Cecelia Ahern - Flawed

She is talking about her baby, who was taken from her at the hospital, all because she and her husband are Flawed. She had refused termination. Her daughter, two years old, is still in one of the five institutions in the country that house and rear Flawed babies. She doesn’t know which institution, she doesn’t know how she is, and she receives no communication from them whatsoever. She has lost all rights to her child. The speaker can no longer continue at this point and breaks down. There is an uncomfortable silence as she cries alone onstage, her visible pain making my heart ache. I feel Alpha leaves it a little too long before coming to her aid, as though she wants to rub it in all our faces.

“Loves the drama, this one,” Granddad says in my ear, and I nod in agreement.

Alpha joins the woman at the lectern, wraps her arm around her, and looks right down to the back of the room when she speaks. At me.

“We appreciate how difficult it was for Elizabeth to come here today and share her story with us. But Elizabeth’s reliving her story, sharing how shattering it has been for her and her husband, is not in vain. We can learn from this. It hurts us and it moves us, but we can take this with us and use it to spur us on to make change. Change doesn’t just happen. We all know that. We have to force it. Let us use Elizabeth’s story to help us to force change.”

There are nods of approval all around us, and applause breaks out.

Elizabeth, still crying, shows her appreciation as best she can. Alpha faces the audience as she embraces her, and we see her eyes closed intensely as though this is the biggest hug she has ever given in her life. It’s a little too orchestrated for me.

Alpha’s back at the mike stand. “Of course, Elizabeth’s not alone in her pain. All of us here today have our own stories, our own heartache. Our next speaker is Tom Hancock, and he is here to share his story with us. Please welcome him.”

For the next twenty minutes, we listen to Flawed Tom explain how, after his Flawed wife died, he spent ten years trying to find their son, a journey we hear in all its tortuous detail, only to find that on discovering him, and his grandchildren that he didn’t know anything about, that his son didn’t want to know him. His son had been so brainwashed by the institution that Flawed Tom had to beg his own son not to report him to the Whistleblowers.

After we hear Tom, we listen to a woman who used to work in the F.A.B. institutions and doesn’t believe in, or agree with, them. She gives us a rundown of their daily schedules, the lives the children lead. As she does this, I think of Carrick and what he has lived with for the past eighteen years of his life. These institutions are pumped up with government money, the facilities second to none. The government and the Guild pride themselves on creating such successes and say it is because the Flawed can be successfully cleansed at birth. For people like me, it’s too late, we cannot be healed.

“I suggested to a colleague,” the woman says, “that perhaps the reason these children are so well-rounded, so fully functional and successful, is because of the very fact that they have both genes of the Flawed and that in itself is a strength and breeds perfection.”

Everybody looks at one another in shock that this woman, an employee of the Guild, would have suggested such a thing. I watch the Whistleblower in the corner of the room, surprised that she is able to say this in his presence, but he doesn’t react. He looks bored, as though he’s heard it all before.

“Of course, that’s how I lost my job,” she says. “But I enjoyed the looks on their faces when the board called me in to explain what I’d said.”

There is light laughter.

I think of Carrick, of his build, the extensive training the F.A.B. children endure, and the education. He must be fast and strong. And clever. To have beaten the endless brainwashing he received daily makes him mentally strong, too. Perhaps he is perfect, as she says. Yet everybody in the Guild was so dismissive of him. I want him, I need him. I don’t think I will ever rest for the remainder of my life if I don’t find him again. Art and I talked every day, nonstop. Even when we got home from meeting on the summit, we would talk into the early hours over the phone about nothing and everything. Yet Carrick and I never had one conversation, and I feel we’ve shared more than anyone else I know.

My heart is pounding as I feel like just taking off right there and then on a mission to find him, but Granddad’s elbowing me in the already sore ribs brings me back into the room.

Alpha is at the lectern; she has been speaking, though I haven’t been listening.

I understand now why Granddad has elbowed me. People are staring at me. Alpha is looking at me, pretending as though she can’t see me. “Where is she?” she asks. “Celestine, are you still here?”

My heart pounds.

“Be careful,” Granddad whispers. “I’m not sure, Celestine, I’m not sure.…” He looks around as if looking for an exit.

I nod and stand up. I hear the gasps of surprise, and I am stunned that all these people recognize me. It does not thrill me. All I can think is that all these people know that I’m not perfect. All these people know what I did. They know what I am. There is nowhere for me to hide. I can’t even pretend, not as most people can do when they walk into a room.

I can’t help but shake my head and laugh nervously at the applause. I worked so hard to be perfect, to achieve plaudits, not admiration, but to be normal, not to stand out. My grades were excellent, I had enough friends so that I wasn’t a weirdo, but not too many so that I was popular. I was average. I worked so hard to be so average. But I made a mistake, the worst thing I could do, and in a room full of Flawed, I am celebrated. I’m embarrassed. I think they must be mistaken. I am not who they think I am.

They applaud, an enormous applause that grows and grows. Alpha beckons me up to the stage to her. I shake my head, but those around me urge me. Despite his reservations, Granddad looks proud. He starts to clap, too. They call me to the stage, and I have no choice. As I make my way out of the back row, people start to stand. It spreads as I walk up the center aisle, everybody standing and applauding me. The Whistleblower steps away from the wall, alert, not looking so bored now. His eyes on me make me nervous. I climb the steps to the stage and join Alpha, who is spurring them on to cheer. When I near her, she reaches out and takes my hand. She raises it in the air with her own in triumph. Then, suddenly, the cheers die down, so does the applause, and then everybody takes a seat. The rumble dies down, and soon the room is so quiet, my heart beating wildly from the adrenaline of what has just happened and now from the fear. They all look at me, so many faces, looking for me to say something hopeful, something meaningful, something that they can take home with them. Alpha steps away from me, gives me the stage. I can’t. I shake my head, but they encourage me.

“Say what you feel,” someone in the front row urges.

I try to think of how I feel, but all I feel is that this is wrong. I shouldn’t be here in front of all these people. I am not who they think I am. I helped an old man, and I want to bring Crevan down, but I am no leader. I can’t even say that because of the Whistleblower’s presence. I can’t inspire these men and women before me. The silence continues. I can hear my breath through the microphone. I take a step back, look down at my shoes. I have nothing to say. I look back at Alpha; I have to get off this stage. She looks a little angry, not the face I wanted to see. I was hoping for comfort. I’m not getting it from her. I look down the room to Granddad for his support, for his guidance, but he’s gone. I look around in surprise, trying to find him, locate him among the crowd, but there’s no sign of him.