Our Beautiful Cage - Chapter One

Considering this is my first blog post, I feel it’s only right to share the first chapter of my debut dystopian fiction novel: ‘Our Beautiful Cage’.

However, before I do, here’s a few things I’ll be blogging about in future:

• What inspired me to start writing

• How I came up with the idea for ‘Our Beautiful Cage’

• Updates on future novels

• How I’m getting on as a self-published author

• What keeps me inspired

• What mistakes I’ve made, and what I’ve done well

There’ll be others, but you get the idea.

Below is Chapter One. Contact me here and let me know what you think!

Omens

My eyes snap open to the crack of a single gunshot; its echo ripples through my mind before dissolving into silence. With moonlight spilling into my cramped apartment, casting illusory shadows that watch over me, I ask myself: was that real? The chilling scream of a woman is quick to answer my question, cutting through the silence as though she were in this room. I’m familiar with intrusions waking me up, and I’ll usually pretend everything is fine before drifting off again, but tonight, some unwelcomed urge compels me to investigate.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I approach the window, I catch shadowy figures lurking in the apartments opposite mine, peeking through the slits of their blinds so as not to reveal their curiosity—but unlike them, I have nothing to hide. Towering buildings dominate the London skyline, leaving a small passage for the full moon to cast its glow on the narrow, cobbled street below, offering me a clear view of the scene. Two men hoist a burly corpse into the back of a black van. At first glance, they could pass off as friends who’re helping an injured mate—but I know better. They’re reapers, those who track and capture. Preying on your vulnerability when you least expect it, they lurk in plain sight and camouflage themselves in the mundane.

Ten steps behind them, a woman kneels on the unforgiving ground, her hands bound behind her back, and a stifling gag is freshly silencing her cries for help. A slender, fragile man wraps her in a seemingly gentle embrace—as if offering comfort in her distress—wearing a three-piece suit that clings to his skeletal frame. His outstretched finger points to a colossal figure lurking in the shadows. Muscles bulge from every limb of the darkened giant, with broad shoulders poised to consume its disproportionately small head and a curved spine yearning to break free from the skin imprisoning it. Undeniably, this is a creation born from some twisted experiment. You’d think you’d get used to their depraved methods to instil fear in us, but you don’t.

Ensnared in its claw-like fingers, a small girl twists and writhes—desperate to break free—with long hair concealing her face. Taking deliberate steps, the monstrous figure advances towards the van and waves the child over the bound woman as if it’s playing with an aircraft, presenting some twisted and playful nature. Wrenching the van’s door open, it performs a cruel underthrow, and the girl vanishes from sight, swallowed by the vehicle. It breaks my heart to imagine the trauma she’ll endure—confined in that space with the body of what I assume is her dad.

Hot blood rushes to my head, and I’m gripped by an overwhelming urge to scream out the window, to create a diversion of any kind, yet a deep-rooted instinct restrains me. I know too well it’s pointless—I’m powerless to help them. In this moment of hopelessness, I ache for the comfort of my bed—for the blissful ignorance it once provided—but I’ll confront this harsh reality. After all, the truth keeps me on my toes.

Reapers hoist the woman up, guiding her to the van. A deep longing to reunite with her now fractured family is evident with every step. She vanishes from sight, entering the confines of the vehicle, and the ghastly man slams the door. A fleeting pause ensues, only for him to twist his emaciated neck and look directly at me. Illuminated by the moonlight, each contour of his sunken features cast haunting shadows, with hollow eye sockets like portals into an abyss of misery and despair. I’m paralysed in fear. Slowly, the man's lips part, forming a wide, open smile that reveals two menacing rows of sharpened teeth, and with a frail, gangly arm, he waves, inviting the chills to race up my spine.

***

I hate mornings because they’re the first thing to remind me I still exist. The jarring shrill of my alarm infiltrates my ears, drawing me from my hazy state and demanding I face life. Disorientated, I unravel myself from the protective cocoon I’ve formed, with my knees squeezed against my chest. Sunlight streams into my room, flooding the space with its gentle warmth, and a longing for sleep tugs at my weary body. However, my restless mind refuses to grant respite, replaying the haunting events of last night and hogging my every thought. I stretch and drag myself from bed, steeling my nerves because today decides my fate—prove unwavering loyalty or face execution. It’s just another test in this life of servitude, and it becomes more challenging to succeed the wiser I get.

