by Ann Christy
While she ranted, his expressions had gone from shocked to hurt to blank and then back to rage again as her words filled his ears with poison. What she had said was no different than the taunts they tormented her with and that made her no better than they. She had been his friend and she knew how much it hurt him to hear the rumors of his father and the sly whispers about the condition of his brother when he had been born.
She wished she could take back her words the moment the need to say them was over. By the time the need to lash out in fear and anger was gone, it was too late. Her words were horrible and almost certainly untrue, their only purpose to hurt him as much as his punches and kicks and humiliations hurt her. She clapped a hand over her mouth and felt the tears running down her cheeks.
As she dropped her hand to apologize, Peter shot forward, pulled her by the front of her coveralls and slammed her into the ground with so much force the air whooshed out of her and her head made a dull thud on the floor. His fists flew and she did all that she could to cover her head and face. She saw the wooden handle and metal nib of a shiny new pen, barely stained with ink, flash by her face and she screamed, “No!”
His fingers bit into her jaw as he pushed her face to the side and her hands could do nothing to pull it away. His hand was like a vice. She watched the pen dip toward her, keening through the hand over her mouth. The pen bit deep into her thin meat over her cheekbone, the feeling of metal on bone an unmistakable horror. As he dragged it deeply through her flesh, tearing as much as cutting, he grunted but never said a word. The screaming from the others joined hers.
She saw his hand rise covered in blood, pen still clutched in his fist, and she knew he was going to bring that down on her. She tried to push the pen away from her but all it did was score the skin of her palms and fingers as he easily avoided her. His eyes were blank and aimed at the soft flesh of her neck, the pen now poised to plunge downward. Then other hands—the hands of her tormenters—grabbed at him desperately and pulled him away. He dropped the pen and stood, back hunched and breathing heavily, staring at his bloody hand.
Lizbet felt the hot flush of flowing blood when she lifted her head. It felt like it was everywhere. Her eyes, her mouth, her ears. All filled with blood. She wiped her eyes and stood, screaming now that his hand wasn’t covering her mouth. The sounds of people coming, voices raised in alarm and confusion, came from the bazaar. They would be here within seconds once they figured out which hallway the echoing screams came from.
The others were urging Peter to run, to come with them. Jimmy was already holding the service door open. Lizbet’s gaze fell on the fire hose coiled on the wall between them and to the heavy fitting at the end. She stumbled toward it and in one swift move, unrolled two heavy coils and swung the fitting into Peter’s stunned face. She remembered no more than the crunch of his teeth against the fitting before the darkness claimed her.
*****
It hadn’t been much of a case for the silo justice system. She was the known daughter of an Other, prone to violence by virtue of the blood in her veins. Peter, the upstanding young son of the silo, was all human. His side of the story was the one they chose to believe. No witnesses contradicted him.
Too young for remediation, she was out of school and into a shadowing job where no one would have to be near her before the stitches were even removed. She was the half-Other pariah and she would be watched. And she would be alone.
Four
She let go of Peter’s neck and dropped her heels to the floor. His head jerked back with the release of the pressure and he looked at her warily, eyeing her hands. She stared right back at him, with his chipped teeth and lips that seemed sewn together from the leftovers of other people. He was frightened of her.
She reached down and whipped a leather sheath from her sandal, the bright gleam of razor sharp metal glinting in the red light where the sheath had slipped down. To his credit, Peter didn’t immediately run or attack. He merely waited, looking at her with something close to relief. The others made space around them, backing away or looking furtively about for a good escape. Even Sonya backed away from him.
It would be so easy. She could slip this into him in a heartbeat. No one would be able to do anything about it. She could be gone in a flash and you can’t punish a splatter on the bottom of the silo floor when it came right down to it, so there was always a way to avoid being caught.
