by E. L. Giles
The tram finally appears at the top of the slope and starts its descent, before coming to a screeching stop at the station. I show the driver the evening shift form, which provides me a safe ride home without having to worry about the curfew, and I take my place at the back of the tram.
I surprise myself, thinking of Marcus, which is strange because I deploy every effort to avoid thoughts of him. I imagine myself all arrogant and demeaning toward him as he notices how I proved myself over the last few days, that I’m not irrecoverable or useless. Though in all honesty, without Marcus, I’m not sure I would have realized the urgency of my situation. He told me all of my faults, and he didn’t have to. He didn’t have to tell me how critical my situation was regarding the massive amount of reports I’ve accumulated. He could have been much tougher on me. This appointment opened my eyes and gave me the right source of motivation—to not be retired, to not lose Anna, to keep my life as it is. To keep things as they are and to prove to myself that I do belong here. The road will be hard—it already is—but I must succeed.
The final curfew call rings out as I get out of the tram and step onto the cemented pavement of the street that leads to my apartment. The street lamps all extinguish at once, but fortunately, the moon provides enough light, and the jog is quite short to get to my door. The second building on my right, three stories up creaky stairs, and the second door on the right is my place, apartment number 202.
I unlock the door and enter the tiny kitchen.
“—is scheduled to be executed next Friday at one o’clock in the afternoon—” says a male voice on my left. It’s the commentator of the ten o’clock news report.
I jump, startled, and as I turn around, I notice I forgot to shut off the television when I left for work this afternoon. I walk around the kitchen island to the shelf where the tv sits and turn it off before I go the refrigerator, open it, and pick my early supper: a premade mash-up of chicken and vegetables, ready to serve.
A few minutes in the oven are sufficient to turn the already unappetizing plate into a brown-gray mud of slippery meat and flabby greens one must swallow twice before it slides down the throat. I use my fork to play around a chicken chunk that has escaped me twice as I try to pick through it, and I recall the announcement for the execution that is set for Friday at one in the afternoon.
What’s the meaning of all these executions that have been happening? What’s the matter with people? Are they going crazy? If they keep up the pace, we will quickly run into even more severe measures than the ones they enforced years ago when they set the curfew earlier by two hours or when they shortened the period allowed at the park. We used to enjoy at least triple the time back then. And these are only two examples taken out of the whole set of new rules.
Once again, we will have to endure the view of hanging bodies and the speech that comes with it. And the hooded hangman. And death. And this nausea that invites itself for having watched it for too long.
I warily let my imagination roam around the execution stage, President Nightingale’s poster floating over our heads, his eyes set on the convicted. I instantly shake it all out of my mind. I shouldn’t let anything distract me from the goal I’ve set for myself. Ever.
The daily shower I saved from this morning is waiting for me, and I can’t wait to immerse myself into the hot water. My hair and my skin smell of antiseptic from work. It’s overused and sickening.
I get up, my dinner half-finished, and throw the plate of food in the wastebasket before I head to the bathroom. The call for the next execution has destroyed my appetite. I stop by the mirror, and as I undress, I stare at my straight up-and-down body in hopes I’ll see something has changed. The beginning of a bump on my belly, even the faintest one, would make my day. A larger butt, maybe, or should I say just a butt? Maybe bigger breasts? Really, anything different. Nothing is showing but the ribs through my skin and the same straight frame. The only change I notice is my hair, which has grown longer since the last time I got it cut, now falling inches below my breasts after I untie it.
What else should I expect after such short a time since insemination? Nothing, but I had still held onto some hope, and now that hope is gone, a deep sense of desperation settles over me. I must calm down. I must calm the crazy-fast pace of my heart. I must stop the pounding in my chest.
I jump in the shower, praying to have hot water today from our defective plumbing system. I pull the hot water handle toward me and turn it fully clockwise. Water sprays from the showerhead—ice cold. I wait a minute for the hot water to cross the piping circuit back to my showerhead. But still nothing. It remains bitter cold.