Taking deep breaths, I recite my usual gratitude affirmations, trying not to acknowledge the walls that cage me. "I have shelter, warmth, food, and drink. I'm forever grateful.” Finally, with a forced smile, I’m ready to confront the day ahead.

Activating the HoloCast, a peppy news reader materialises in my room. His appearance may blend in with my dreary décor, but his personality should be somewhere more colourful. Though his hollow presence offers me company as I get ready, he’s reporting on the development of a new energy deal with the United States, which is a topic I’m not interested in. I avoid dwelling on the immeasurable power held by the emperor as it makes me feel uneasy. Almost one hundred and fifty years have passed since the discovery of regonium—the mineral that grants us limitless green energy and far too much global influence. King James III unearthed it on Crown land in England, and the royal family's chokehold over the precious resource led to the True Ascension—granting them absolute power and the successive expansion of the Anglo Empire.

A photo of my sister—Fay—sits on my dresser, and she’s judging me while I spend too much time contemplating which dress will make me look as cute and innocent as possible. You wouldn’t know she has a mischievous nature because she looks positively saint-like in this photo, but only because I took it during our blossoming ceremony five years ago. We’re twins, so we shared the same blossoming. Some call it a ceremony, whilst I call it a procedure, and every eighteen-year-old girl in the empire will endure it to freeze their youthful looks. Though Fay appears joyous in that captured moment, behind the scenes, we were riddled with sorrow. It was a celebration of us becoming trapped in the same face and body until we die, and my childlike appearance is a daily reminder that I’ll always be the same frightened girl who does as she’s told to fulfil the wishes of powerful men.

I’ll take inspiration from Fay’s blossoming look to transform myself into the most devoted subject anyone has ever encountered. Using minimal makeup will help preserve my rounded features (which society considers a beauty ideal), but I need to soften my dark eyes because they look far too commanding. I want people to believe I’ve been gifted with effortless style, so with great effort, I’ll instruct my bronze hair to fall in deceitfully natural curls.

In this city, I’m desired like prey is to a predator. Hungry eyes bore into every inch of my body as I go about my day, and unwanted groping always forces me to fake a smile and bear the burden. I want more for me than this—I want to do something unique, but I’m insignificant. All I can try to achieve are small things, but with great dedication and love.

The news reader’s excitement intensifies, catching my interest. “The people of Canada long for the empire!” he announces eagerly. “The nation's leaders have revealed their true guise of corruption by unveiling malevolent schemes that threaten to ravage our precious Earth. This week, their insidious agenda emerged as they proclaimed their intention to exploit and desecrate vast stretches of land in search of new oil reserves.

In response, the noble citizens of Canada rise with admirable fortitude, demonstrating staunch integrity as they voice their opposition to this announcement. Behold these captivating images … the passion of their dissent as they surge the streets, dismantling symbols of devious democracy and proudly hoisting emblems of loyalty to our revered king and emperor: Emperor Magnus Hanover the Second!”

Peering over, I watch waves of holographic people swarm the streets of the miniature city and listen to the cries, screams and chants: “Save our home, give us regonium!” Taking a closer look, the scenes may be admirable and courageous to some, but to me, this is a society saturated with rage and violence. People burn down apartment buildings, and explosions appear on every street while large groups swarm smaller ones, leaving trails of lifeless bodies in their wake. Others carry banners that read, ‘WE DEMAND THE EMPIRE’ and ‘WE ANSWER TO THE EMPEROR’, to name a few.

The newsreader continues, “Desperate times are clear. With their toxic pride, the spiteful Canadian officials refuse England’s gracious and selfless offer of clean energy despite knowing it will be their saviour. Since joining the empire, our newest kingdom—Egypt—has seen its once filthy air become eighty percent cleaner, in addition to receiving free and advanced healthcare. It no longer fears blackouts and The Crown offers a home to every subject.