Except that they could. They might take her body outside and leave her where she couldn’t rejoin the silo and be born into all the new life that came after her. And that was the whole point of getting through this life, wasn’t it? To get another chance and live life without the stain of her father on her soul was all she really wanted. To be reborn, at least in part, into things that were good and loved was the point of everything she had endured. To live and die a human, not an Other.
She slipped the specially commissioned pen from its supple leather sheath. It had cost enough chits to furnish a new compartment. Some she had inherited from her mother, some of the chits were her own, but all had been gladly given over. It was shaped like a blade and made of the best steel. The metal smith has asked why she would want such a terrible design and she had told him it was an inside joke. The pen is mightier than the sword and all that. That had made him laugh.
It was as sharp as a razor, dangerous to hold, and impossible to use as it was. Peter was an artist and a very good one. Would he understand the meaning? That you can only choose one side to use? Either the nib would have to be replaced to use it as a knife or the blade removed to use it as a pen.
She held out the bladed pen on its sheath toward him, resting it on both her scarred palms. “This is for you. I just want you to understand. I’d like you to forgive me. I forgive you.”
He almost bristled at those final words, but the stiffness in his posture was fleeting and he touched the blade with a careful finger. He hissed, drew back his hand and sucked on the pad of his finger. The blade was as sharp as it could be made to be. He looked at it for a few moments and then back at her, his eyes searching hers. Lizbet thought she saw understanding there and that made her glad. He gave one firm nod, took the pen by the nib and slipped it back into the sheath. He said nothing, but then she didn’t expect him to. The nod was all she needed and she felt the weight she’d been carrying all this time fall off of her shoulders.
“Be well, Peter. Try to have a good life.”
He would have to choose which side of the gift to use. He’d been straddling the issue for all these years, bullying and mean when it suited him and the talented artist when that suited him better. He was a lot like her father that way and they both knew that. There was nothing more to say so she simply nodded toward the others, still clustered a little away from her, and walked away.
Five
Finally, it was over. She felt surprisingly good about the whole thing as she walked and then danced her way back toward her customary spot. The lights started blinking white and red, telling everyone it was almost time to go. When she got closer, she saw Greg at his spot, though he was sitting with his back against the wall. He rubbed at the muscles in his legs, his expression conveying how sore he was from all the training he’d been doing for the race. That he had come and danced with her all evening when he probably just wanted to rest made her heart tug in her chest. She pushed the feeling away and tried to smile like nothing was wrong. At least he couldn’t have seen what she did because there was no way he would be so casual if he had.
He seemed to feel the weight of her gaze and looked up, a smile replacing the look of strain. He hopped up without hesitation and met her on the dance floor in a few quick strides. They had just a few minutes before it was time to go, plenty of time for one more dance.
The music switched to a slower rhythm, like it always did for the last dance, and Greg grinned as he took her hand in his and wrapped the other around her waist. He pulled her close and she leaned her head on his shoulder. It was a perfect place to be, made even
more perfect right then because she knew it would be the last time.
He must have sensed that more was going on than she was saying. When he leaned back to try to look at her face, she closed her eyes and ignored the signal. He waited a moment, sighed and then gave up, held her close and let her lead the slow dance. Too soon, the last beat of music ended and the lights came up, bright and harsh. Eyes blinked all around and illicit bottles of corn hooch were tucked away into pockets.
There was no avoiding it so she looked up at Greg and smiled. “I’m fine. It’s just that I like this so much. I’m going to miss it.”
He nodded, looking relieved that it wasn’t something more. He stepped back from her and shoved a hand in his pocket, looking undecided for a moment. He seemed to be working up his nerve for something. “Uh, I have to ask you something,” he blurted suddenly, his cheeks going pink.
A quick glance told Lizbet all she needed to know. Greg patting something in his pocket, his nervousness about asking her something and her aging out of 25 Drums where he could be sure of seeing her regularly all spoke to one thing. He was going to declare for her. That she could not let happen. This was going to be bad enough for him without that, too.
