by E. L. Giles
“Under your hand,” the young girl says from behind me.
“Sorry?” I ask. What about my hand?
“The brochure is under your hand,” she says, exasperation filling her voice. She’s less likeable as her appearance would suggest.
“Sorry—thanks,” I say, embarrassed. How can I be that blind today?
I look at the clock one more time. Two minutes have already flown by, though I should still be okay to get to the tram station on time. I grab the brochure, fold it in half, and drop it in my pants pocket. Several steps later, I jump out the glass door and land on the sidewalk.
Chapter Two
I stroll down the sidewalk, pushing my pace until my thighs burn. In no time I arrive at the intersection of Fifth and Eighth Avenue and the tram station where I expect to see Anna. I look up at the tall clock that dominates the station. Ten to five. The next tram should arrive in about ten minutes.
I crane my neck around the crowded platform but see no sign of the tall, sandy-haired woman who should stand out quite easily in the tide of male workers and brunette girls. I stay away from people, switching my gaze from the clock’s needle moving and turning seconds into minutes, and the corner of the street, farther down where Anna should come from. A new group of people arrives, but I don’t see her, which is odd. She should be there…
As I always do when having to wait—which I utterly hate—I start scratching the skin around my thumb. If only I could get rid of this stupid habit...
“Hey there,” says a mellow voice behind me.
I raise my head from the reddened spot around my thumb and smile. Finally, here she is.
“Hey, little pig,” I say, turning around to face her. “I feared I’d missed yo—”
“What have you done, again?” she exclaims, picking up my hand and pulling it closer to her. “Look at your finger.”
She scours her pocket with her free hand and brings out a crumpled piece of white cloth. She folds it in a perfect square and delicately wipes off the blood. It feels good to see her, to have her and feel her. Her touch—even if forbidden, because all physical interaction is forbidden in Kamcala—instantly sets me in a smoother mood. Still holding my hand in hers, she blabbers about her day at the Caring Center where she works. From the bawling babies to the thousands of gossips that are constantly telling her who messed up with what and where or even who had their eyes on her—again—she tells me everything in minute details, like she used to do. This kind of chit-chat normally bores me to death, but today I am surprised to find myself enjoying it, and I let myself drift on the cadence of her words, forgetting the echoes of Marcus’s voice in my head.
“No contact, citizens,” says Pointy-chin, the patroller assigned to this part of the district, as he walks past us, rolling a strand of his goatee around his finger. Always the same man, always the same sullen pout, day after day. Couldn’t he smile sometime, or couldn’t Kamcala assign someone else? Someone less rigid and quick to give reports?
“Sorry,” says Anna with pleading eyes.
She releases her grip on my hand that goes limp, and then she risks one last gaze at Pointy-chin, who, in return, looks at her with wide, puzzled eyes. Is it because of Anna’s demeanor, or is he simply charmed? Probably both, I guess. No one can resist her stunning yet simple beauty. And Anna knows it, revels in it, even if she knows she’s playing a dangerous game, these kinds of interactions being strictly forbidden in Kamcala. I wonder why she hasn’t gotten any report for that. If it had been me, I would have already been whipped, that’s for sure.
“Dammit,” I grumble.
“What?” she says, concerned, eyebrows arched high. “What’s the matter? Is it about me? You’re upset? Because that’s how you look. Or you look sick. Did you eat anything today? Oh! I know, wasn’t your appointment today? Tell me everything…”
And she goes on, asking dozens of questions at once without giving me a chance to answer once. I only stare at her, baffled and in the end, I’m left lost and wordless within the maze of words and don’t even know what she asked me first.
“Eh?” I say.
“Eh?” She frowns. “Am I supposed to get it?”
“Well, eh, no. Never mind,” I say. “And yes, it was my appointment.”
“So—so—so?” she inquires.
“So, I puked out my lunch and have to go back in two weeks.” I look down at my feet. If I look at her right now, I fear I’ll succumb to the sobs that linger not that far away, and I can’t be seen sobbing publicly. I can’t afford any other reports of any kind until my trial.
“Oh” is all she says.
At least someone cares for me is all I can think, but I keep it to myself.
A screeching noise fills my ears, the sound of a tram braking to a stop. “Your tram,” I say. Anna seems distracted. I repeat, “It’s your tram.”
“No way I’ll get into it,” she starts. She gives a quick look at Pointy-chin at the other side of the street before she leans over my shoulder, putting her lips against my ear as if to entrust a secret, and murmurs, “You look too messed up. I feel bad leaving you here alone.”
“Oh. That’s nice of you,” I say, and she smiles at me. “Not sure if I should thank you or kick you in the butt though.”
“Can you handle a report for violence?” She winks. “What about a walk to the park instead, uh?”
That’s a deal. Some fresh spring air can only bring me calm and soften this blend of antiseptic and bleach that sticks on my work clothes and tickles my nose.
I nod.
We leave the tram station and enter the flowery pathway that borders Eighth Avenue down to District 2. The glass buildings that surround the avenue, which reflect the sun rays, look like they are made of gold. It’s probably the most well-maintained district on this side of the city. It’s not surprising. District 2 is mainly composed of government buildings and offices, like District 3, District 4, and to a lesser extent, District 5—which suffers some, lacking in proper services and medications.