Canada’s attempts to locate new energy follow a breakdown in its infrastructure. After years of neglect and incompetence, they find their geothermal power plants crumbling. Our imperial sovereign will send the Duke of Crimsonford and Head of Imperial Defence, Sebastian Sinclair, to start early discussions around a solution to their current energy crisis. May our emperor’s wisdom and light guide them through their dark times.”

Another country to add to his collection.

Returning to my routine, I apply the finishing touches, slipping into a contemporary white dress that hugs my upper body and flows down to just above the knee. Bending to pick up some sensible white shoes, an untouched pair of bold, scarlet heels grabs my attention. They’re dangerous, crying for me to wear them—but why am I so tempted? I’ll stand out like a sore thumb, and today isn’t about taking risks. I glance over at the photograph of Fay; her once sweet expression is replaced with mischief, and I submit to the urge—I want to do something different today.

***

Emerging from my apartment building, I step onto the narrow, cobbled side street. The remnants of last night's events have disappeared as if a cosmic refresh button allows us to resume our idyllic existence. I trace the sun's path as it peeks through the slender gap between two structures; it casts a tender warmth on my face, arms, and legs. With a deep inhale, London’s clean air fills my lungs, carrying the subtle scent of freshly mown grass floating in the breeze from a park nearby. The bustling main road awaits me, and I watch the regimented march flowing like a river. People’s synchronised steps form a tenacious current, sweeping through the city with a fierce determination to serve.

"Clara!"

The familiar and friendly voice calls out from behind me, instantly delivering a smile to my face. I turn, and there she is—Celest. Everyone has something or someone they need to feel joy; for some, it’s proving their loyalty, and for others, it’s simply chocolate—but for me, it’s Celest. With an energetic stride, she approaches, her lively blond hair bouncing from side to side. I’m almost blinded by her pure, white summer dress that reflects the sunlight and accentuates her angelic aura.

Celest’s wide eyes dart to the ground, and her contagious gaiety disappears, replaced with shock. “Your heels!”

“I know, don’t ask,” I respond with a cheeky grin. “What’s new?”

“Going to the underground?” she asks, totally ignoring my question, linking my arm, and dragging me along the path towards the busy main street.

I go along with it and chuckle. “Do I have a choice?”

In silence, we merge into the stream of marching Londoners, engulfed by the dull-toned current of shades—from black to white and anything in between. This is a test of endurance; I consider myself a pro at walking in heels (considering how many lessons I had as a child)—but it's an entirely different challenge matching their regimented pace while maintaining poise.

I stare at Celest with apprehension, but she doesn’t bite. “So?” I plead. “What’s new?”

“Nothing!” she giggles. “Just … the same old stuff.”

Despite her best attempts to conceal it, I know she’s lying. I may feel insignificant, but my gift—or curse—constantly reminds me that I’m different. It’s something that’s baffled the empire’s best scientists and doctors—I possess an innate ability to know when someone’s being dishonest, outperforming even the most sophisticated technology. This proves to be useful in my line of work.

“Come on, Cee,” I sigh. “You know I see straight through it. What’s up?”

“Not here,” she stresses through gritted teeth whilst maintaining a jolly smile.

We slip into the quiet haven of a secluded side street. It’s our secret shortcut—well, it’s not a secret, but Londoners dislike drawing attention to themselves, hence their reluctance to deviate from the march. Two marshals suddenly invade our sanctuary, appearing from behind a building ahead. Knee-length boots striking the pavement mark their imposing presence; each pounding step dominates the alley and cuts through the busy street’s hum behind us. Despite their small stature and slender frames, they radiate aggression and latent violence. Enhancing their otherwise plain, tailored grey jackets is a fancy gold design that climbs the sleeves, lending them the confidence of a yapping dog. Their hats set them apart from the regular enforcers who also patrol these delightfully supervised streets. Crafted from polished grey leather, they provide tactical data through an iridescent visor. Marshals are a common sight, but they’re usually placed in high-risk areas for criminal activity.

Celest's arm tightens around mine, her movements become rigid and forced, and her eyes reveal a deep terror despite wearing a radiant smile.

