My mother used to tell me that being good or bad was a decision we all make several times throughout our lives. Therefore, for her, only conscious people could be judged in that way: no child or animal could decide to be bad, and every person could change a decision previously made.

She always chose to be a good person, even when circumstances were never in her favor. Her unwavering spirit always stood firm for us. She raised my older brother and me to never think that revenge or violence were the solution to anything. My father, on the other hand, believed more in taking action to force a decision than in waiting for people to decide to be good on their own. Both were referring, without saying so, to the war that has been raging for over 30 years and consuming the nation.

I was there the night she was murdered. We were celebrating my tenth birthday alone when the Resistance terrorists arrived in their ships looking for my father. I have a vivid image of my mother: her tears, her flushed face, and her hands lifting me up and throwing me out of the house to save me as they forced their way in. I fell out the window, and that pain eclipsed every other thought. My ankle twisted sideways, and each step hurt more than the last. I remember running toward the foliage as fast as I could, pushing through the branches, my ankle burning. I remember crying and screaming until I was hoarse. Then came the explosion. When I turned around, fire shot up above the trees into the sky. After that, nothing.

I remember waking up on a regeneration bed, my head throbbing, my eyes moving involuntarily, and my mouth so dry my throat ached. It took me a while to understand where I was. As I began to move, the protective cover opened, and my brother appeared before me. He held me as I sat up. I wept uncontrollably. My grandparents wept too. They laughed through their sobs. They all hugged me as if I might disappear if they let go. I was very confused but very happy to be with them. For a moment, I was safe again.

It wasn't long before they took my brother's life too. Sometimes I wonder if death and misfortune seek out those who choose to be good first.

Thirteen years have passed since my mother's death and twelve since my brother's. But wherever I go, I carry them with me. I was able to salvage one of her necklaces. She said it was her favorite, although I don't think she actually liked it; it was a gift from us for one of her birthdays, and she always wore it. I kept one of my brother's childhood drawings. He drew very well, in my opinion, although the tattoo artist wasn't very impressed with that design: a huge bird with its wings outstretched, or at least that's what I think. I got it tattooed on my chest, and their names on each wing: Nelrick on the left, Damala on the right.

I haven't seen my father since the day I woke up in the hospital. I remember his eyes staring at me, empty, as if I weren't there anymore. He didn't say a word. Years later, I heard he'd gotten into a fight at a bar in Sector 23. No one who chooses to be good ends up there... but I went, looking for him. I walked from bar to bar, asking questions and avoiding trouble. But I couldn't find him. Over time, I stopped thinking about him. And the need to know about his whereabouts and situation faded away. I have nothing left of his.

Small fingers appear in front of my face.

"Why are you eating it?"

"Mmmh? I'm not eating it," I reply, taking the necklace from between my lips. "It just... helps me concentrate."

"Is it chocolate?"

"No," I smile. "It's a regular necklace, a replica of a scalloped necklace. It belonged to my mother."

"Oh... my mother died. So did my father." — she whispers, lowering her head.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, rummaging through my things and pulling out some chocolate pieces. “Look, do you want some?”

“Yes,” she replies, taking them shyly.

“Who are you traveling with?”

“With Mrs. Isabela. She’s looking after us.”

A deep voice booms over the loudspeakers, drowning out all other conversations. “We will be disembarking in 15 minutes. Begin security protocol.” The little girl’s eyes widen as if she’s seen a ghost, and she backs away, staggering toward the inner room. She must have lost a leg in some kind of seizure. Pieces of chocolate fall to the floor; I hurry to pick them up.

“Hey! Sit back down!” a soldier shouts from the other end.

I find myself staring at a gun. My heart races, and a chill runs down my spine. The ship's guards begin taking up positions around the refugees, controlling the deck, closing off passageways, windows, and doors. Each soldier is responsible for at least twenty refugees. The gravity engines vibrate as they adjust the altitude.

"That chocolate belongs to the little girl! I'm just picking it up to give it to her."

"Sit down!"

Would you keep reading? 

Why whould you keep reading?