Choice:Chapter 1

                                                        Choice

                                                    Chapter 1

C. A.

Day 1 of Solitary Confinement

            The side effects of being held in a dark, small space without human contact for extensive periods of time include hallucinations, aggression, paranoia, and…insanity. If I do lose my mind, maybe someone will read this and see that I stood for something. I fought for something bigger than myself and sometimes things don’t go according to plan. Sometimes, things go horribly, agonizingly wrong.

            My name is Clem Ashworth. Today marks the first day of my indefinite sentence spent in solitary confinement, the first day of the end of my life. My days, even my breaths are numbered.

            Classes of society and earning money have become extinct. The government assigns everyone an occupation and distributes all wealth in the form of rations. In an effort to achieve total equality, everyone is required to live in the same square, gray house, wear the same clothes, have the same hair, do the same things. Living in Aequalitas is like living the same day over and over and over again.

            It’s enough to make anyone do something drastic.



Chapter 1



            I stare at my untied shoe laces. One hangs limply in a puddle of murky-looking water, the once-white fabric turning brown as I watch and I can’t bring myself to care. After all, it’s only a shoe lace. It is easier to focus on such a small minute detail than to allow my thoughts to wander anywhere close to the monumental crisis that has become my life.

            I keep my eyes cast down rather than to risk looking at the sky or flowers or anything beautiful that might cause me further pain. Nothing should be allowed to be beautiful when I am feeling so cracked and hollow inside. Mother Nature should display a certain amount of sensitivity to a person’s mood. Today should be gray, cloudy, and dark; or perhaps the perfect setting would be desert, an intense dry span of burning sand that seeps into every crevice. Yes, something that I want to flee, but no matter how far I run or how much I scrub, it remains chaffing my skin and mind. Of course, today, Mother Nature is not so kind. Last night it rained, which resulted in a vibrant green coloring every field and tree and which also resulted in my shoelace lying submerged in a puddle. I cling to this small reality. It is my lifeboat in a crashing sea. If not for this concentration, it feels as if my head will go under and never come up again.

            “Flora?”

            I look up and blink my eyes. The platform of the train station slowly comes into focus and the tears that threaten to overflow subside temporarily. A short, squat woman with chin-length curly brown hair that does not flatter her round face, wearing a charcoal jacket, skirt, and bowtie is blinking at me. This must be the chauffeur my relatives told me would pick me up at the station. I always think of men as being chauffeurs although I have no idea why. I’ve never seen one before today.

            “Are you ready dear?” I don’t meet her eyes, although I can tell by her sincerity and the hesitant way she speaks, she means well.

            “Yes.”

            But I’m not anywhere close to ready. She opens the door, and I climb into the backseat of the car. The air inside is a comfortable temperature especially when compared with the sticky humidity outside. I hadn’t even realized I was sweating while waiting at the station. My hair sticks to the back of my neck. Strange, when I think about the place I left covered in a blanket of snow.

            The car is black, high class and sleek, although, that is to be expected. I’m not used to luxury of this nature, well luxury at all really. Back in my home country, Aequalitas, there is no such thing as luxury. Everyone lives the same lifestyle, which happens to be poor. Though, I probably wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t come here and seen what rich looks like.

            This new place is called Republic of the People, a.k.a. Republic of the Pompous as we affectionately call it back home. The people here live riotously, selfishly, and wastefully. There are not enough “ly’s” to describe their living. They don’t share with their neighbors as I was always made to do. Here it’s every man for himself.

            Despicable.

            When my chauffer punches in our destination on the screen and the car purrs to life, my heart beat involuntarily speeds up. I have to take several deep breaths and count backwards from ten before it slows down enough where I can hear something other than the pounding of my own blood in my ears. This is the first time I’ve ridden in a vehicle that isn’t a train or subway. Where I come from most everyone uses public transportation.

            “My name is Vita by the way,” she smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “I’ll be taking you to Driftwood Place where your aunt and uncle reside.”

            I stare out the window wishing Vita would keep her eyes on the road even if the car is somehow piloting itself. She hasn’t even touched the steering wheel. I don’t like the way she smiles, one of her front teeth sticks out farther than the rest.

            Vita doesn’t seem to have any real problems. Or maybe she just chooses not to talk about her troubles. That’s what people do, hide it inside. The real stuff. That’s what I do.

            As we travel, I notice a change in scenery from where I grew up, like the change in temperature. Strange trees with tall skinny trunks that end in spiky green leaves that look sharp to touch. I’ve never seen trees like that.

            Some areas lack maintenance. Several buildings are on the verge of collapse and I wonder that no one fixes them. It seems like a public safety hazard. If we were in Aequalitas, the government would quickly assign a group of maintenance workers to do the job. Here, even on the houses that are not falling down, there are bars on all the windows. They look like prisons.