“I’ve been thinking about Fay,” I announce, hoping to distract her. “We’ve only seen each other a couple of times since my blossoming.”

Celest shivers; it’s probably not the best topic of conversation right now. She didn’t enjoy her ceremony either—in fact, I don’t know anyone who did. It’s traumatising—a physically and emotionally painful day for every teenage girl.

“She was recently relocated to Amberleigh,” I continue. “A pretty town in Wiltshire. No housewarming invitation, though. I’m plucking up the courage to send her an arsey message.”

With the marshals drawing nearer, Celest's grip on my arm cuts the blood flow to my hand, and I’m suffocating in her fear. Determined to stay strong, I take a deep breath and will myself to regain composure. "Blessed by his reign, gentlemen!” I beam as they pass.

One of them responds, with his visor adjusted to reveal a pair of downturned eyes, and now they’ve passed us; I peer over my shoulder to catch him stealing a glance at my rear. I can’t refrain from rolling my eyes—they may appear robotic, but they’re still slaves to their natural instincts. Celest's grip loosens, and she sighs with relief.

We proceed in silence, weaving through the current created by everyone’s intuitive ability to act in harmony. Drawing nearer to the station, its massive mahogany doors, thrown wide open, extend a warm invitation. If you look closely, you’ll see carvings that decorate their surface, depicting floral patterns and ancient scrolls. However, Londoners don’t notice such intricacies; instead, we take them for granted (considering every building is just as pompous as the other).

The not-so-subtle message, ‘MAY OUR SOVEREIGN SUPREME GUIDE YOU’, is fashioned from pure gold and displayed above the passage. “May our sovereign supreme kiss my arse,” I mutter under my breath— barely moving my lips. I don’t know what’s come over me this morning, but whatever it is, I need to get a grip and be on my best behaviour. If I don’t, it’ll be my dead and naked body hanging from the nearby lamppost instead of the man with ‘THIEF’ etched on his forehead.

The station hall resonates with the gentle drone of voices and rhythmic clacking of heels. Natural light floods every corner from four magnificent stained-glass windows, two on either side of the entrance. I feel them behind me, doing their job and lightening my mood, urging me ahead to seize the day. As the endless stream of people enters, they glide left and right around the golden statue of an ancient monarch standing in the centre. His cold gaze follows every passerby, a symbol of authority and control. Like his predecessors and successors—with their statues also scattered throughout the empire—he stands as a guardian overseeing us commoners.

With our arms still linked, Celest guides me towards him, and side by side, we stand directly before the old king, reading the placard’s inscription:

‘Bask in the glory of King George III (1760-1820), a powerful and revered monarch of the Georgian era. With a keen sense of duty, he upheld the honourable principles of monarchy and actively governed the expanding British Empire. His mighty reign left an indelible mark on the monarchy and society, ushering in a golden age in architecture, science, industry, and the arts. We celebrate his legacy; may we remember our joy and prosperity before democracy poisoned us.’

“They took Rebecca and Max last night, and Aria—their daughter,” Celest utters nervously, still looking positively merry.

Though you couldn’t tell, the news is a physical blow to my chest. I’m grasping the possibility—no, the certainty that I witnessed them being reaped last night. They’re Celest’s friends, and though I’ve never met them before, I know we’re neighbours. Celest would often stop by mine after visiting them.

“I’ve spoken to Rebecca’s sister,” she continues. “Marshals pulled her into questioning around the same time. She popped over this morning—in hysterics. You should’ve seen her, but it’s weird—I mean—ah, I don’t know …”

“What is it?” I ask, unsure if I want to know the answer.

“I just—I can’t stop thinking about something Rebecca asked me a couple of weeks ago …”

“What was it?”

“I was looking after Aria when she visited family up north with Max—someone was ill, I think. Anyway, Rebecca was acting weird when they got back—a bit crazy even—and she asked if I could have Aria for a couple of months”—Celest’s breathing quickens—“I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now I’m like—are they caught up in something?”

Gently gripping her arm, I pull Celest to face me, softening my smile to something more natural. “Rebecca and Max are squeaky clean,” I urge. “What could they possibly be caught up in? They’re loyal!”

