Ghetto

by M L Sparrow

  We continue to make out like a couple of horney teenagers for what seems like eternity, though it doesn’t get any more serious than Sin stripping off his shirt, so that I can explore the dips and contours of his torso, and me allowing him to cop a feel through my top. Our fun is ended far too quickly, however, when Dr Wong knocks on the door, seconds before he pushes it open and steps inside. Jumping apart, we both scramble to our feet. Snatching up Sin’s shirt, I toss it to him, feeling my face already beginning to burn, turning the same shade of red as my hair.

  “I can see I’m interrupting,” the doctor sniffs, the disapproval in his voice glaringly obvious, making me feel guilty even though I know I have no reason to be, “however, it is almost sunrise and you, young man, should be off if you wish to avoid detection.” Immediately, my heart sinks down into my stomach, leaving me with a nauseous feeling even a dose of All-Cure couldn’t make right. Noticing the tearful look on my face, which I’m valiantly trying to hide, Sin moves closer to me and pulls me into a hug.

  Burying my face in his chest, I admit for our ears only, “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know,” he answers gruffly, stroking my hair.

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I know.”

  Pulling back, I scowl up at him. “Would it kill you to tell me you’ll miss me too?”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  Pouting, I lay my head back on his chest. “It doesn’t count now.”

  “Sunny…” he trails off, as if trying to work himself up to say something more. Finally, he whispers, “If things were different, I could love you for the rest of my life.” My lips tremble and he tightens his arms around me, holding me against his heart for several long seconds.

  Once more Dr Wong interrupts and I feel a flash of anger towards the man who had saved my life countless times. “You had better be quick, the city’s awake already. I doubt I need to remind you what they’ll do if they catch you outside the Ghetto.”

  Squeezing Sin tight, I draw in a deep breath, before pulling away. “He’s right, you should get going, you’re already cutting it close.” Nodding tightly, he moves to the door, but paused midway to look back at me over his shoulder.

  “Miss you already,” he says softly, causing my heart to melt a little in my chest.

  “It’s only for a couple of months,” I remind him, reassuring myself at the same time as I watch him give me that crooked, half smile one last time, before he walks out of the door.

  For several moments, I just stand there, watching the empty doorway and listening to his footsteps echoing down the hall. I didn’t get my goodbye kiss, I suddenly realize. It’s not a big deal, logically I know this; after all, we had just been making out for ages, yet for some reason it feels catastrophic. Starting forward, I hurry towards the door, but Dr Wong blocks my way. A frail old hand settles itself on my shoulder.

  “That boy’s not good for you, Sunny-girl. He seems like a nice enough lad, but he’s from the Ghetto and nothing will ever change that; he’s tarred for life.”

  “You don’t know anything about…” Bony fingers digging into my skin stop me midsentence.

  “Do you think you’re the first person to fall for someone from the forbidden side of the tracks? It never works out. You’ll be exiled to the Ghetto too, Sunny, even your dad won’t be able to help you because to do so would cost him his position.” And we both knew, if push came to shove, he would choose his position over me.

  “I don’t care,” I state truthfully, pressing my lips together to stop myself from telling him to mind his own business.

  “Please, Sunny, don’t be stupid. You’re a smart girl with a bright future ahead of you, you could do great things. Don’t throw it all away for some boy.”

  My answer to that is instantaneous, “He’s not just some boy. He’s so much more than you give him credit for.”

  I don’t manage to catch up with Sin in the end and it’s a gaping hole of disappointment in my chest. Dr Wong calls me a car and hands me into it without a word, leaving me to make the journey back to my former home with nothing but my ever increasing nerves to keep me company. Stopping outside of the imposing skyscraper that is the official Presidential building, I remain rooted to my seat, unable to get out.

  “We have reached our destination,” the cars mechanical voice prompts me, “please scan your Brand and payment will be taken directly from your account.”

  Swallowing tightly, I follow the instructions and climb out of the car, shivering despite the warm summer weather. Walking past the robotic guards, I scan my Brand to be admitted into the lobby, before scanning it again to gain entrance into the elevator and am greeted by another detached, electronic voice.

