by Rori Shay
He stares down at his father with such hate in his eyes I fear it will eat him from the inside out. That this hate will come back to haunt him later when he remembers his dead father. I must diffuse this, if only for Griffin’s sake.
“Maran,” I say. “You know what you’ve done. You’ll be sentenced to the prison. This is your last chance to speak to your son. Do you have any last words for him?”
I hope what he will say will be kind. That it will be enough for Griffin to remember his father with at least some good thoughts in the years to come.
Maran is checked by this, at least somewhat. “Griffin, I always kept you in mind. I was always thinking of your future. Your family. Your future sons and daughters. You may not realize it now, but one day you’ll know I was right. You’ll look back upon this moment and know East Country needed to build technology again. To guard itself against intruders. I only hope it isn’t too late—that you realize all this while there’s still time to take action.”
He leans forward to kiss Griffin’s cheek. Griffin deftly moves out of the way, avoiding his father’s touch.
Maran looks at Griffin with a crooked smile. “I understand, Son. I know why you guard the Elected. It wasn’t just a way to protect them from me. There is more. But you are wrong to be so infatuated with them. They’ll cross you. Leave you desolate. I, alone, love you. I did all this for you.”
Griffin refuses to meet his father’s eyes, but I see his eyes welling. He struggles to hold back. Vienne walks forward and puts an arm around Griffin. He doesn’t shake off this embrace.
“Take him away now.” Griffin gestures at the other guards.
Tomlin nods to them in agreement, and they take Maran by the arms, leading him out of the room.
I look at Vienne. She knows now is not a good time to tell our news. We both turn to look at Griffin. He’s fallen onto the big couch by the unused fireplace and stares blankly ahead.
Tomlin puts one hand on Griffin’s shoulder. Then he glances toward me and Vienne, and without speaking, takes his leave.
I sit across from Griffin, but Vienne is the first to talk, “I’m sorry, Griffin. So sorry.”
He just nods, eyes still glazed and unblinking.
Then he turns to look at me. “I knew, and I didn’t tell you.”
“Now I understand why you couldn’t tell me. Why you didn’t turn in your own father.” I speak softly, trying to convey the depth of my feeling. I can understand a relationship with one’s parents is complicated. That we have such a short time with them as it is.
But he shakes his head at me. “I’m an accomplice because I didn’t give you his name. You have every right to put me in prison too.”
At one time this is what I would’ve wanted. But now it’s different. I care for this man. He’s fathering my child. I couldn’t sentence him now.
Vienne breaks in, picking up on all of this too. “Never, Griffin. We would never.”
“And your father is wrong,” I say. “We won’t forsake you. Vienne and I will stand with you to our dying breaths. We’re a team now.”
“I wanted to keep you safe,” he says. “I thought my father was telling me the truth. That he gave up the idea of assassinating you. That his views weren’t quite so strong after all. But I was wrong. He was still a threat.”
“He will no longer be a threat,” says Vienne. “But we still want you to guard us. To stay here with us.” She looks over at me for confirmation. “Isn’t that right, Aloy?”
“Right,” I say.
We leave the room, Griffin and Vienne going together to tell Griffin’s stepmother, Brinn, what happened. I stay behind in the house, thinking about what it will be like to preside over Maran’s suicide. Griffin might be upset with his father, but Maran will always be his Apa. And no matter what, I’m afraid Griffin will hold the fact I presided over Maran’s death against me. I will always be his father’s killer. It all feels like a seam slowly ripping, the threads starting to tug in opposite directions.
As custom dictates with a violent offense, I will preside over Maran’s assisted suicide this same day. So I only have a few excruciating hours to think about it before walking over to the prison.
I leave the White House, worry over the “bump” on my head now far in the past. No one frets as I leave through the front door. A set of guards come with me, but now that the assassin is found, they are more relaxed.
I wander through the town, not knowing where I’m heading, nodding at the townspeople who smile at me. I think about the fact I’ll soon be a parent. That Vienne will be the best mother ever to bear a child. That I will make sure Vienne has the utmost in medical care we have to offer. That I’ll have the purple pills ready if she shows the slightest sign of needing one.
