Children are the future, so that is why we buy them.
Collect a child, collect a legacy.
Legacies aren’t made; they’re bought!
Lease for a Leash!
Turn your blood into gold.
The colourful flyers are bulleted into the white picket fence community and shine so splendidly under the golden coin of a sun. Some lavish flyers are occasionally freed and charge into the air with limited curiosity, floating dully as they wonder who they could encounter. One unfortunately encounters me and slaps me hard in the face as if frustrated. It’s a Sports Day flyer.
Yes, today was stupid Sports Day. Children’s Day for kids. Investment Day for parents. It’s already in full march. The heavy stench of sweaty kids and the pretty cologne of cunning adults set up camp in my nose. I can only withstand it because of the army of treats that take refuge in my nostrils — smells of candyfloss, popcorn, hotdogs, and burgers. It makes me hungry; I feel human again. There is a whispering in my stomach. Sadly, the grownups won’t give you food unless you participate in the events, and I am sitting out. This is my rebellion, my truth, my stand.
People move around. Kids have collars around their necks, being guided by their parents as they parade across the fields. Parents in black dresses or suits while kids wear their monochrome gym kits. This was playtime for the children. Serious business for the adults. A stupid business. It always felt like a stupid parody of ‘Keeping up with the Joneses’. And us children, us living breathing tiny humans have become the commodity.
Another stupid thing is that we are in a ‘park’ for Sports Day. Yes, I use that term rather loosely.
There are no trees in this neighbourhood. No family roots or trees for our world. No one knows their first home — the womb. Having a child wasn’t a right or a responsibility, it was a privilege. Children have become a commodity to be collected and paid for. That’s why we wear leashes. You need a parenting license to have a child. Even blood needs to be bought with coins.
Well, I lied before. They are ‘trees’. Metal ones perfectly lined the ‘park’ like little soldiers. The hairs of their branches couldn’t even be combed with a spear. At least the trees were costumed with large banners that wrote ‘Win’ in golden italics. Too theatrical.
The neighbourhood always felt too theatrical. White tables and chairs symmetrically arranged, lots of reporters buzzing round like little generals or directors. The cameras flash and thunder here and there. Whistles blowing, acting as sound effects, announcing your fate. The white picket fence spirals round the park, sort of like the end of a cul-de-sac, sort of like a landmine. Parents acting, impersonating showmanship or sportsmanship. They applaud, critique and review us actors, us children. The event was a spectacle, a mixture of a climax, a resolution, so much intensity, so much passion, so much hidden suffering.
Speaking of suffering…
The soldiers of grass spear and prick into my skin. Sports Day always felt like a military activity, a drill to show your worth as a commodity. The primary purpose of Sports Day was simple: ‘show you are a wonderful investment’, either to make your parents proud or a chance for a parentless’, aka an orphan, to be picked by one of the adults. If you pass, ‘Wonderful investment’, but if you fail, ‘Bad Product’ or ‘Failed Investment’.
‘Hahahahah!’
‘Come on, let’s go to the podium!’
Some of the giggling children pass me, chasing each other with corn dogs in hands. They have ribbons, a badge to get food. My stomach whispers again. They were winners. That is why they could smile. Their childish laughter does not warm my heart; it feels like a military propaganda song. It reminds me that I’m going to have to join this war soon and participate in Sports Day,.at least one day.
‘You’re a wonderful investment.’
I turn my head to see a rich lady sweetly ruffling her daughter’s money-gold locks. The little girl plays with her golden leash with pride. For her it is not a collar but a necklace. She thinks it’s one of those pearl necklaces that her ‘mother’ owns. I can’t blame her; she must have been sold into a wealthy family. Maybe they were her real parents, or maybe not, but either way, she gets to chew on a golden spoon. But I’m a ‘parentless’ and don’t have a spoon to chew.
‘Investment! Yay! Investment!’
The girl grins thinking ‘investment’ is a sort of special badge, a special prize for lucky good girls like her. A special prize for winners, for good products, good investments. I’m a Failed Product.
The lady has a rich smile plastered on her face as the cameras take pictures of the smiling duo. Cameras overwhelm them. Good investments are good examples to be shown off. They notice me nearby; the cameras fear me and don’t even look my way. The adults scorn me and shove me away, as I, the Failed Product, ‘stain’ the stage. Yes, the lovely stage of our white picket fence community.
I stalk off, I desert my post. I drag my feet through the ‘park’. I stop briefly at a food court. It is split into two sections, on the left ‘Good investment’ and on the right ‘Bad investment’. Obviously, I’m on the right, where nothing is left. Most of the food is gone, except a few juice boxes. I remind myself that I can’t take food, since I didn’t participate, but I can at least take drinks — two apple juices will be my companion today.
I sip on it eagerly, and the rich sugar melts and teases my tongue. A mixture of cheers, whistles and camera shuttles wrap round the air like a warm blanket. It was a nice day, a cool sunny one. If only it wasn’t Sports Day, it would have felt nice to be in this park, to be in the sun. I want to be a child again.
‘You got this — show your investment, dear!’