“Dammit,” I grumble, kicking the handle to shut it off and grabbing the towel hanging on the shower curtain bar. I wipe myself dry and get out of the shower. I knew I should have taken it this morning.
The apartment feels cold with water still beaded on my skin. I’m too cold to spend time drying myself completely, so instead, I run to my bed and sink under the sheets, shuddering.
Tomorrow, by ten to five, I’ll see Anna, I say to myself until I fall asleep.
+++
The gathering around the tram station thickens as always by five o’clock. I scan the platform, looking for Anna with a thousand things to tell her.
And I wait.
The screech of the tram’s wheels fills my ears as it brakes, but still no Anna in sight.
Twenty minutes and the clock’s needles keep moving slowly—inevitably. I feel like the clock delays time and turns seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. How is it possible?
Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock. The ticking echoes in my head with maddening precision.
Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock
“Still here? Get out of here, citizen!” barks someone behind me.
This voice doesn’t belong to Pointy-chin.
Definitely not, I think as I turn around and face him. He’s gigantic, nearly six and a half feet tall and at least twice as large as I am. No, this is not Pointy-chin, and I have never seen him here before. I wish I hadn’t.
Rabid-dog—that’s the only name that comes to mind—holds a black baton tightly, waving it at me in warning. His eyes are dark, covering every remnant of white in them. Chills creep up my spine instantly.
“Sorry. I’m waiting for my tram. I’m leaving now,” I reply anxiously, knowing it’s a stupid answer because my tram stops on the other side of the street, and now I must betray this lie by crossing the street.
I turn on my heels and leave at a jogging pace without looking back at him. I don’t know why, but I have this mental image of him jumping ferociously onto me like some wild animal and tearing me apart with his bare hands and teeth. Never have I enjoyed the sight of my tram appearing at the top of the slope as I do now. Stepping onto the platform, I sink into the gathering of people. Never have I felt that fiercely observed by someone else. I still feel that way even after I have entered the tram and take a seat in the back. Even Callum never looked at me with such daggers in his eyes and a visible thirst to beat me to a pulp.
The face of the Rabid-dog doesn’t leave me for the entire trip to my apartment or even when I go to bed. Whoever he is, whatever the reason he replaced Pointy-chin today, I hope he won’t be there tomorrow. I’m sure even Anna couldn’t mollify him. Well, in fact, I hope Anna won’t try to. He seems brutally quick with retribution.
I miss Pointy-chin.
I miss Anna.
+++
Tick-tock-tick-tock.
Where is she?
I rise on the tips of my toes, craning my neck over the gathering of workers where she should have stood. No tall sandy-brown-haired girl in sight.
Tick-tock-tick-tock. Why the absence?
Tick-tock-tick-tock. What does that mean?
Tick-tock-tick-tock. That freaking clock will drive me crazy. I swear I’m going to take it down.
“You again!” shouts the only voice I don’t want to hear, making my body tremble with terror. Rabid-dog.
“Sorry. I was waiting for my friend. A tall wo—”
“Get the fuck out of here, or…” He pats the palm of his hand with his black baton. This warning sticks in my head like a death threat. I don’t want to know how it feels to be beaten by such a thing.
When I come back to the tram station the next day, I keep to my side of the street and wait there, under the sadistic gaze of Rabid-dog. Doesn’t he have anything better to do than stare at me, with his back against the glass wall of the room, tapping his baton into his palm? How badly I want to choke him with his freaking baton and shove it down his throat…
I detach my eyes from Rabid-dog and concentrate on waiting for Anna. I’m desperate to see her and let three trams pass by before I finally leave the station, the tick-tocking of the clock ringing in my head, the face of Rabid-dog seared into my eyelids, and a sense of loss weighing on my shoulders.
The only good thing I can see through all of this is that there are only three days left before my appointment with Marcus on Monday. Only three days.