            There are a lot of cracks and potholes in the road too. The asphalt is deteriorating and clearly needs to be repaved. That’s not something one sees in Aequalitas either. There, the roads are kept in perfect condition. The government is in charge of upkeep and they do not slack on their duty, in that respect. I notice the car does pretty well going around these, but we hit one every once in awhile and it jerks us slightly.

            “Apologies, passengers.” A strange robotic, yet female voice seems to come from the car speakers. Talking machines. That’s different.

            I listen to Vita’s idle chatter. There isn’t anything else to do. She obviously is not comfortable with silence between two strangers and I am grateful for the distraction, however small. She talks about how her sister is hosting a party next week and she is supposed to supply the drinks. But she isn’t sure of how many people will actually be attending. It is interesting that people in this country can have gatherings of more than immediate family without first getting permission from their community working officer.

            “Of course, Ambrosia neglected to give me an RSVP list,” Vita sighs. “Typical. I suppose I’ll just bring enough for 15. That’s a nice round number. Anything smaller wouldn’t be much of a party and anything larger…well perhaps I’ll get 20. Yes, that should do it. Although, I hate to spend extra money on anything that will simply go to waste.”

            It is remarkable that anyone can carry on an audible conversation with themselves for over an hour.

            “Why don’t you ask Ambrosia how many she invited?”

            “Oh!” Vita jumps in the front seat as if she had forgotten there is another person in the car. “I thought maybe you had gone to sleep. You were so quiet back there.” She looks at me expectantly in the mirror.

            “No,” I say. “I can’t sleep much anymore.”

            Vita clears her throat but doesn’t say anything. I go back to watching the country side speed by us for the remainder of the trip taking slight satisfaction in having made her uncomfortable. I wonder when exactly I became this person, so harsh. Bitter. Angry.

         

            When Vita and I arrive at my relative’s property, we have to first be identified and cleared to go through a huge metal gate at the edge of the property. There are two armed guards standing on either side of the entrance. They are holding cylindrical, black weapons. I look away quickly before I can think of what I know those weapons are capable of.

            The house comes into view, actually the word ‘house’ doesn’t seem adequate to describe it; I am first struck by its sheer size. It looks like it could be a school or hotel, not a single family residence. It is of course far more beautiful than any school or hotel I have ever seen. It is old and ornate but incredibly pristine, a bleak contrast from the world just outside it’s gates, full of collapsing buildings and broken roads. Thick white columns line the front porch. They run from the roof, three stories up, to the ground. The house is white, but it doesn’t appear to be made of wood. It almost looks like it’s made of clay, but that’s impossible. Isn’t it?

            Giant double doors with massive brass knockers await our arrival.

            I have no bags, no clothes, or belongings that I brought with me. I feel exposed and vulnerable and empty standing here with literally only the clothes on my back in the face of all this wealth.

            I am hesitant, but Vita walks quickly to the front doors and lifts the giant knocker. She is probably eager to get rid of me. I am not good company as of late. She allows the metal circle to fall and it resonates so loudly, I think that my ears may start to hurt. But then it stops and an aged man with white hair is standing in the open doorway.

            “Hello Bay,” Vita says, politely. Bay? People have such strange names here. “This is Flora, Mr. Ashworth’s niece. She needs authorization.”

            The elderly man just nods and leaves for a moment. I wonder why Vita and I do not follow him.

            He returns a moment later with what looks like some sort of gun. I immediately shrink back, but Vita puts a firm hand on my back holding me in place.

            “It’s alright dear,” she says. “It’s only a retina scanner. Bay’s just going to shine a little light in your eye and then you’ll be good to go inside.”

            “Why all this security?” There is nothing like this in Aequalitas. Actually, we don’t even have locks on our doors. The consequences for breaking the law are intensely severe and an adequate deterrent to criminals. We keep to ourselves out of fear. Everyone tries to stay off the government’s radar.

            “Just a necessary precaution,” Vita says lightly. “No reason to be careless, especially when the Ashworths can afford not to be.” She smiles but I suspect there is some bitterness to her words, an underlying suggestion.

            I wonder how much Vita makes as a chauffer, enough to live a decent life I guess, but not nearly as much as my uncle. Unlike in Aequalitas, everyone in the Republic earns different amounts of money. I wonder if they resent each other for it.

            I blink as the red light hits my eyeball. But it seems to work, because Bay stands back and allows me entrance. Vita does not follow me inside.

            My aunt and uncle seem glad to see me. Although I barely see my uncle before he announces he has to get back to work. We haven’t set eyes on one another in over ten years.