District 5 is where Anna and I live and work and where the BP Center I left earlier lies. However, all of these districts are nothing compared to District 1 at the other side of the river that runs across the city. District 1 is where every major part of the government, as well as the mansions of all the officials is located. We went there once when we were in school. I still remember the guarded bridge, the water fountain at the center of the flowery park there, the two and three-story houses, and all the glass buildings. Sometimes, I wish I could have gotten a job there.
The street is completely deserted except for a few patrollers who are gazing around. Other than that, it’s eerily quiet. There are no cars, no sounds besides the ones that come with the end of working shifts and people getting to their trams. The cawing of crows echoes around us, and as I raise my head, a group of four fly over us. They first circle overhead, then perch on a nearby streetlamp. I guess they’re just waiting for whatever they can scavenge. They would be luckier around District 7 and its back alleys than on a clean avenue.
We hasten the pace until we are near the intersection of Seventh and Eighth Avenue. For some reason, it always makes me feel cold and insecure to walk here when there’s no one else.
I notice the maintenance workers have finished installing the new posters of every official from the Unification Party, the government party that runs Kamcala. The banners hang on the facades of the buildings surrounding Eighth Avenue. Their layout follows a rigorous hierarchical pattern, from posters of lesser-known governors and ministers hanging on less stately buildings to the single large banner they have installed in Justice Square—a black and gold version of President Nightingale’s portrait. At the base of the banner is the Party’s motto: One nation unified through work. It rises high above them all, suspended by a crane and waiting to be installed over the stage where public executions and punishments take place.
The spot is perfect, I think, judging by the reproachful look of President Nightingale’
s eyes. He seems to be looking at us as if we were all guilty of something. That is how it makes me feel anyway, guilty.
I try to avoid looking at President Nightingale’s portrait as we cross Justice Square. Past it, we turn onto Park Road, which leads to our destination.
“May we enter, please?” asks Anna, smiling at the stiff guard who stands behind the massive iron gate.
He turns around, taken aback, and looks at the clock centered on the park lawn. “One hour,” he says softly, venturing what looks like a smile.
“Thank you,” says Anna. “Have a nice evening.”
She hops through the gate, and I follow her, making myself as unnoticeable as possible.
“You don’t fear to be reprimanded one day?” I say as we get to the tall tree in the center of the park where we sit. “Why would I?” she replies. “They like that, why not take advantage of it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s forbidden?”
“Oh, c’mon, Lisa! Everything is not always black or white, you know. You should chill out a bit.”
I snort. “Yeah, chill out. Easier said than done.”
“What’s the matter?” she says, seriousness filling her voice now. I’m not used to her being this serious.
“I risk a trial if I’m not pregnant this time. Also, given the pile of reports I have accumulated to date, it’s more than possible that I’ll end up retired.”
Anna looks shocked for a moment, staring at me, forehead creased.
“You should really learn to let things go sometimes. You know, like, mind your own business and just complete your work. At least it could save you future reports,” Anna says, sliding a comforting arm across my shoulder.
I should shake it off, but I don’t want to. It feels relieving to have her by my side, to have her close to me. I begged for this contact. I desperately need it, but when I notice that the guard appears to be staring at us, I dip out from under her arm that goes limp at her side, a sense of distress jolting me.
“We have an elder who was retired a month ago or so. She looked ecstatic, you know. She was getting too old for her job anyway,” says Anna encouragingly.
“Ecstatic. Yeah. An elder—I guess she would be. However, at eighteen, I can’t be that useless…” I let my hands fall loosely beside me. Everything—the world—feels heavy on me. “And have you seen her since then? I mean, how is it there and all?”
“Um, no. I’ve never seen her again. Why?” she asks.
I shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I’ll likely never see you again. Sound fair enough?” I instantly regret the harshness in my voice. I scour the pocket of my pants for the cheaply printed pamphlet entitled, The Retirement Process and What You Need to Know. “Let’s see if I’m going to be ‘ecstatic’” I say.
Welcome to the Retirement program.
If you are reading this pamphlet, your physical or mental state has been judged substandard.
But don’t worry: you’ll be reassigned under new standards and moved to a specific environment more suited to your particular needs and capabilities.
“Wait, what? That’s it?” I crumple the paper into my fist. “That’s crap!”
“Relax. This is why you get those reports. You freak out for nothing and then act like a fool.”
“For nothing? Well, I guess we can’t all be like you,” I snap, and again I regret it instantly.
“You should,” she replies with the same edge in her voice that I used against her.
We remain silent for a moment, avoiding each other’s eyes. I’m too embarrassed to speak first, or to even look at Anna. She’s right, and I know it. And she knows that I know. But sometimes, containing myself is merely impossible. It’s too hard of a task, like a pressure that can’t be relieved otherwise. Right now, it’s unbearable. I risk being sent to this place I now realize I know nothing about. I don’t know where it is, and I don’t know what will happen there. Right now, the pressure is sky-high.