Now isn’t the time to share what I know—I don’t want to lie to Celest, but there are too many people here, and I don’t want her worrying all day.

“Hmm”—her eyes widen as if she’s had some revelation—“Hold on!” she gasps. “Don’t you have your test of fealty today?”

“Yeah, in a couple of hours.” I shrug.

“I’m so sorry, Clara,” Celest chokes. “I shouldn’t have burdened you with this! No doubt you—”

“Ah!” I blurt out quietly. I know what she’s about to say. This information will throw me off during my test—or they may even turn it into an interrogation—but that isn’t Celest’s fault. “Don’t worry, Cee,” I say calmly. “C’mon, we should go. Fancy a drink later?”

“Sure,” she responds with sorrowful eyes. “I’ll meet you at Gold’s around six. My treat for lumbering this on you.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m always here for you.”

We stare at each other for a second, force the biggest smile and perform a deceptively gleeful laugh before separating in opposite directions towards our respective tube lines.

It takes too long to reach the platform, and it’s the same routine every day, queuing and descending into the depths of the London Underground for what feels like an eternity, all to resurface and suffer an endless day’s work. Ignoring the disgruntled huffs of commuters, I disregard my etiquette lessons and audaciously weave through the organised queues awaiting the train’s arrival, fixed on a free spot at the far side of the platform (miraculously, my bum has only been pinched twice).

Now settled, I focus on the flicker of the turquoise energy screen that prevents subjects from escaping The Crown’s grip—which many find tempting despite it being the same hand that generously feeds, clothes, and houses us. Concern grips me as I allow my thoughts to wander—I’m worried about Celest. If Rebecca and Max find themselves in trouble, Celest will undoubtedly become a person of interest—and I expect they’ll want to snoop into my affairs as well.

The gentle whirring interrupts my brooding, and a cool breeze fills the platform, signalling the train’s arrival. It slithers like a steel serpent from the tunnel, gliding into the station. The energy screen dissolves, granting us passage to board, and I accept its invitation, resisting an urge to escape the impending sense of danger.

The train propels us forward, and my mind remains plagued by anxiety the more I comprehend what Celest has told me. It’s not unheard of for a person to become the subject of a full-scale investigation just because they’re cousins with someone, who knows of someone else, who has a colleague with a friend who’s suspected of being a traitor. I should prepare for an interrogation today.

The cylindrical carriage features rows of seats on either side, with an additional row running down the middle, forcing passengers to face each other. Still, they constantly lower their heads to avoid any intimate eye contact. With each bend in the track, the shuttle’s far end remains obscured from view, and the rhythmic swaying motions comfort me slightly. That’s until I catch a woman breaking from the crowd, lifting her head to peer at me before swiftly lowering it again. I recognise her. Is she following me? This is useless. I need air and open space. I feel trapped.

***

Having exited the station earlier than usual, I’m forced to rejoin the march, eager to find something—anything—that’ll distract me. I’m surrounded by the youthful faces of women, with their cloudy expressions and heads inside dreams, whilst the aged faces of men remain stern, their watchful eyes scanning the streets for potential threats—or opportunities.

One man stands out; he offers me a warm smile that feels surprisingly comforting; it's different to the usual cocky smirk I receive, but I’d be daft to think it makes him a suitable partner. The Crown will force me to marry some stranger if I don’t find someone within the next two years. I’ve never connected romantically with a man—not because I always know when they’re lying—but because my values are hard to come by. I’d marry Celest if I could, but that would result in us meeting the gallows. My mum used to tell me that if you spend too much time judging people, you’ll find no time to love them, and she was right—but the way people behave in this city makes it impossible for me not to judge.

A girl, no older than fourteen, reminds me I could have it worse as she skips past, hand in hand with her husband—a greasy-looking man in his forties. Though she looks blissful in her dream-like state, her life fills me with deep sadness. I should be grateful for the path The Crown has chosen for me. As a child of the empire—when you turn eleven—you receive your calling. It’s an assessment to decide what role you’ll fulfil for the rest of your life, and once held, you’re placed into work and specialist education until you turn fifteen—then you’re ready to serve. Thankfully, my calling was not to be a wife—pumped full of drugs so you’re always pretty, quiet, and obedient—a life inflicted on that poor girl, who must be coming to the end of her ‘training’. Instead, The Crown chose me to be one of its many eyes and ears, placed in the ‘prestigious’ Imperial Intelligence Agency. I’m at the bottom of the barrel (and that’s how I like it), but they’ll sometimes use my unique ability when interrogating tricky suspects.