I watch some competitions. There were no team sports. It’s not Sports Day, it’s Investment Day. I see one-on-one volleyball matches and penalty shootouts. It’s always fun to watch dodgeball — everyone is your enemy, and the chaotic energy charges through the throws. Dodgeballs are cannonballs to release your bottled-up anger. The kids were angry.
Every child for themselves. We aren’t here to make friends; we are here to show our use.
‘Useless! Useless! Useless!’ It almost sounds like a chant. The kind that supernaturally paralyses people.
A man ruthlessly beats his child for the silver medal. They always say people in suits are kind, but he sure as hell wasn’t. ‘You think I want a FAILED PRODUCT?! You’ve disgraced me, absolutely useless!’
The boy quietly takes the beating, his small body cowering as he shields his head. This was a loser. They aren’t important. No one pays a second glance. This isn’t a spectacle, I pull my eyes away — the kindest thing I can do is not look. My eyes, ears and lips saw nothing. Moving on.
‘She’s amazing.’ I roll my eyes. I didn’t even have to look at who it was.
Melody was acing the creative competition, crushing dreams and opportunities for others. She was a star. I always called her ‘Muse’.
A muse in art, music, photography. You name it and she had a gold medal for it.
Her cement eyes are hollow and rigid with boredom. Her small nose is pinched, her eyes thinly squinted as the dazzling cameras jump round her. She’s as serious as the statue she made. ‘Winners don’t smile,’ that was her motto. She looks miserable; her ghostly white hair doesn’t help either. She’s the ghost of a golden kid. She’s not burnout, she’s ‘washed out’. Reporters jeer and encourage her.
‘Your smile is upside down, darling.’
‘Come on, this will be on the papers.’
Some even dangle treats at her as if she’s a dog. She grips her sculpting tool: that is her second finger, her chains, her sword, and her investment.
‘I will smile when I become a perfect investment.’
She leaves the sculpting section, and oh, darn it, she’s coming for me. Malicious Melody Muse is on her way! She swarms in fast like a tank. I slurp my apple juice with slight annoyance.
‘Hey, Failed Product.’ She mockingly grins, showing off her gold medals. One, two, … there’s five. My neck has never felt so empty, and I don’t even like jewellery.
‘Hey, Prisoner,’ I reply.
‘Shut up, Failed Product!’
‘I know all the grownups call me that, but I prefer the name Leah. After all, that’s what Miss Vivienne named me.’ I chuckle, dining on her growing irritation. She hates me because I’m free. She hates me because I am ‘cameraless’. Why must there always be a ‘less’ to my name? Miss Vivienne always says ‘less is more’, but I have no treasures.
‘Shut it. Failed Products can’t talk, and you don’t deserve Miss Vivienne.’
Miss Vivienne told me not to fight. I turn away, my mouth always ready for round two, but my mind knows better. I turn, but Muse won’t let me go. She grabs my arm.
‘Don’t go — I haven’t yet rubbed my medals in your face’. A cruel grin matures her youthful face. This was power. The elegant adults turn to me, their faces stiffening. I’m a subject of scorn, a ticking time bomb that needs to be risk-assessed, and until further notice, I will be labelled a ‘Failed Product’.
‘Focus on me, idiot!’ Malicious Muse demands. She rehearses her taunting. ‘You’re smart to not have participated. You would never win’. Insults spill out of her like a fountain. Alright you want to be a fountain today, Muse, fine I will be one too.
Today, I decided I was going to be an apple juice fountain. I spit and squirt my apple juice all over Melody Muse. The apple juices really were great companions while they lasted. They had good aim, and she was drenched in it. Her white uniform now coloured; she wasn’t pretty for the cameras. Good.
An eye for an eye. I’m dumped with water by her aunty, yes, they need to cool down the mad dog. My blonde hair turns to rats’ tails, scurrying to soak my jersey. My emerald-green eyes explode as the adults snatch my friends from my hands — the boxes of apple juices now held captive in their large fingers.
‘Just because you want to be a bad brat and not participate doesn’t mean you should ruin the success of others and—’
‘My, my, my. Please forgive my dearest Leah. She is still young.’
The parents flinch hearing the voice that cut them off and immediately bow their heads in shame. It was Sweet Vivienne. Mother Vivienne the surrogate. Her baby-blue dress dances soothingly in the breeze, her womb thriving, nurturing a living investment. She has authority in her own right as a ‘State Surrogate’. She protectively shields me, hugging my head to her chest as she shoos Melody Muse, the adults, and my apple juice. They admire her a lot, she deals with me the ‘problem child’. Her ocean-blue eyes pooled with inviting warm love, something so high in demand but low in supply.
‘Miss Vivienne.’ My voice is tender with joy, as I pull her towards a lonely white bench. I want her for myself. I’m not sharing her with the losers. Often, Miss Vivienne comforts the ‘losers’ but not anymore. I’m ruining her streak, and she’s mine.
She smiles an elegant smile. I’m a person to her. Not her daughter, but a person, and for that I am grateful. She is my home.
‘Leah, darling, why won’t you participate? After all, it is Children’s Day.’
I scowl. ‘It’s stupid.’
