by Sam Clark
Next, she began her daily series of facial exercises. Her goal was to always be in complete control of the visual feedback she gave others so that no one would ever know what she was really feeling unless she wanted them to, which was pretty much never.
The exercises involved making funny faces in front of the mirror with her eyes closed. Once her face was sufficiently contorted, she would open her eyes and take in the creation. She would then close her eyes again and return her face to her neutral pose, an expression she felt was completely devoid of emotion. Lips together in a straight line. Jaw unclenched, her upper and lower teeth not quite touching. Nostrils un-flared. She would imagine the nerves in her face were dead and picture the muscles going slack under her skin, smoothing away all hints of emotion from the surface. The last step involved opening her eyes slightly into a heavy-lidded gaze, where she tried to stare right through her reflection in the mirror as if it wasn’t there. In her opinion, this look provided the quiet intensity she was going for. It said she wouldn’t suffer fools. That she wouldn’t back down. Wouldn’t quit. It said, I know what the fuck I’m doing, so just get the hell out of my way and let me do it already. It was the look of an empress.
From there, she would make a few minor changes to convey various sentiments while leaving the bulk of her expression unchanged. A slight narrowing of the eyes combined with a slight downturn to the corners of her mouth to convey a general sense of displeasure. A pursing of the lips with a brief nostril flare to convey disgust. Finally, a tight-lipped, lopsided smile to show happiness.
Of all her stock expressions, this last one gave her the most trouble. She worried the smile looked hollow, especially when she was experiencing one of her episodes. Unfortunately, that was exactly when she needed the expression most. There were a couple of problems with her fake smile. It wasn’t as big as her natural smile. Yet, when she tried a wider grin, it felt strange, like she was using muscles she’d never used before. Not to mention it looked creepy, like she was some kind of perv. The other problem was in the eyes. They were fine as far as eyes went—hazel in color—but they looked different somehow when she was actually in a good mood, like today. Almost like there was a spark there, which she couldn’t replicate when she was faking.
Czarina’s solution was to replace her real smile with her fake smile. All she had to do was bite one side of her mouth when she was happy to keep the smile small. That, and learn how to dull her eyes. Easier said than done, especially since she often forgot to stifle her smile when genuinely happy, but she was confident that if she kept putting the work in, she would gain control over her emotions and the muscular responses they caused.
With the physical preparation and inspection complete, she moved onto the mental side of things. Looking herself in the eye, she began whispering one of her many mantras. “A coward dies a thousand times, but the valiant taste of death but once.” After repeating it a half-dozen times, she stopped and began interrogating herself as she started to slowly pace the room.
Yes, and how many deaths have you tasted, Czarina?
Two hundred and ninety-four in a row. Two goals, and three hundred sixty-five days to complete one. Just one. And what have you accomplished so far? Nothing. You know what the stakes are, Czarina. There’s no backing down. If you don’t follow through, it’ll just be another cowardly failure to heap onto a lifetime of failures.
Stop. Just stop. Stay positive. Do. Not. Give. In. You know where this kind of thinking gets you. You just snapped out of it, do not fall back into it now. Czarina puffed out her cheeks, then let them deflate with a long, slow exhalation. I’ll follow through. No question about it, but I’m not there yet. There’s still time. Who knows, maybe day two-ninety-five will be the breakthrough.
“Think of the small victories. What have you accomplished?”
Speaking some of her thoughts aloud was another habit she’d picked up from her grandfather, who often debated himself out loud. James, being James, said he did it because it was the only way he could get an intelligent conversation in the fallout shelter. But he had admitted once that the real reason was simply that hearing the arguments out loud seemed to help him better understand them.
One particularly desperate morning, she had tried it herself, and it helped. A little. So she’d kept doing it.
For Czarina, it was a way to cope. She had a lot of… feelings. Feelings that she knew she couldn’t ignore, just as she knew she could never talk about them with another person. She just wasn’t wired that way. So she talked to herself about them. It allowed her to examine her problems in a more rational way, to exert more control over her thoughts, such as forcing herself to focus on her accomplishments, with the added benefit that she didn’t have to voice the really personal stuff.
“Review, Czarina.”
Goal one: See Marisa naked.
“Why?”
She’s an original. She shows up late, leaves early, and generally does whatever the hell she wants. She might be the only truly free person down here, and there’s something super attractive about that. Oh, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s also gorgeous. The dark red hair, in a sea of dirty blonds and brunettes. The perfect porcelain skin. And, if I’m being honest, the tits. Czarina was more than happy she wasn’t so well endowed. She couldn’t imagine running with those things, or shooting a bow, but they sure were nice to look at on someone else.
“What makes you think you actually have a chance?”
She rubbed one hand over her scalp. We have a lot in common. We’re both different from everyone else, albeit not in the same ways. We both like to make Colonel Mueller mad. The only difference is he happens to be her father. She pushes boundaries, just like I do. I train with the men, whereas she turned her militia-issue cargo pants into militia-issue cutoff short-shorts.
Just thinking about those shorts made Czarina’s blood pump a little a faster. Thank god for cold showers.
