21 Erased
by Barbara Rayne
ISBN: 978-1-4661-3216-0
Publisher’s note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editor: David Moadel
Book and cover design by Marraii Design
Background image: "Before the city" © Rolffimages
Published by Barbara Rayne www.barbararayne.com
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 Barbara Rayne
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
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People were walking fast; steps were quick and strong, not looking back, avoiding eye contact, being careful not to touch anyone. You could feel rage gushing out of every being on the street. Danger was raving in every accidental touch by a passerby, in every unintentional look, in every careless move, as if hundreds of dangerous beasts were waiting for you to make a mistake. I didn’t dare to look up at those dark faces, I didn’t dare to breathe, couldn’t risk one wrong move, suddenly bumping into or grazing someone. You could smell hate—it was breathable, touchable. From the corner of my eye, I saw people being boarded into trucks, I think there were five trucks, they were scared and tired, some were crying, some just numb, staring into nothing. Nobody—literally nobody—was disturbed by that scene, or maybe, just like me, they saw but were too scared to show it. To me, they looked uninterested, angry and evil. A cordon of armed police oversaw the truck boarding, and the occasional barking of the police dog didn’t seem to catch anybody’s attention.
Almost every day you could see the same sight of maladjusted people being boarded and transported to the Adjustment Centers. When they were building those Centers, we, the public, were told that they were for pandemics control. Conveniently, pandemics emerged almost once a year. As hunger and poverty became our everyday life, hygiene levels dropped and all kinds of infectious diseases spread throughout the country, making it easy to believe the reasoning behind the need for Centers. Soon, after the Centers were a common thing, an unusual twist happened. The sick were left to die on the street because they had no health insurance and some other people were taken to those Centers.
Hunger turned people into predators, ruthless snatchers of food, assets and everything that could be sold. Winter, which lasted for the second year in a row, whipped out spring and summer, and turned everything into a cold, awkward puddle. We were not allowed to talk about how the climate has changed—officially, it was referred to as this winter being a bit longer than usual. The media told us what to think, what to say, and reassured us that everything was normal. People accepted the hope they offered about winter being temporary and stuck to it as a promised land or some future heaven. They couldn’t allow themselves to admit that there was no end in sight because of the horror that would overcome them. Sometimes, in a conversation, I would bring up how we couldn’t possibly know how long this would last, and others would be so enraged at me that they would attack me verbally with the worst insults, as if I were some kind of public enemy. Soon, I realized that I mustn’t shatter this dream they had—it was their hope, this media lie was something they grabbed onto as if their life depended on it. They would probably have a mental breakdown; they would dissolve like an ice cube in a glass of warm water.
Sometimes the sun would shine, but it wasn’t warm and pleasant. It burned our skin, fried it, scarred it, but it couldn’t warm up our cold apartments and houses, and then it would disappear again. State borders were closed so that those unemployed couldn’t flee across the border. From TV screens, we were told stories about normal living conditions and climate all around us.
I was scared. Scared of other people, scared of the government, the police, the children, the teenagers, the Adjustment Centers, the hunger, the sickness, death…. the list goes on. The people I knew were not the same as before. They changed. It was like the need to be civilized and kind disappeared, more exactly, as if that kindness before was fake, and now it was made easier for them to show their true faces of hatred, and not act civilized... Now they could throw you on the floor if they wanted to and kick you while you’re down. It seemed like love and respect never were part of human existence.
I arrived at work, crossed my hand over the code reader and hurried to my desk, although I wasn’t late—quite the contrary. Everyone had a code on their hand, and with it, we opened our doors, mail, paid taxes, and purchased food and clothing. I worked as a cook, but I also carried coffee to the offices of the government I worked for. I was a multi-verified person. If there was a need to take a juice or a coffee to an office, another cook would jump in to take my place, and I would carry those beverages where it was needed. Before handing out the beverages, I had to put my code on a round code reader on the edge of a desk, and when it showed I was verified, I could put the beverages down and leave immediately.
My friend’s mother, who was a judge, found this job for me, and the only requirement was not to mention my education, and to finish a cooking course. I was an architect, and the cooking wasn’t my stronger side. Now it is. I was tested, checked, double-checked, followed, bugged, interrogated and finally employed. There were so many unemployed people, so I was the lucky one. The rich socialized with the politicians; we, the poor, were invisible and quiet, and those who were hungry were not talked about here.
The people were worn out from the cold, had no money for heating; the temperature was below 40°F. Politicians kept telling us how we had to be grateful because they were taking care of us and how it was not easy for them either in that tough economic situation. People believed them. Two years of constant low temperatures in a country with beautiful beaches, used to warm summers and mild springs, with agriculture that vanished because of the cold; and with the poor population waiting for a better tomorrow; the government manipulated effortlessly and with ease.
At the workplace, we didn’t talk at all. Only during our break would we all sit together and discuss a movie or a TV show while eating a sandwich.
“Last night I almost fell asleep before the prayer,” whispered Emily in my ear.
“What?” I shrieked, “Are you out of your mind?”
“I know,” she said even quieter, barely opening her mouth.