I make my way to the edge of the town and realize where I’ve been going the whole time. It’s the graveyard. The plot is located behind a short iron gate that’s always left open. I step through it and find the specific stones I’ve yet to visit. They are side by side and bear the names Claraleese and Soyor. The given names of my parents.
I sit down in front of them and notice my guards have made themselves scarce, standing at the entrance to the graveyard with their backs to me.
Even though my parents technically left, didn’t die, our custom is to forge gravestones for them anyway. As far as East Country is concerned, they are dead.
I touch the hard stones and start talking to them. “Ama and Apa, I know you’re still alive. I know it in my soul. But your being gone hurts just like you’re dead. I miss you so much. The things I’ve done, you wouldn’t believe. In just a few hours I have to put Maran to death. How can I do it? How can I watch him suffer? How can I watch any of our people suffer?”
I look to my left and see a small boy talking to a grave a few hundred yards away from me. Every now and then he waits, listening for a response. Then he laughs out loud like his dead companion just said something funny.
I turn back to the stones signifying my parents.
“Vienne is having a baby, Ama. We’ve done it. We figured it out. Thing is, it’s not really my baby. But I’ll treat him or her like she is. And I’m not even hoping for a boy. I’ll be happy with either. I don’t think it’s right only boys can rule. Vienne would do a fine job, even if she’s focusing on getting pregnant.”
I’m rambling. Telling my parents everything in my head. Spilling my thoughts out like sand coursing through fingers. I gush about my feelings for Vienne. And my feelings for Griffin. How I love and want to protect one. And how I long to kiss the other. I wonder what Maran would think if he knew Griffin were to be the father of the next Elected. I stay bent over my parents’ graves, continuing to talk, even as my calves begin to scream. As the sun begins to set, I know it’s time to say goodbye to my parents and head over to the prison. I stare at their fake gravestones and then turn, not looking back.
Once outside the Old Executive Office Building, I walk up the old steps like it’s my own execution. I keep my head down as I pass by the guards in the lobby. They don’t say anything as I make my way through the narrow corridor and am led to Maran’s door. I stand outside of it for a few seconds, longer than normal, trying to take a last, deep breath before going inside. I glance at the guard to my side, say thank you, and turn the door handle.
My side of the room is set up as usual, with one wooden bench facing the glass. I peer in to see Maran standing on his side of the clear wall, palms planted against the glass, waiting for me. He bangs on the armor glass as he sees me. I’m sure he’s hitting it hard, but I don’t hear anything. I see his lips moving, but I can’t hear his words. My room is bizarrely quiet in contrast, almost church-like in its reverence to the scene unfolding.
From the door off of Maran’s side, a guard brings in a small crystal glass filled with the clear liquid. He sets it down on the floor and then quickly exits again as Maran starts to rush at him. Maran looks at the glass and then laughs, banging on our separation again, clearly trying to
get my attention. He opens his mouth wide and gives a primal yell, although I still can’t hear a sound.
I see him move sideways and swiftly kick the crystal cup. It launches across the room, shattering on the armor glass in tiny pieces. I’m startled, jumping backward off my small, wood bench. I watch as the hemlock streams over the floor in stripes and Maran steps on the liquid, scattering the droplets with the sole of his boot.
In the assisted suicides I witnessed, I’ve yet to see someone refuse the drink. I know the mechanics of the following custom, though. As if I could predict the script in a play, I watch the next scene commence. This time, two guards walk into Maran’s room. They bring him a second glass full of hemlock. They set it down on the floor and exit again.
Maran looks at the second cup and gives another yell. This time he must also let out a high-pitched laugh because the octave of his voice does resonate slightly through the glass. He beats against the material, and I think of my father’s reassurances weeks ago—armor glass won’t break.
Maran picks up the cup, and I think this time will be it. He’ll drink it down, and this gruesome episode will be finished. I take a deep breath.