She noticed she was still rubbing her head and ripped her hand away. She then clasped both hands behind her back as she continued to pace the length of the small bathroom. “Focus, Czarina. What’s your plan?”
Make her realize that nothing will piss her family off more than me.
“How?”
I’m running a long game.
“Tell me about it, you’re taking forever.”
Enough! Slow and steady, that’s my plan, and I’m sticking to it. I’ve got seventy-one days left. Plenty of time.
Czarina took three deep breaths to calm herself down. It’s not about getting Marisa interested in me. She’s the objective, but the battle is between me and her family.
“So, what’s the best course of action?”
The best tactic for this battle is to provoke my opponents into making a fatal mistake. Like how William the Conqueror ravaged the Wessex countryside to provoke Harold and his exhausted army into battle at Hastings. I have to get her brother and her father to react—or rather, overreact—to my overtures. When they do, Marisa is as good as mine.
“Plan for today?”
Either at breakfast or lunch, say hi or nod at her. Steve will find out one way or another.
“You’ve been doing this type of thing for a while; do you think it’ll work?” She knew she was being generous to say she’d been doing anything. Most of the time, she just thought about doing things or saying things. Since setting out on her mission, she’d only managed to turn thoughts into actions on a handful of occasions. But she was just getting over an episode, and it wouldn’t take much for her to slip back, so she had to maintain a positive outlook, even if it wasn’t the most accurate.
Yes, it’ll work. As much as I hate to say it, Steve being into me was good for my chances with Marisa. Sure, he’s made my life hell since I told him to fuck off, but that just makes the fruit even more forbidden for Marisa. Besides, she’s done nothing to rebuff me. And since I blew Steve off, I catch her looking at me sometimes. More than normal. It can’t be a coincidence. I thin
k she might be trying to flirt with me. Sure, it’s probably just to piss off her brother, but still.
“You haven’t seen her much lately, with all your absenteeism. Has this hindered your plans?”
No, I don’t think so. I’ve seen her around, so she knows I wasn’t sick. I ignored her—went out of my way to avoid her even—but I think this helps. Marisa likes attention, and by ignoring her, she’ll be more interested in me.
“Good, good, good. Now, what about goal two?”
Czarina let out a loud sigh. No point talking about it. It’s impossible, and I know it. I knew it when I set the goal. I need to focus on goal one.
“Agreed. Let’s get it done, Czarina. A coward dies a thousand deaths.” With that, she made her way from the bathroom, ready to do battle for one more day.
As she stepped into the hall, she walked smack into Jenkins. About two years younger than her, he had as much personality as powdered eggs had flavor, and was always following her younger sister Isabella around.
“Hey, watch it,” Jenkins whined. “And who were you talking to in there anyway, nut-job?”
She could have let it slide. Perhaps she should have let it slide. But that was not her way. Upon seeing Jenkins, her mind instantly returned to her earlier conversation with James. Specifically, Harold Garfinkel. She decided now was the perfect time for some ‘experimenting.’ But what should she say? Your mother? No. Too harsh. She knew the sting of a lost mother all too well. Ghosts? Better, but how about the truth?
“Why, myself, of course. It’s the only way to get an intelligent conversation around here.” And now for an abrupt change in the point of attack to put her opponent off balance. “Jenkins, why were you listening at the door of the women’s bathroom?”
Jenkins’s brow wrinkled, and he moved his lips as if to speak, but nothing came out. She decided to wait it out and see what he would come up with.
“Um… I wasn’t. God, Czarina, you’re such a fruit.”
Not exactly a Churchillian comeback, but then again, she hadn’t expected one. It was frustrating, however. She hated how, just because she trained with the boys and wasn’t interested in Steve, everyone assumed she was gay. She trained with the boys because their training was harder, and she could handle it—way better than a little bitch like Jenkins could. It had nothing to do with her liking girls. And even if she was into boys, she’d still have wanted nothing to do with someone as ugly, inside and out, as Steve.
“No, Jenkins, I’m not a fruit. I’m a person. However, if I was a fruit, I’d be an orange. Interestingly, though, if I was a color, I wouldn’t be orange; I would definitely be green.”
This time Czarina didn’t wait for Jenkins to respond. She patted him on the shoulder, then walked by him. Once she was past, she looked back and said, “I’ll be here at the same time tomorrow, if you want to try and listen to me take a piss again. It can be our second date.”
She turned and began to jog toward the mess hall.
FOUR
Location: Underground
Date: 8-15-61
Czarina jogged into the central bunker just as the main overhead lights turned on with a flicker, revealing an ocean of gray. Gray walls. Gray ceiling. Gray floor. The only other colors were the sickly yellow of the lights themselves, and black from the shadows they threw. For a moment, she felt like Dorothy in the beginning of The Wizard of Oz, trapped in a monochrome world. She had always hated that movie, and would skip movie night any time it was shown. She hated it because Dorothy had managed to escape her monochrome prison. She hated it even more because Dorothy had gone back.