Most parents would have exploded, but she just cups her face, her eyes shining with curiosity as if testing me for more. It wasn’t a supervising gaze. I’m not in trouble.
‘When did parenting become so transactional? It feels so stupid, this event, this community, this country. We look so good on the outside but were so pathetic. I’m not an investment!’
Miss Vivienne’s grin glows brighter and richer. Maybe she ate the sun for breakfast today. It is even stranger how she keeps rubbing her belly bump. I feel a little awkward seeing it but continue till I’m breathless.
‘My, such an opinionated child you are.’
‘Is it bad?’
‘No, stay angry.’ Miss Vivienne has a strange amused look in her eyes as she rubs her belly bump with foreign nostalgia.
‘Wait, shouldn’t you be telling me to be happy or something?’ I tilt my head.
Miss Vivienne shakes her head. ‘Anger is wonderful. Most change comes from anger or fear. More importantly, Leah, do you want to make the grownups angry, today?’
I freeze at the question.
She adds a sunny smile and continues in a measured tone, as if to soften the dangerous question.‘I hate this stupid parenting system as much as you do.’ She holds her stomach as if in pain. ‘The government raids my womb, stealing my treasure. But look on the bright side, sweet Leah, we can be pirates in front of all these cameras. This is your stage. They’re waiting for you, waiting for us. How wonderful it will be if the Failed Product comes and wins the last game. We both know you are the best investment here.’
I flinch at the title. I awkwardly laugh. ‘That’s not tru—’
‘You will easily win the hurdle competition. You used to jump fences for a living.’
‘Okay… Fine.’ I hold my hands up in awkward surrender. ‘How did you even know?’
‘Money does a lot of talking and watching, Leah. Moving on, I will reward you well, I’ll tell you who your real mother is. You might even stop being a Parentless.’ She giggles seeing my hanging mouth and lovingly closes it. ‘And your mother is even present tonight in the crowd. Become my investment today. Let me reap today and maybe you’ll stop being a Parentless.’
My eyes gleam with childish curiosity. Such a dangerous temptation.
History only remembers the winners. They always drilled that into us children. Who cares about the process of how I won? All that matters is that I’m looking down at them from the podium. I’m a figurehead.
‘What do you think, Muse?’ I grin charmingly, my neck adorned with medals. Even though I purposely did not participate in most of the games, I won the final event carrying triple points.
For the second time in history, a ‘Failed Product’ had won. Take a good look, Muse and keep scowling. I hope that scowl spins your face like a windmill. The cameras reluctantly flutter their eyes my way, taking my picture. I am adorned with a golden wreath, my smile growing brighter.
‘The Failed Product has won. What about your investment?’ I say into the microphone. Most parents clench their fists, but they say nothing. I feel a bit bad because a few kids get dragged by the ear to receive private punishments.
‘Darling Leah, that’s enough. After all, we have more important matters.’ Miss Vivienne smiles at me, and only I can see the playfulness in her ocean-blue eyes.
‘Yes! My reward!’ I jump off the podium and toss the golden wreath and medals. They were weighing me down. I don’t need these silly things anyway; it was just to rub it in their faces. I look at Muse one more time and stick my tongue out but my face falters slightly seeing the red mark on her cheek. That wasn’t there before. I look away and run to Miss Vivienne’s sweet loving arms, seeking reassurance, seeking comfort. Her arms always invited me in. I grin. ‘So who’s my mother?’ I curiously look around.
Miss Vivienne gently guides my chin lovingly back to her. She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. How strange?
‘Where are you looking? Your mother is right here. Your first home was my womb, Investment Number 4. You are a wonderful investment and you have made me proud.’
The words haunt me. My neck felt so heavy, even though I had already thrown the medals away. She wasn’t my home; it was an office. I’ve become less again.
◆◆◆
The little blonde girl freezes, her emerald eyes shattering in revelation. A waterfall of tears rushes down her eyes.
Miss Vivienne casually fishing in them, hoping to maybe find a jewel or coin. She enjoys Leah’s resentment; it will help her business. Anger brings change.
A loaded shotgun of a question fires from Leah’s quivering lips.
‘If it’s true, why didn’t you lease me? You had the money to buy a parenting license for me.’
Miss Vivienne deflects the bullet by saying, ‘You are too expensive. Love is very expensive. I can’t afford it, but I can afford your resentment. It is cheap.’
‘But you taught me that blood is thicker than water.’ Leah tries reloading her statement, but bulletproof Miss Vivienne cuts her off.
‘Blood is not thicker than money. You will be wise to remember that.’
Miss Vivienne, the surrogate, buries the sobbing girl’s face into her chest. Vivienne feels a kick. Her womb is filled with golden coins. She glances at her stomach — Investment 5 wants eviction soon. Vivienne the surrogate dully observes the shining cameras.
This is the currency of a childhood.
The flyers playfully float ‘buy’; they are ‘invested in this tragic business spectacle.
Children are the future, so that is why we invest in them.
Collect a child, collect a legacy.
Legacies aren’t made; they’re bought.
Lease for a leash.
Turn your blood into gold.