All windows had to be blacked out.
I’m not really sure why, but for me, that was the tipping point. “Why?” I asked Charles as he painted the living room window with a brush.
“We’re at war.”
“Yes, but no one has attacked us from the sky,” I pointed at the blue-grey strip at the top. It was empty and silent, the dull roar and seagull silhouettes of airplanes only a memory.
Charles sighed, and I knew what he was thinking before he even opened his mouth. “It’s the law,” he set his brush on the edge of the can, “It’s for safety.”
“I’m not sure I believe it. Besides, we can’t see the roses. They were just about to bloom and we’re not supposed to go outside.”
“You can go outside,” he picked up his brush, “as long as you’re engaged in purposeful business.”
“Picking roses is not purposeful business,” I turned away from him. Every inch of me longed to speak to someone who would understand, but trivial use of the phone was forbidden. The lines needed to be kept clear for emergencies and something about spies.
“What was it about spies?” I walked into my room, picking up a leather journal. Flipping through the pages, I stopped at last Monday’s entry, “These spies are listening to Muriel talk about her gallstones, and that is a national secret.” I giggled, glad that myself of last Monday sensed the absurdity. Tuesday was on the page facing it, the words smeared across the page. Yes, Tuesday. Tuesday was the worst day.
A neighbor, whose name I didn’t know broke a rule. Somehow he bought a loaf of bread. He offered a piece to another neighbor, and she went door to door, gathering an indignant flock until the whole street arrived at his door. “How dare you,” her lips shook with self-righteousness, “bread is for soldiers.”
“And so are eggs, milk, and meat. Who are these soldiers that they need so much? That they need everything we used to have?” his eyes passed over each face, searching for sympathy. I looked at the cracked cement under my sandals, hoping he wouldn’t sense the answers squeezing their way up my throat.
“They are fighting the war for us. If they want bread, we need to give them bread. As for who they are; my own son is fighting,” she held out a hand, “Give us the bread and we will take it to the base camp.”
It wouldn’t have been a problem if it ended there, but it didn’t. Later that same day, signs appeared on that neighbor’s house. “Enemy,” they read, “Coward.” The worst was one I had to squint to read, “We don’t want you here. You are not our neighbor.”
“What are you looking at?” Charles took my arm.
“The signs. It just seems horrible,” tears pricked at my eyes.
“Look on the bright side, they’re not in our yard.”
This is why I can never really talk to Charles. I can’t tell him my deepest thoughts or share my fears and anger. Not only does he not understand, but he minimizes them until they are smaller than a crumb of bread. Bread. Bread is all I can think about. Light and fluffy, maybe the tang of sourdough.
I flipped forward in the book, finally allowing myself to write down the things that had been tickling at the back of my mind for weeks. “The soldier has become untouchable, a person to be revered. He or she is to be given the best of food, only their children may receive education, and only they may be armed. The rest of us are rapidly becoming an underclass. Those who have jobs are considered lucky, even as their work hours increase and their work conditions degrade.”
Yes, these were the sort of words that tasted like honey but soured in the stomach. As good as it felt to get it out, if anyone read it, I would become as despised as my neighbor. Tearing the page from the binding, I folded it into quarters, sharpening the crease with my thumbnail. I ripped it in four, then ripped each piece again, shredding until each scrap had no more than the loop of an e or the staccato cross of a t.
I put a scrap in my mouth and closed my eyes. Toast, with butter that melts on top of it. The scraping sound the knife makes. I chewed, swallowed, then put another piece on my tongue.
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Cross Posted to Deadlines for Writers
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Not that's out of my system, I'll get back to writing my usual nonsense.
I finished my rewrite of the novella formerly known as The Culling. It's available for preorder, and I will probably run a sale once it actually releases, so stay tuned.
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Save Desdemona
Forced to participate in a survival game known as the Culling, Healer Charlotte Brown falls in with an incompetent Mage, a hotheaded Soldier, and a Soldier who carries . . . is that a baseball bat? As the rag-tag team fights to stay alive, and collect all five runes (one for each Great Mage), Charlotte struggles with her growing attraction to the Mage who blows up everything he tries to enchant.
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