Lizbet reached out a hand quickly and tucked it under his arm, forcing him to walk with her toward the bag claim area. She put a bright tone in her voice and said, “Tomorrow, remember. I’m so tired tonight and we’ve got a date for the morning if I’m not mistaken.”
He nodded, swallowed loudly and walked with her to the window where they stood in line behind everyone else to get their belongings. There were ears everywhere and it wasn’t going unnoticed that she was holding onto his arm. Racers were special and just holding onto him was tarnishing that specialness. She let her hand drop and hugged herself as if she were cold to cover the move.
Greg didn’t notice the falseness, only that she was cold. He craned his neck to see how many people were ahead of them and looked helpless in his desire to warm her up. Other than taking off his coveralls, there wasn’t much he could do.
“Don’t worry, Greg. I’m fine. I just got too heated up from all the dancing. It passes quickly.”
He nodded again, relief clear on his young and handsome face. “I’ve got a curfew,” he said, looking apologetic.
“Of course! I’m so sorry I didn’t think of that. I guess they keep you to a pretty tight schedule.”
“You have no idea,” he replied, laughing.
“Do you…?” she let the question trail off, her hand waving toward the window where her things were stored.
“No. I just came as I am.”
She looked around, trying to gage how closely people were watching. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there so she settled for squeezing his hand again quickly and letting it drop. “You go ahead then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As she waved at his retreating back, Lizbet tried to remember that what she was doing was better for him as well as herself. She’d tried to think of all the ways life would be alright if she stayed with Greg. There was no question that she wished she could do that. But it wouldn’t be better for him and how much better would it really be for her if she eased her loneliness by isolating someone else? They could never have children. The risk of them being marginalized was too great. Even if he won the race and the privilege of making the run outside—and all that came with it—he would lose the benefits by being with her. He might get first pick of available jobs but how would they treat him knowing he was matched to her? No, this wasn’t her doing but it was hers to fix, once and for all.
Six – Thirteen Years Earlier
The banging on the door frightened Lizbet. She woke crying for her mother but her mother didn’t come. Instead, she heard yelling coming from the living room. It sounded like when her mother got really mad and tried to cry and yell at the same time. Usually she did that because her father had disappeared for too long again.
But it wasn’t just her mom this time. There were other voices, angry voices of men she didn’t know. Lizbet wiped her face on her blanket and got out of bed, tiptoeing to the door to peek into the living room.
The lights were on, even though it was long past bed time. It made her blink and rub her eyes. Her mother was standing in the middle of the room in her sleep shirt with her hair standing up every which way and yelling at some men who stood near the door. They were wearing tan coveralls and had the patch for the deputies on their pockets. Lizbet knew that patch because she was always supposed to find people wearing a patch with a star on it if she got lost or needed help. But why were they yelling at her mother? And why was she yelling at them?
No one had seen her yet so she pushed the door till it was almost closed and peeked out from the crack left to her. Whatever was going on, it was probably something her mother would get mad at her for if she saw her.
“Listen Katrina, this is not a mistake and we need to find Roger,” the taller deputy said, holding his hand out like he wanted her mother to calm down.
“You’re crazy! My husband did not do this! She must have fallen or something. Why are you saying Roger did this? I just don’t understand,” her mother screamed, her hands on her head and then out like she wanted to shove the deputies away.
The smaller deputy gestured her mother toward the couch and asked her to sit. When she didn’t, he pulled her gently and she let him. She looked so confused it made Lizbet even more frightened. What had Daddy done?
“Katrina, I know this is hard and that’s why we’re here. To try to explain before it’s all over the silo. They’re looking for him right now and there are only so many places to go. We’ll find him.”
“But what…why…how do you know it was him? How do you know it wasn’t an accident?” she asked, tears running down her cheeks. She sat down on the couch when the deputy motioned for her to, but she looked like she might jump right back up again.