But still, plenty could happen in three days.
Yeah, plenty could happen…
+++
The first lull of the day in the emergency room comes when the anthem starts on the screen that hangs on the wall beside me, announcing the beginning of the one p.m. execution. I had totally forgotten about it until now. The flow of patients entering the emergency room stops instantly. All eyes are set on the tall screen.
The execution square appears on the screen, seen from the air. The moderately sized crowd is mainly comprised of men. They are probably night workers who didn’t have any other way to attend—attending executions is mandatory, on-screen or on-site.
The screen goes black for less than a second, and then the picture splits in two. One camera zooms in on the entrance door that separates the Justice Building from the stage while the other one aims fixed on the tall wooden gallows that has been installed on the stage. The hangman is standing ready, the rope well strung and in his hands. He waits for Justice Todd, who finally appears by the doorframe, clothed in his traditional blood-red robe with a file in his hand. He stands still in the shadows the surrounding walls cast over him.
The crowd stands silent, staring as Justice Todd who makes his way to the microphone in front of the stage, walking slowly.
Callum hollers at someone who is still working. I think it’s Rose. She’s bent over and wiping the floor dry. She gets up, her cheeks turning red, and switches her focus to the television, disgust plain on her face as she plays with the soiled cloth still in her hands.
“Today there will take place an execution granted for the charges of sexual incitement, libertinism, and casual behavior, which is strictly forbidden in Kamcala. Given the several admonitions made and their subsequent flouting, the accused is pronounced guilty and sentenced to death by hanging.”
I instantly feel nausea clutch me, turning my composure into a precarious balancing act. Apprehension, horror, and fear all weigh on my stomach. I take a seat, feeling my legs turn to liquid under me. I feel twice as heavy, realizing that Justice Todd’s words remind me of someone—the someone I too often warned and who too rarely listened to me. The accused has a tall, slim, feminine silhouette, and she’s being pushed roughly forward by two armed guards. She stumbles across the stage, handcuffed with her head covered by a bag. This person, doomed to death, reminds me of this “someone.”
A third camera feed splits the screen, grazing over the crowd that still hasn’t moved an inch since it all started. I stare at them, for the most part sharing their disgusted grimace that’s hard to hide. The camera keeps scanning the arena and now shows two rows of ten guards edging the crowd, all armed with rifles aimed directly over the heads of the people in the crowd, standing ready. I find it quite abusive for such a small gathering. Why are they that on edge?
The screen then zooms in to only show the main camera feed. The hangman walks by the condemned, stretches an arm, and reaches for the bag. His fingers grab a fold of the black fabric. My muscles tense. The waiting is unbearable, and my nerves are about to drive me mad. I sit on the edge of the chair, absorbed by what is happening on the screen, way more interested than I was a minute ago before Justice Todd spoke.
I wait. I hope. I pray for this “someone” to not be the one I’m reminded of.
The bag lifts, slowly revealing a short and reddened, round chin. The hood rubs on her delicate jawline, and she shudders, jerking her head to the side. The bag now reveals her cracked, bloody, and swollen lips; her hollowed, bruised cheeks; her closed eyes from which tears are flowing; and her blonde hair that falls loosely on her shoulders, tousled and sticking to the blood and sweat on her face.
She’s barely recognizable. Barely. But it’s her.
Anna…
I can’t tell exactly how I feel in this moment because it’s all too sudden, too immense to process. An onslaught of emotions strikes me at once, causing every part of my body to ache badly as I stiffen, turning rigid yet fragile, like glass. I don’t move for fear I’ll break apart. The hangman passes the rope around her delicate neck. She thrashes, but the hangman soon controls her. She is fragile, and not physically very strong, how could she overthrow such a bulky man? Tremors jolt her body like she’s crying, and it’s too much for me to handle. If I keep watching, I’ll more than likely puke on the floor. I don’t care if I get reprimanded for not watching until the end. I’m done with this.