Rows of white stone skyscrapers flank me, each crafted with a unique blend of classic eighteenth-century elegance, modern grandeur, and a dash of conceit. Boasting grand symmetrical faces, tempting visitors to pass through two exaggerated pillars. Some are carved with showy patterns, whilst others are silky smooth. Some accessorise with a portico, whilst others want you to get wet from the rain. Ascending upwards, eccentric mouldings decorate rows of large windows, and as if that isn’t enough, the higher levels tease you with wrought iron railing balconies draped with lush greenery (but forget about enjoying the view up there because it’s exclusive to people better than us).

Towering above them all and dominating the sky stands the Grand Shard, rising like a colossal blade and stabbing a cluster of clouds. Its glass edge glints, capable of slicing through the Earth. Of course, The Crown’s architects didn’t waste an opportunity and designed the base to look like a sword’s hilt—crafted from limestone and engraved with curves and teardrop shapes. Armed weapons float around the entire length of the intimidating structure, never following the same pattern of movement and always ready for the empire’s enemies to attack (as if they would even try). Subjects praise this building as the great protector of London—rebuilt four times the size of its predecessor after the Civil War.

The streets are clean, and the air is fresh. I listen to the low buzz of vehicles passing by as they deliver goods or escort nobility. Ignoring my bitterness, I appreciate the city’s beauty, but nestling amongst all its splendour, those with the audacity to desire radical change will occasionally rear their ugly heads.

Stepping into what should be a charming courtyard with vine leaves cascading from the terraced buildings' rooftops, I’m greeted by the striking presence of an immense black crown suspended mid-air. It carries an aura of hopelessness and despair. Dull, jagged fragments detach themselves and drift aimlessly throughout the open space before bursting into an explosion of colours, vibrant and bright, springing to life at their newfound freedom. Simultaneously, a sunny scent of hope overwhelms me. The gentle breeze carries notes of jasmine and rose that induce a sense of renewal and endless possibilities. Uplifting citrus undertones infuse a zesty energy, promising brighter days. The combination of colours and smells leaves me spellbound.

“P—please!” a woman frantically begs, snapping me back to reality. “It was not me! I—I’m devoted to the emperor—oh gosh! Please!”

Though her youthful appearance makes it difficult to gauge her age, she wears her hair in a tight bun, which tells me she’s over sixty (women use hairstyles to indicate their number of lived years). Two enforcers—clad in plain, dark grey uniforms—drag the woman from a building, and the floating crown instantly vanishes. They toss her to the ground, where she crawls towards the crowd, which shows her no remorse, just looks of disgust.

“Julia!” she cries. “We—we are childhood friends. Please. Tell them I would never do this!”

Julia steps back, her arms folded, and with a tilted head, she peers down an upturned nose—her face filled with scorn and contempt. You don’t need my ability to know this woman is innocent, and I want to step in, but that would result in me sharing her fate, so I remain passive (as I always do).

Rebels often plant projection devices displaying their group’s symbol in loyalist properties, and she’s fallen victim to their methods. The guards bind and drag her through the passage of hissing and sneering observers.

New smells of damp earth and fallen leaves suddenly flood my senses, invoking desolation and reflection. Hints of smoky incense and charred wood intertwine—causing me to think of a once vivacious flame that’s now reduced to ashes. The hissing quietens, and the onlookers’ expressions transform to pity, all sharing in this same experience.

Scent control. A smart play by rebels, it makes a change from their usual attempts to challenge the emperor’s authority, like starting small fires in stores or defacing propaganda—they’re becoming more creative. This is the second unsettling event I’ve witnessed today, and I’ve been uncomfortably close to both. Something is stirring.

Matthew R. Burton ©

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