  “Welcome, Sunny, would you like to go home?”

  “Not really,” I mutter as the door slide shut.

  “Your request does not compute.”

  Sighing, I chew on my thumbnail. “Take me home.”

  The ascent is so smooth that I wouldn’t have even known we were moving if not for the tiny screen above the closed doors which showed the floor numbers as we passed them. When the voice announces that we’ve arrived and the doors slide open to reveal the sterile white living room of my dads’ penthouse apartment, I have to force myself to step inside. As the metal doors close behind me, I glance back longingly, wishing I could just ride back down and disappear once more. But I’d made a promise. Steeling myself, I move further into the room.

  Briefly, I consider calling out, “Daddy, I’m home,” but I don’t really think that’s appropriate after being missing for months, not to mention useless, I discover several minutes later, since my dad’s not home anyway. I should have expected it, but I guess part of me had been half hoping that he’d be waiting at home, missing me. Using the time alone to my advantage, I take a shower, almost jumping out of my skin when the radio blares to life alongside the water. Quickly turning it off, a small laugh escapes me; I had forgotten about my dads’ annoying morning habits. The blessedly hot water cascading over me feels glorious and I tip my head back to feel it raining down on my face as I comb my fingers through my tangled hair, however, at the same time I feel incredibly guilty, because Sin is returning to the Ghetto, where him and the rest of my friends are living in extreme poverty, without even the luxury of warm water.

  The very same feeling assaults me as I regard our fully stocked fridge and cupboards, several hours later when my dad still hasn’t returned home. Deciding to keep it simple, I grab a slice of bread, slather it with butter and jam, before making myself a cup of coffee, complete with several spoonful’s of sugar and topped up with milk. Taking both back to my room, which is just as messy as I left it, I set them on my desk and sit down. For several minutes I’m at a loss for what to do; I feel like a spare part, but then I realize that this is the perfect opportunity to finish the project I started while in the Ghetto. Digging out my Tab from beneath the clutter of tools, wires and other spare parts, I clip on the keyboard and fire it up. Within seconds the high-speed machine is ready and raring to go, my fingers poised over the keys. After a moment’s thought, I commence tapping away, flinging myself into cyberspace. It is ridiculously hard to find what I’m looking for; it is easy enough to locate government files and other such things because they had so many firewalls, making them stand out like a sore thumb, but to locate an unregistered, ancient laptop with minimal protection is akin to searching for a needle in a haystack. Eventually, I do manage it though. Grinning triumphantly. I copy the necessary files from the laptop which is currently beneath the bed of my room in the Ghetto and transfer them to the devise I’m using.

  The next couple of hours are spent trolling through all the footage I had filmed in the Ghetto and trying to put it into some kind of coherent order, sorting out what I’m going to use, before attempting to make a short film. I’ve never tried my hand at something like this before, therefore, it takes a while for me to get my bearings and figure out the kinks in the program I’m u
sing for the task. For that reason, I’m not even halfway done when I hear the elevator ping, announcing an arrival. My heart stops. I wonder if he’d ever notice I was home if I never left the room.

  After sitting silently at my desk for several minutes, just listening to the sounds of him moving around the apartment, I convince myself to get up. Going over to the door, I linger in front of it, stopping just before I pass the sensor which will automatically open the door for me. Realizing that I’m gnawing on the nails of one hand, I force it down to my side, take a deep, soothing breath and step forward. Immediately the light above the door blinks green and it slides smoothly open with a soft hiss.

  I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to explain my absence when I walk into the living room to find my dad reclining in one of the armchairs, wearing his customary black suit, with his head tilted back and eyes closed, a position I remember seeing him in many times after a tiring day at the office. Despite the familiarity of the scene though, he looks older than I remember, with deep lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes and hair more grey than brown. He could get his hair permanently dyed and plastic surgery to remove the wrinkles, but my dad had always been a firm believer in growing old gracefully. Ironic that he wanted to remain as natural as possibly when we lived in such an unnatural world, or when his only daughters’ very life defied nature.