I get up and head to the water closet. The dizziness is instantaneous. A buzzing noise fills my ears. I feel trapped in a mist that obscures my sight like a thick film covering my eyes. No sound comes from the emergency room other than the tenebrous voice of the commentator resuming narration of the events that drowns out the buzzing noise in my head. It’s only when I close the door behind me that I stop hearing him, but the buzzing remains. My body is heavy, my strength gone. I think I fall to the floor.
Chapter Four
Nightmares.
They are what has kept me awake for two days now. Every time I close my eyes, I see Anna’s body hanging by the rope, agonizing, panicking and finally dying. Something feels wrong inside me. It’s no sickness that can be cured with medicine. I feel…I don’t know. Empty. Yes, this is how I feel—empty, like there’s a gigantic hole, a pit deep in my heart that sucks on every last bit of myself. Life has left her body like a puff of smoke from a chimney, vanishing in the air and leaving behind a corpse that used to be my friend. It has been two days, forty-eight hours of torment and self-destruction, fed by the guilt of not having been insistent enough toward her faulty demeanor. Guilt for not having stood beside her when she most needed me. Guilt for not having held her hand like she did countless times with me. I know I couldn’t have done anything about her fate, but I still feel like I should have tried harder.
I start my day at work wishing for ten to five to arrive, to be delivered from the painful grieving, which I shouldn’t be doing at work. When ten to five rings, my chest squeezes so hard I could black out, knowing Anna won’t ever meet me again at the tram station. When I enter my apartment, my only wish is for the morning to come as soon as possible, to avoid the necessity of sleep and spare me another evening troubled by nightmares.
I am becoming a wreck.
Monday makes no exception at all. Three days later, and I can’t focus on anything yet. I stand still and useless in the emergency room while life and death intertwine around me in the chaos of mumbles and cries. A quick look in the mirror on the wall at my side reveals my sickening paleness. Some patients look healthier than me at the moment. I’d like to wake from this nightmare, to react, to counteract the numbing sluggishness, but my brain remains trapped in this foggy curtain that has invaded my head since that fateful Friday afternoon when she died.
Anna’s gone; that’s a fact. I can’t do anything about it; that’s another fact. And there’s one truth about it that keeps me from finding any peace of mind, or any rest. I should have insisted that she
refrain from acting like she did. I should have known it was far more than just some suggestive looks and words. Would insistent supplication have changed anything? Who knows? Probably not, but guilt still torments my mind.
I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her, to stand on the stage, alone, facing her own death before the witnessing eyes of the crowd. And I still have many things to tell her and, in fact, I do tell her—in my dreams, before they turn to nightmares. We meet by the tram station, and I feel the same happiness warming my chest at the sight of her. We walk to the park by the flowery pathway, enjoying the evening spring breeze. We sit by the tall tree, and I tell her everything I need to. But then, in the blink of an eye and a smile she exchanges with the guard standing at the park’s gate, it all turns to chaos. The square appears before us, and in an instant, Justice Todd stands at her side, condemning her to death. And I can’t do anything but watch her die over and over again.
How will I make it through everything without her? Who will hold my hand when I’m losing myself, in spite of the consequences? How can I survive this wrenching fear of the unknown, of what’s to come now that she’s gone? I fear failure. I fear, more than ever, the consequences of losing control over myself. I freak out imagining the gallows, a rope around my neck for what I could do. I must get my shit together, and quickly. But everything is happening too fast around me, much faster than I’m able to adjust. I pace back and forth, not knowing what to do or where to go. I know I have to get out of my catatonic state. I know I have to hold on until I meet with Marcus later on today.
But why must I hold on? I have been struggling with this question since Anna’s been gone. Giving up feels way easier. That’s not what Anna would have wanted me to do though. She would have wanted me to be strong and fight. Giving up would be a terrible way to honor her memory. It’s not how she used to be; it’s not what she was. She wasn’t a coward.
Am I strong enough though? I have to be.