The taller deputy sat down next to her mother and took her hand. He spoke quietly but not so much so that Lizbet couldn’t hear what he said.
“It’s not a mistake and it wasn’t an accident. Someone was nearby and heard them. He didn’t get a chance to throw the woman over the rail like he did the others but she was already dead. He was seen. And her hair was already cut, so we know this one is just like the others. Katrina, there are six young mothers who are dead. And now we know it was Roger. There’s no mistake.”
“You don’t know it was him. I see people I don’t know all the time,” her mother argued.
“He’s a porter. People know who he is. He was wearing red coveralls instead of his own, but it was him. There’s no doubt. Another witness saw him running up the stairs not a minute later and confirmed who it was and the red coveralls.”
Her mother sobbed and put her head in her hands, bending over and rocking back and forth while she wailed. The deputies looked at each other and one nodded toward the door.
“Katrina, we aren’t sure he might not try to come back here,” the taller deputy said. He said it with a low tone, gentle and calming, like he didn’t want to scare her. He said it just like the medic said it wouldn’t hurt right before he poked her with a needle. That just made what the deputy said scarier.
Her mother’s sobs cut off in mid-hitch and her head popped up, a look of panic on her face. Lizbet squeezed the door crack a little more, trying to make herself smaller. If her mother was scared, then she should be, too.
“We need to look around and see if he left…well, evidence. I mean, he cuts their hair. We think he might keep it,” the shorter deputy said and sounded sorry to have to say it.
“Oh, Silo,” her mother said, all her breath coming out in a quiet whoosh.
“Just sit here and try to be calm. Jim is going to sit with you while I go look,” the taller deputy said, easing himself up from the couch as if he might break it by moving too fast. Or break her mother.
Lizbet pushed the door almost completely closed as the deputy passed on his way toward her parent’s bedroom, t
hen open again when she heard him moving about in there and out of sight. Her mother was sitting now but she wasn’t doing anything, just staring straight ahead with a blank look on her face. The deputy, Jim, was stroking her hand and telling her it was going to be alright.
Just then the compartment door opened and two more deputies came in, both of them red faced and sweaty. One was old and a little bit fat while the other was very young, but big and strong looking. They looked around and the fat one said, “No sign of him. We came up from the station in case he comes back here. The sheriff thinks he’ll head this way eventually once he thinks it’s safe. Once he thinks he got away.”
Jim nodded and cut his eyes toward her mother, still sitting there blankly like she didn’t even notice the new people in their compartment. The fat deputy nodded and told the young one to stand behind the door while he pulled one of their dinner chairs over and sat in a spot you couldn’t see from the door if it opened.
Lizbet heard a noise from her parent’s bedroom and then the taller deputy came running out into the living room with her Daddy’s special box in his hand.
“I found something. It was on the dresser, right out in the open!”
Her mother finally seemed to register that something more was going on. She moved her head stiffly toward the deputy holding the box. Her face changed the moment her eyes found the box in his hands, becoming a mask of fearful anger. She pointed and yelled, “Don’t touch that! No one is supposed to touch that! It’s his private box. Everyone needs some privacy!”
All the deputies looked at each other, unsure what they should say to that, or so it looked to Lizbet. It was how she felt when her mother said something she couldn’t figure out. Then the fat one twirled his finger in the air and said, “Open it. Where we all can see what you do and can testify to what is found.”
The tall one clicked open the latch and Lizbet felt her knees shake. No one was ever, ever supposed to touch the box. She had picked it up once when her Daddy was dusting the dresser and had put it on the bed, trying to be helpful. She wasn’t trying to pry but he had gotten so mad his face had turned red and his eyes changed into something scary. They had gone flat, like he didn’t know her. They had almost looked like drawings of eyes rather than eyes. When she had cried, he had closed his eyes for a moment and then his face had changed back into Daddy’s once again. No, no one was supposed to touch the box and certainly not open it.