  Clearing my throat, my greeting comes out sounding lame and rusty, “Hello, Dad.”

  Chapter 18

  Instantly his eyes pop open, hazel eyes staring disbelievingly at me. Slowly, shakily, he pushes to his feet, using the arm of the chair to steady himself. “Sunny?”

  “Yes, it’s me. I’m back.”

  “My Sunny-girl,” he gasps, stumbling forward to take me in his arms, crushing me to his chest as he rocks us both. “Sunny, my girl, my girl,” he continues the soft chant, stroking a trembling hand down the length of my hair.

  At first I’m numb, hollow inside, unsure how to feel, but then it hits me. He actually cares. The majority of my time in the Ghetto had been spent thinking my dad had given up on me, that he didn’t care, after all, it had taken him long enough to realize I was missing in the first place and his search hadn’t exactly been thorough. Before I know it, my arms have crept up to wrap around his waist and I’m clinging to him just as tightly as he’s holding me.

  We hang onto each other for what feels like an eternity and when we finally pull apart, his eyes are red rimmed and fallen tears dampen his cheeks. “Baby,” he whispers, “where have you been? I’ve been going frantic worrying about you.”

  Taking a deep breath, I step back out of his embrace and motion him back over to the armchair, saying, “I think you should sit down, it’s a long story.”

  As is logical, I start at the beginning and finish at the end. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take that long to get through the tale. Another thing that shocks me is that I’m not bombarded with questions; my dad remains eerily quiet throughout my explanation and when I’m done he just sits there staring at me until I start to fidget uncomfortably.

  “Say something,” I prompt when I can bear it no longer.

  “Clearly this boy has done a very good job of brainwashing you.”

  “It’s not like that,” I defend instantly, “haven’t you been listening at all? Most of the people in the Ghetto are innocent of any wrong doing.”

  “That’s just what they want you to think.”

  “I was there for over two months,” I snap, my temper quickly riled, “do you really think they could all fool me for that long? They’re good people, Dad, and the government, your government, treats them atrociously.”

  “Sunny, you’ve got your facts all muddled. The Ghetto is full of criminals, they were using your kind nature to their advantage. They kidnapped you for heaven’s sake! That alone should prove my point.”

  “Granted, it may have started out that way, but in the end I wanted to be there.”

  “No, that’s just what they made you think, they were manipulating you. This is a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome, but don’t worry, give yourself a few days to settle back in and you’ll start to see sense. If that doesn’t work, we’ll get you some professional help.” With that he pats one of my clenched fists and gets up, heading down the hall, presumably going to his office, leaving me alone to fume, too enraged to even form a coherent sentence.

  I knew he wouldn’t understand, I told Sin my dad wouldn’t listen; he never listened to anyone unless they were saying something he wanted to hear. Newly vindicated, I return to my bedroom to get back to work.

  Later that evening, when night has fallen outside my window and the city is lit by a thousand lights, I’m startled by a knock at the door. My fingers jump instinctively to minimize the screen.

  “Come in,” I call and the door slides open at those two key words. Staring at my Tab screen for hours on end has made my eyes sting and ache, so it’s a relief to look away for a moment, even if it is to watch my dad step into the room.

  “I’ve scheduled a press conference for tomorrow midday,” he informs me matter-of-factly, “I feel it’s best to announce your return as soon as possible. Micah will be here at seven sharp to help you get ready.” Turning to go, he pauses to say over his shoulder, “I also think it would be best if you don’t tell everyone where you’ve really been.”

  “What do you wish me to say, then?” I arch an eyebrow, but I doubt he’s even registered my irritated expression.

  “Tell them you were overwhelmed by the pressure from the re-election and the riots, so you decided to take an impromptu trip to Europe and very foolishly didn’t tell anyone.”

  “That doesn’t explain why I stayed away so long without contacting anyone once I realized you thought I had been kidnapped. If I was in Europe, I obviously would have heard it on the news.”

  Waving his hand, looking a little annoyed, he says, “Well, I’ll have my advisors give it some thought and prepare a speech for you. They, of course, know the truth of the situation.”

  “Obviously,” sarcasm drips from my voice, “you have no secrets from them.”