But instead of lifting the cup to his lips, Maran smashes it down against the ground. It breaks, not into a hundred small shards, as it did on the armor glass, but into three sharp pieces. Maran picks up the largest shard and presses it to his arm. I think maybe he’s choosing his own method of dying. Perhaps he means to take his life by cutting into a vein instead of drinking the poison. This too will be gruesome, but I hope it’ll happen quickly. That it will not, in fact, cause him too much pain.
Maran doesn’t cut into his wrist, though. I watch with wide eyes as he draws blood from his arm, slicing the glass through the skin from the inside of his elbow down his arm. He lets the blood bubble up for a minute and then sticks a finger into the long wound. He draws his pointer finger out again and wipes his own blood on the armor glass.
I don’t understand what he means to do, but soon his intentions are clear. He’s writing a word on the glass, so he’ll be able to communicate one final message to me.
I watch in horror as Maran goes back, again and again, to his bleeding arm to gather more writing material. Each time he comes up with a finger full of blood and smears it on the barrier between us. When he finishes, there are seven letters on the wall. I can’t see them clearly, so I stand up from the bench, moving closer to the glass.
He’s written a word, but it faces him, so I’m forced to interpret the slanted letters backward. Maran stands there, watching me, with a slight smile on his face.
When I finally decipher it, I’m appalled—furious he would write out this word as his life’s last communication. But I’m more furious he’s guessed my true gender and written it out for others to see.
The glass reads, “LESBIAN.”
26
Society outgrew the word years ago. No one felt the need to label people for who or how they love. At the same time, our world is so dependent on population growth there’s a constant conflict between necessity and our desire to accept people as they are. I don’t worry about Maran’s use of the word, itself. But this final betrayal of my gender causes my heart to quicken so much that I can hear the rush of blood in my ears. Maran knows I’m breaking two of our most sacred laws; the Elected Accord and the Fertility Accord, and his final act is to announce I’m an imposter. I guess if he couldn’t kill me, he’s now trying to unseat me legally.
His eyes are alight with amusement as I stare at his art. His mouth opens and he gives big guffaws, laughing at me. I glare at him, unsure what to do next, bracing myself for the guards’ response. Three guards enter the room, beginning the next phase of the custom. They glance at the word written in blood on the glass, but their eyes are uncomprehending. Maran stares at them forcefully, pointing to the word and becoming more frustrated when they seemingly don’t understand its meaning. He starts to frantically explain it, but the guards are resolute about their role. They proceed with robotic precision, ignoring Maran’s pleas. Because of the nature of the coming ritual, I assume they’re trained to block out a prisoner’s verbal defiance. Or perhaps they choose to discount what they don’t want to hear. It’s a relief they don’t acknowledge the word, but I wonder if I’ll have to provide answers later.
One of the guards holds a third cup of hemlock. The forthcoming ritual is what I’ve feared with each of the suicides I’ve witnessed. But this is the first time I see it first-hand. This time, it’s not an assisted suicide. I am watching my first government-sanctioned kill. The two other guards hold Maran down on the floor, his arms and legs pinned with the guards’ own bodies. Then the third guard forces Maran’s mouth open, twisting his arm to keep Maran’s teeth from biting down on him. He quickly pours the drink between Maran’s lips. All the while, Maran is spitting, trying to clamp his mouth shut, resisting.
However, he’s not strong enough to stave off the three guards. They continue to hold him down as the hemlock’s juice begins exercising its power. Maran’s body convulses under the guards. I see his legs twist in pain and his arms spasm. I don’t watch his face, only imagine the look of it. His eyes turning white, rolling to the back of his head, his facial muscles contorting into something monstrous.
I don’t fully look. Don’t afford the prisoner the respect of my full attention. I don’t stare into his eyes, acknowledging his life lost.
Instead, I sit down on the bench, bent over with my head between my knees. And I think of the only thing that could truly distract me right now. Griffin.
