I walk slowly to bed, making sure I close the door softly so I don’t wake him.
    As I stare at the celling, my thoughts are filled with the image of the dead girl on the billboard and the words wear your mask . Her twisted shape is replaced by Delia’s. That image is haunting enough, but soon the image of Cinnamon rasping with bloody breaths takes a hold of me and won’t let go. I don’t feel it approach, but soon sleep engulfs me. Visualizations of myself choking on polluted air fill my dreams the rest of the night.

Chapter Thirteen
    Even with my eyes shut and a pillow over my head my mother’s presence is palpable. Whirr pause, whirr pause; her rhythmic breaths resonate uncomfortably in my ears. Pulling the pillow off I see her vacant eyes behind the glass disks of her plastic prison cell. Obediently I pull the covers back and sit on the edge of the bed. Her hands extend, placing the filter in my hands. I’ve done this so many times that it’s second nature. The dead filter plunks into the trash.
    I am unable to gauge any emotion on her covered face as she turns and begins her long shuffle back toward the vortex in her bedroom. I hope it still makes her happy to know I’m not going to die. I wish I could tell her what I’ve been doing, but the shock might kill her in the state she’s in. I don’t know if I can ever tell her. Even if I took her out to the street and took my mask off in front of her, she probably wouldn’t believe you could breathe it. I still have a hard time believing Delia did it. Maybe she really would die if she didn’t wear her mask—from the shock alone. Hopefully one day I can figure out how to tell her.
    I’m already ahead of myself. I haven’t even broken free. And there is still the chance the posters, the news anchors, instructors, and my imprisoned mother are correct and the instant I take my mask off I’ll fall to the street writhing in pain for a few agonizing moments of burning, acrid breaths before my eyes gloss over and I exit this world.
    Either way I’m content with the outcome. If I live then I can begin to tear down the lies of our Great Society , and if I diethen at least I will serve as a warning to all those people who have their own doubts. I wonder what it would be like for a camera crew, so used to sporting events and fluff pieces, to film a real dead body? I’m sure they could handle it, they do it every day right?
    I pick the filter from the trash and replace it with the new one my mother just gave me. I get up. I wait until Mother’s door closes then I slip out of my room and head to the bathroom. I take a