            “Oh Flora, I do hope the trip was not too difficult for you. I was so worried. We already lost Maggie and then to think about you trying to leave when it’s so danger-.”

            My aunt is speaking, but my uncle suddenly stops her. He tightens his grip on a silver walking stick with a silver embossed head of a falcon on the top. I don’t remember him using a cane.

            “That’s enough, Grace.” He gives her a look. “Flora, I’m sure you are exhausted. Darling, why don’t you show our guest to her room?”

            “What’s dangerous?” I ask. But my uncle is already walking away.

            “Let me show you the house. I can’t wait for you to see your new room!”

            My aunt hugs me and pats my cheek sympathetically. It is all I can do not to push her away. I have had enough of sympathetic strangers and barely made acquaintances invading my personal space because they assume I am the type of person who would be comforted that way. Really, all it ever does is make me angrier or more upset. A hug holds no value if the person doing the hugging means nothing to you. Nevertheless, my aunt doesn’t let go of my hand as she leads me through the grand house, and even I have to admit, it is impressive. We pass through the sitting room, the parlor, the grand salon, the formal dining room, and at last the library and bedrooms.

            I wonder if a person could get lost, especially at night if the lights are out. It’s too bad they do not paint glow in the dark arrows on the floor, pointing to all exits in case of a fire or something. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to find my way out of here if an emergency suddenly occurred. This strange thread of thought is interrupted by my aunt announcing we have arrived at my bedroom.

            “Here we are,” she squeezes my hand. “What do you think?”

            “It’s beautiful,” I say and I mean it. The room is decorated in varying hues of greens and blues, deep rich tones of color. The windows span from floor to ceiling and since the ceilings are 12 feet high, they are impressive. The king sized bed in the middle of the room seems too big for me. It is adorned with several dozen pillows all matching to perfection the décor in the rest of the room.

            Grace’s eyes crinkle with concern again. “Are you sure you’re alright? I do hope you didn’t have any problems on the way. Frederick doesn’t like me to pry. But I worry. We did love Maggie so.”

            “Um…” I want to calm her fears, tell her everything went fine just to get her to leave me alone. But…something is wrong. A piece missing. I can’t remember my journey here. I can’t remember? The trip from my home is a blur. The last thing that I clearly recall before meeting Vita at the train station is the funeral. What? Was I losing my mind?

            “Of course you’ve had quite an ordeal,” Grace sighs.

            Ordeal. That is an understatement.

            My aunt squeezes my shoulders and pecks me on the cheek. I wish she’d stop touching me.

            “We’re so glad you’ve come, Flora. I’ll have Bay ring you when dinner is ready, yes?”

            “If you don’t mind, I actually ate a really big lunch before the ride here. So I think I’ll just unpack tonight.”

            “Of course, of course. Take your time. If you become hungry later, feel free to go down to the kitchen and have something.”

            Grace gives me a sad smile and closes the door behind her. I am grateful she didn’t feel the need to hover. I am exhausted and overwhelmed. It is as if I carry an inherent tiredness around with me, one that can not be cured, especially not by something as simple as sleep.

            This mansion, this ridiculous display of wealth, is supposed to be my ‘permanent’ home now. I feel guilty and indulgent just lying on the bed. I long for the small house I grew up in back home. It had been modest and plain, like everything there, but familiar. All the smells, my mother’s cooking wafting from the kitchen, my father’s aftershave scent, the feel of the banister under my hand as I took the carpeted stairs two at a time. Suddenly, I realize with no small amount of panic, even these memories are beginning to fade like holding water in my hands or trying to catch a piece of down as it floats through the air. The memories are close and yet beyond my reach. Would they disappear all together like the memory of my journey here?

            My eyes once again well up. I force the tears away by sheer will. I will not cry, not yet. Tears will inevitably come later. Night is always hard.



            I see a thin sliver of light from my hiding place. My father’s face appears suddenly, making me gasp.

            “Stay here and do not make a sound no matter what,” he whispers urgently inches from my face. He squeezes my shoulders, too hard. Then he is gone, running from the room. I hug my knees and slide deeper into the closet hoping to become invisible. There is shouting from the hall and then a scream.

         

            I sit up straight in my oversized bed, panicking when I don’t immediately recognize my surroundings. As my eyes adjust, I remember the previous day, the long drive to where my aunt and uncle live, Vita’s pointless chatter.

            Cold sweat runs down my back. My breathing is shallow, stunted by fear.

            The dream still prickles at my consciousness and flashes of my father’s face pepper my vision. The heavy blanket on my bed suddenly feels like too much. I throw it off and it lands with a muffled thud on the wooden floor. If only I could throw off this burden of sadness and despair so easily.