How Griffin is the opposite of his father. How he is warm and tender and caring. How two men could be of the same blood but share so few personal qualities. I see Griffin’s arms in my head. His legs. His face. I concentrate on this last picture the longest. Griffin’s face with a smile on his lips, the sun shining down on his brow. I figure this image is the best offering from Maran’s life. The best and only way I can pay homage to his life. To think of the thing he created that will live past him. That will offer something good to the world.
Finally, I raise my head and see the guards picking up Maran’s body. They’ll bring him to Vienne’s quarters so she can dress him for burial. I know it won’t be the same ritual as when Vienne cared for Margareath’s body. We did not fulfill my new plan for prisoners with Griffin’s father.
I sigh deeply, letting the weight of what I just saw course out of my limbs in waves. Finally, I stand up, and I know there’s only one place I need to be right now—one family I need to console tonight. I make the steady, sure walk toward Maran’s cottage where I know Griffin will be waiting for me. In front of their hut, I raise my hand to rap on the thatched door. It opens before I have a chance to knock. Griffin stands before me, looking so much like his father it hurts my head.
“Come in,” he says. His voice is even. It doesn’t carry the distress I thought it would. Vienne must have talked with him earlier to help Griffin get through his father’s execution.
“Is your stepmother here?” I ask.
“She’s in the living room. We’ve been waiting for you.” Griffin pauses, and a long sigh escapes his mouth. “So... it’s... finished?”
“Yes, your father’s gone.”
Griffin nods wordlessly and leads me deeper into the house to where his stepmother sits before a fire. The warmth isn’t needed, but she stares into the flickering flames anyway.
“I’m sorry, Brinn,” I say from behind her.
She doesn’t respond—just keeps staring into the flames. It’s incredibly warm in the house. I can already feel beads of perspiration trailing down my forehead. I wipe them off with the back of my palm and walk around Brinn’s rocking chair to face her.
“Brinn, I apologize...”
She breaks me off with a hand. “Don’t, Elected. Don’t say you’re sorry. It was his own fault. He brought this on himself.” She pauses. I’m about to say more but she continues, “Technology use would be one thing. But v
iolence against the Elected? That is unforgivable.”
“And yet, we must forgive him.” I quote my mother’s words when she spoke of prisoners in the past.
“Eventually, I am sure I will. But not now. This is not an excuse, you know, but he had cancer. He knew he didn’t have long. It started a year ago.”
I look to Griffin and he nods. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I’m surprised Griffin never told me.
“A tumor in his head. Perhaps that changed him somewhat. Affected him in ways our doctors can’t even comprehend. Changed his personality a bit. When he hit Griffin—”
This time I interrupt her. “Hit Griffin?” I look over at him for confirmation.
But Brinn is the one to answer, still absently staring into the fire, “Yes, hit him in the face.”
“So you didn’t get a black eye from fencing?” I ask him.
“No. He came at me when I refused to help with the assassination attempts.”
I look down. I should have known. Griffin, with his fighting skills and quick agility, would never fare badly enough at fencing to get a black eye.
Brinn stirs. “Elected, thank you for coming here tonight, but would you leave me now? I wish to be alone.”
I shake my head yes. “Brinn, again I’m sorry. If you need anything, please tell me or Madame Elected.”
She nods but continues to stare at the flames. I look at Griffin and he gestures with a slight nod toward the door.
Once we’re out of the living room and away from his stepmother I ask, “Are you going to stay with her for a while?”
“She wants me to remain at the White House. She keeps looking at my face, saying it reminds her of my father.”
“Would you walk back with me now then?” I ask. “Or will you stay with her for a few more minutes?”
“I’ll come with you. Just let me say goodbye.”
He leaves to give parting thoughts to his stepmother. From around the corner I see him pulling a blanket over her legs, even though it’s not cold. He wraps it around her and gives Brinn a small hug. When Brinn doesn’t move or embrace him back, Griffin visibly winces. I wonder if Griffin, like me, was also refused affection by his parents. Maran hit him and now Brinn won’t offer him love even after his father’s just died.