  Either he doesn’t pick up on my attitude, or he decides to ignore it, because the next words from his mouth are soft and sincere, making me feel slightly guilty for giving him lip. “I’m glad you’re back, Sunny-girl, very glad.”

  As promised, Micah arrives bright and early the next morning, while I’m still snuggled up in a corner of my big, lonely bed, hugging my pillow for company. The only problem with that was, a pillow didn’t hug you back, nor did it have a heartbeat to fall asleep listening to. Having not slept particularly well alone, I stir at the sound of voices out in the living room and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Content to simply lay there and listen for a while, it’s the coffee that finally tempts me out of bed. Dressed in a soft, silk nighty, I linger in the hallway, watching Micah flit around the living room, setting up his copious equipment. When he doesn’t notice me after a few minutes, simply continues bopping along to the music pumping from his Tab, I pad into the kitchen and make myself a large cup of coffee before returning and plonking myself down on the sofa. Instantly, Micah’s head whips around and his eyes widen when they fix on me.

  “Sunny!” he exclaims loudly, throwing his arms out wide and rushing forward to envelope me in an enthusiastic hug. “Where have you been, darling?” That nickname sends a pang through me; I prefer the way Sin says it, gruff and affectionate, dropping the ‘g’ at the end.

  “Nowhere too exciting,” I answer, trying not to spill my drink as he squeezes me.

  “Well,” he draws away, holding me by the shoulders as he examines my face, “you can fill me in on all the goss while I fix you up for the press conference.” Picking up a strand of hair, he wrinkles his nose and asks, “When was the last time you conditioned? Or moisturized for that matter. And we must do something about those eyebrows, they’re horrendous.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, “there’s nothing a girl likes
more than being insulted.”

  Ruffling my hair, making the wild curls go in all directions, he steps back and begins rifling through one of his many bags. “It’s said with the utmost love,” he assures me, before letting out a sound of triumph, extracting a bottle from his bag and tossing it to me, “now go take a shower and make sure you double condition with this, then we’ll give your hair a quick trim and we can really get to work making you presentable.” Rolling my eyes, I do as I’m told, abandoning my untouched coffee.

  When I return, the makeover begins in earnest. I am waxed, plucked and subjected to many other kinds of torture which are all designed to transform me back into the perfect, presentable Presidents’ daughter. It takes several hours, during which time Micah talks ceaselessly, reminding me of Maya. When he’s finished, I stand in front of the full length mirror in my room and frown at my reflection; the dress Micah had selected for me is knee-length, figure hugging and emerald green. It’s pretty, but I feel like such a fraud, pretending nothing has changed. The feeling only increases as the morning wears on, reaching its pinnacle when I am required to lie shamelessly to the unsuspecting public simply to save my dads’ reputation. It makes me sick to my stomach, but I still do it and I don’t know why; I should just come clean, take this opportunity to tell everyone the truth. I don’t, though, because even though the thought goes through my head, I don’t have the guts to actually do it. I bet Sin would, if he were in my position, but I’m not as strong as him, nor as brave.

  Riding up in the elevator afterwards, my dad pauses the conversation he’s having with the person on the other end of his ear-piece, long enough to tell me, “A friend of mine, Emilie, is planning a party in your honour, to celebrate your homecoming, for next Saturday. I’ll have Micah get you a new gown.”

  As soon as the elevator reaches the penthouse, I storm out and down the hall to my bedroom, the door hissing quietly shut behind me – I wish I could slam it shut like they do in old movies. Immediately, I kick off my heels, sending them flying into one corner, and yank the dress off over my head, ruining my hair-do at the same time. Flinging it onto the bed, I prop my hands on my hips and just stand there for a minute, breathing heavily. The whole morning has been a complete waste of time. The press conference, which had been held just outside the building, had only taken a few minutes, add on a couple more for pictures and questions. I’m still standing there, angrily pulling the pins from my hair and struggling to rid myself of my jewellery and fake nails, when there’s a knock on my door. Pressing my lips together, noticing the glossy feel of my lipstick, I refuse to answer.