All of this because of my inability to bear a child and keep my mouth shut. I can only blame myself if I never see her again.
How would I make it through life without her? Who will throw this abundance of positivity in my face when I so badly need it? Who will make me see the light when my head sinks into the maze of my own torments? Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong to this place. I’m too weak for it.
What’s wrong with me?
“Everything will be all right,” says Anna soothingly. “In no time, you’ll be fat as a cow and wish to have never been pregnant. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah, I remember you being pregnant pretty well. But you looked more like a little pig, your skin all pink and that enormous, round belly,” I say in a joking tone. She laughs and shoves me aside.
“That’s not fair of you,” she exclaims between laughs.
“I hope I’ll look like you did. Pink and round. It would be a change from this straight celery shape of mine.”
“Clear the yard, citizen,” yells the guard at us, pointing at the clock with his baton he holds like a warning toward us. I don’t understand the necessity for such authoritarian flare.
Already? I look at the tall clock, shocked, as six o’clock rings. I can’t believe an hour has already passed. It barely felt like a minute at most.
Anna gets up and helps me to my feet. I don’t want to leave. It’s relaxing here, with the chilly spring breeze and the rustling sound of leaves in the trees. I guess every good thing must come to an end at one time or another.
We unwillingly get back to the gate and walk down Eighth Avenue, heading to the tram station we left earlier that will drive us back to the monotony of our after-work life. All I’m heading towards is solitary in my apartment, trapped with my actual demons and no one to share them with.
I feel the cold hands of loneliness gripping at the base of my neck and it makes me shiver.
“See you tomorrow, uh?” I ask anxiously as we part ways.
She nods and smiles. I’m glad she doesn’t have the night shift tomorrow.
I turn around, cross the street, and get to my own station on the other side of Fifth Avenue. There are not many people in the tram. For once, I can enjoy a seat to myself for the entire half-hour ride to my apartment. The hard plastic surface is uncomfortable, but I don’t care. I’m too exhausted to dare make a case out of it. I lean my head against the cold metal frame of the window, letting it cool my warm skin, and close my eyes, unable to fight the heaviness of my eyelids. I feel utterly drained of energy. I think I will skip supper and go straight to bed tonight.
Chapter Three
Ten to five.
Ten to five signals the end of my working shift, giving me a goal to focus on throughout the day: to not make any waves. Above all, ten to five means I’ll meet Anna by the tram station.
Ten to five and I’ll finally release everything that has built up during the day. My stomach turns every time I hear Callum, the head supervisor at the General Citizen Hospital, raise his tone, only to eventually realize it wasn’t aimed at me. Every time I reach for the required medications only to find an empty drawer, stress squeezes my chest, and the pain makes me want to scream. Tears fill my eyes because of my powerlessness to help someone else’s pain, and I can only blink them away. All this restraint accumulates, piles up, threatens to explode at any moment, and I keep focusing. Ten to five and I’ll release it all. I must hold on. It’s almost done.
Anna and I have met three days in a row, which also means three days in a row without reports, three days in a row of good and restful sleep, without this wrenching anxiety tearing at me from the inside. I feel good. I feel optimistic about my chances to fulfill my duty or be reassigned.
We usually don’t see each other that often—twice a week most of the time, when we meet by the tram station and decide to hang out at the park. Having periods of loneliness never bothered me before, but in these times of need, they feel oppressive, and seeing Anna becomes a necessit
y. I let her speak endlessly until she realizes that I, too, probably have something to say. And with a sincere yet overdone apologetic smile, she looks at me, all innocent, and I become the focus of her attention. This is Anna. This is the way I like her. And I’m going to miss her tonight, as today I have been switched to an evening shift.
The evening has only started, and I already feel I have a thousand things to tell her—or maybe repeat the same thing a thousand times. It shouldn’t be that hard to hold on until tomorrow. All I have to do is simply let things go, chill out and keep cool. No drama, no asking, no tears, no reports. Simple as that.
I smile, recalling how she always finds the right way to calm me down—and sometimes truly piss me off also—and how she succeeded in extending our last dawdling in the park by a whole hour with the power of a smile and a faint brush on one guard’s shoulder. It was a suggestive smile maybe, but she apparently thrives on those. She should be careful playing these games though. That’s a point I can’t stress enough to her. Then again, maybe she’s report-proof?
My shift ends at ten, and with it vanishes all the groans and the coughs, Callum’s tempestuous mood, and that sterile smell that blends with the raw, metallic odor of blood that stings my nose. This whole day has passed way too slowly for my taste, and as Callum fills an evening shift form, I find myself shifting my weight from one foot to the other, dreaming of my bed, eager to sink under the sheets and pull them over my head.
“Wake up,” grumbles Callum, waving a quickly scribbled evening shift paper before my eyes.
I pick it out of his hand, somewhat embarrassed, and leave. The next tram is the quarter-after-ten tram. Fifteen minutes to wait.
A ringing echoes loudly in the city, calling for the first curfew. In thirty minutes, the third and last one will be heard.