Dear Mr. President
IntroI grew up hearing the idea that safety is freedom.
That was until I met Drew.
Drew taught me that safety was confinement, at least the way my father taught me to be safe. drew also taught me that seeing the world for what it had become is a test of knowledge so few possess in these fast
and computerized lives. Our souls had become our cell phones and our hearts a computer drive, the brain became a hardwired functioning device, cords that processed information without thinking.
We weren't living, we were becoming walking zombies.
Drew taught me that freedom wasn't America anymore. It wasn't the flames on our computerized furnaces. It was the wind that swooshed through the awakened hearts of the ones who stood to fight against the hell our world was slowly becoming.
I was born to a rich family with a cutting edge nursery and the newest model of Baby Nanny. I was 8 years old when dad was first elected president. 4 years later, he was elected again. Then again, and again. As the years slowly dragged on, I spent most of my life in the confines of my room. The door always shut with three body guards outside.
Freedom was not mine to grasp.
I was normal, or what my online friends had said normal was. I wore skinny jeans, converse, and oversized band t-shirts from concerts I hadn't been to. I had red hair. I never met people other than my mother, my father, my body guards(who were hardly fun company) my father's coworker's daughters and sons, and the many reporters that shoved podestic microbes in my face, yelling questions at me and the pink beam of the glareic cameras.
I had friends I mean....just never met them in person. Our school was a 3-D projection. Everything I did was in a 3-D projection or some other form of virtual state. My teachers were virtual 3-D holograms of real people, to anti-social to teach in the few face-to-face schools (so a great many were available for scanning and such.). Reason my father enjoys digital school so much...is it's safe. To safe. No bomb threats, no suicidal influences, no boys. No chance of me getting hurt.
My dad and I have a very strange relationship. He’s the power, I’m just the glass bulb that dings on and makes him look like a normal, loving father. We go on father-daughter outing together, but we just smile and pretend the world is our stage, and the cameras are the only people watching. At press conferences, I’m always standing, beaming at my father, behind him in a nice suit skirt and fitted blazer.
If the world knew how he didn't have time for me, how nobody cares that I never exit my room, if only they knew.