The lights were accompanied by a brief burst of static from the complex’s intercom system, which was quickly replaced by a bugle recording of “Reveille.” Her destination was the one room where the overhead lights came on before 0600, the cafeteria. As she entered, she slowed to a walk. As usual, she was the first to arrive, aside from those who worked there.
They ate in shifts, except for James, who just came in and took whatever he damn well pleased. He was old, so he got away with it. Those of school age ate first, along with their instructors. They were followed by those on active militia duty. Then came everybody else. Each shift got thirty minutes to eat, but they stopped serving food after twenty minutes to get things ready for the next group.
She scanned the faces of the workers, looking for Mrs. Peters. Technically, it was Mrs. Erickson now—grown women didn’t stay single for long—but she’d always be Mrs. Peters to Czarina. She was one of the few people who was nice to Czarina. Probably because they had a lot in common, despite Mrs. Peters being more than two decades older, a mother of three, and on her second husband. They had both lost a loved one in a similar fashion. They were also both very unhappy. Czarina was confident she hid it well. That no one else could tell, except Mrs. Peters, who just knew. The same way Czarina knew about her.
Czarina didn’t see her. Maybe she just has a headache.
Thanks to ample experience, Czarina knew that eating alone was much easier if you already had a seat when everybody else got there. Somehow, others choosing not to sit by her felt like less of a failure than walking by tables filled with her peers until she passed them all, to a table at the far end of the room, where she sat and watched the world around her unfold.
Most days when she got there first, she sat right in the middle of the room, a small act of defiance meant to show everybody she didn’t care what Steve or anyone else said about her. She still sat and observed the world around her, but by sitting in the center of the room, she felt powerful. She could see the effect of her actions, a noticeable void in the middle of a crowded cafeteria.
She grabbed her tray of food, which for breakfast consisted of porridge, powdered eggs, and vitamins, and took her usual seat in the middle of the room. Positioning herself there provided two advantages. First, she could watch the entrance to the cafeteria, which meant she could monitor who was in the room. Second, it placed her almost directly across from where Marisa sat, so Czarina would be facing her with a clear view.
Czarina knew from experience that Marisa wouldn’t change her seat based on Czarina’s proximity. That was how Czarina had ended up in her current seat. She’d started from the edge of the room and worked her way closer to where Marisa sat. However, she hadn’t ever sat at Marisa’s table, and she didn’t dare try. Not now. Not after the whole Steve thing. A coward dies a thousand times.
As the cafeteria began to fill in around her, Czarina’s thoughts turned to her social standing in the fallout shelter. She’d had friends when she was younger. Until she was about twelve. That was the age at which they split cohorts by gender. She had refused to train with the girls, saying it was too easy. James raised a big stink, and the top brass eventually gave in. They figured she’d give it up after a few weeks. That’s when it had all started.
It didn’t happen right away. It was a gradual process, starting with the militia instructors. They were especially hard on her, trying to get her to wash out. They made her do extra work, and they criticized her more than others, or at least she thought they did. They would also make her fight multiple times in a row far more frequently than the others. One of their favorite tortures was to wear her out against someone she was evenly matched with, and then have her spar with one of the older kids—or worse, one of the younger kids. As a result, she often took a beating, and there was nothing quite like getting your ass handed to you by someone younger, slower, and weaker because you were so tired you could barely stand. Of course, most of her worst beatings were delivered by Steve, who didn’t need any advantage to win. Steve didn’t need an edge against anyone. Eventually, all of her classmates took the hint and started to avoid her, not unlike how the grownups avoided her grandfather. Of course, James was an outcast by choice.
At the time, she hadn’t understood why her training with the boys would make others treat her so differently. Once, when she was thirteen or fourteen, she’d ask
ed her grandfather about it. James had simply said she would understand it when she was older. And she did.
It had become crystal clear about a year back. One day, out of nowhere, Steve started to take an interest in her, taking it easy on her during sparring—as if she’d ever want that—offering to carry her food tray—as if she couldn’t carry her own damn food—and sitting by her in the cafeteria—as if she’d want to look at his ugly mug while trying to eat.
From the start, she knew his interest wasn’t genuine. She suspected it was a bet to see if he could get in her pants. Given the limited entertainment options they had living underground, it wasn’t an uncommon pastime for her male peers—one she got to hear all about during training.
She told Steve several times she wasn’t interested. She was even polite about it, but he refused to take the hint. He couldn’t fathom a woman not being interested in him. Each time she rejected him, he got a little nastier about it, until after training one day he exposed himself to her in front of the rest of their training cohort. Shaking his dick at her, he had said, “Do you even know what this is, Czarina?” She’d responded by saying, “It looks like a penis, only smaller.”
She had never seen anyone as angry as Steve had been, standing there with his little pecker in his hand, being laughed at by all his friends. She knew if one of their officers hadn’t come in right after Steve put it away he would have killed her. His revenge was telling everybody she was a lesbian, although that wasn’t the word he used.
The affair took her to a whole new level of outcast, and then she understood. She had continually upset the gender roles that were the foundation of their little bunker society, and they were worried other girls might follow.