We both went silent in shock. My head was filled with the horror she’d go through if that happened. Television ended the program with joint prayer, after which you would put your hand on the code reader and then—only then—you could go to sleep. It meant that you were home on time, that you were a loyal citizen and that you shared your people’s faith and common commitment to God. If you didn’t do it, the police would be on your door in no time, taking you away to an Adjustment Center from which no one ever returned. In no way could you ever allow yourself to turn off your TV before the prayer or to leave it on afterward. You were suspicious to your government, not because you were not home or you fell asleep, but because you didn’t share the common love for your country, for your people, for God, the love that was manifested in that ritual. The government told us so.
The fact that you were literally on a curfew like in wartime was considered sacrilege if said out loud, and every one of your friends would fiercely oppose it.
“It’s not true that it’s a curfew. It’s a unity thing, like raising a flag; it’s as if you’re not respecting your national anthem, your country. It’s not coercion; it’s an honor.”
“And what about having to be at home at a certain time?” I opposed.
“Is that so hard to do for your country? Is it a sacrifice for you?”
“No, I’m just saying, maybe I’d like to stay longer at the friend’s house once in a while.”
“Ooooh, but you can, until 9 p.m. Are you that arrogant that you would stay until 10 p.m. when the prayer starts? Shame on you!”
I backed off. I had to. It was too dangerous trying to explain, there was no way to make them understand, no way through. Over time, I understood that people believed those promises politicians made; they believed their lies and didn’t want to see the limitations.
Carrying coffee around the offices of those politicians who decided our faiths, I heard them making fun of the poor, ridiculing those things that were sacred to us, the very things they taught us to hold sacred.
Children were taken away from parents at birth. Every parent could visit the child four times a year; that’s how many state holidays we had. The government decided that because we overpopulated our beloved country, every child had to have proper care and education; and as we, the people, were too poor to give that to our children, she would, noble as she was, do it for us, invest in those kids, and help parents in their upbringing. Parents, in return, would not interfere with that noble cause, would not obstruct the government in the upbringing of their future geniuses. Those parents who didn’t want to accept that decree were publicly ridiculed and humiliated on TV; their poor pathetic lives were shown in all their despair compared to what the state could offer, and what those selfish parents were allegedly trying to withhold from their children. After that, they would dig out anything they could find in those desperate, poor lives, from small, immoral deeds to criminal and other offences—any excuse that seemed fit—and took away their children with apologies and the tears of parents who “voluntarily” went to the Adjustment Centers.
Always, in every situation, our liberty and democracy was emphasized as the most sacred thing everyone should strive toward; it was supposed to guard our vested rights. We were a democratic country, free and righteous. Laws were passed by the majority in Parliament, but mostly unanimously. Everything was discussed on TV and written media, and every need of our government to send our troops to liberate some other country of their dictatorship, or merely to bring democracy to them, was celebrated for several days. Soldiers were both men and women. Their codes were different from ours and were blue. Ours were black. Blue meant honor. Besides the military, the police, and the secret services, some politicians had them, too.
Today was the third of the month; today I had to take the pill. On every third day of the month, everyone in the country got the pill that was mandatory for both the healthy and the sick. Refusing the pill meant the Adjustment Center or the prison. We would get it on our workplace; the unemployed would get it at home by the people in charge of the country’s security. From the third until the fifth, everyone in the country had their pill. Three years ago, the government passed a law making the pill mandatory because it meant the protection of the population from infectious diseases. That meant the adults, of course, as the children were out of our sight. Some believed that the pill made us sterile, but as some (rarely, but still) had children, the government used that as a proof that those are fairy tales that have nothing to do with the reality. So the pill was something you had to take or be punished. After I’d take the pill, I would always feel nice, happy, and satisfied, and that would last for five days. Not more, always exactly five days. During those five days, surprisingly, the sun would emerge and the temperatures would climb up to 52-53°F. That sunshine people linked to good mood, and it didn’t leave any room to notice this strange coincidence of the pill’s and the sun’s timing. Something else happened during these days, as well. The government passed all the laws—important laws—in those five days, and nobody had any objections to them. Nobody saw the link. I was puzzled by the change of the weather in the days we were happy, and the pill that made us happy; and, of course, the laws took away our liberty bit by bit. How is it possible that the sun shines always on those days and not others; are they masters of the weather? Are we having this cold for two years because they are making it? Are they manipulating the weather? I kept asking myself.
The winds ranged from severe to terrible. The sun shined only on those five days, and then a whole month of gray skies, cold winds and temperatures below 40°F. Depressing. Meteorologists always announced this weather change as something new and unexpected, and the show was always the same while people played their zombie roles, accepting those events as normal.
Sometimes I couldn’t wait for the pill to get me out of that depressive state, but I was always puzzled by those strange connections and the fear that we were being manipulated. It seemed as if I was the only one thinking about it or that I didn’t know other people like me. I was worried about my car, too. How come all the cars had the same programs: Stop the car if the driver was tired, play the music according to driver’s emotions... Talk shows according to driver’s mood, turning on all that without the driver’s consent... Putting a seat belt on automatically upon sitting down, stopping the car when the police sirens sound off, and many others. I felt helpless and had a strong desire to stop it all. I was convinced that this program encouraged my pathetic mood; that its goal was to keep me quiet, obedient and depressive. Everything turned on without my will, and I couldn’t stop it.
Despite all of that control, people were angry, hateful and scared. The unprivileged, without the car to calm them down, without food and heating, without medical insurance, without the TV (they had to listen to the prayer outside on a big screen), disappeared for the smallest incident. They were proclaimed danglers who wanted to exploit the country because they were lazy, even though there were no jobs they could apply for; they were proclaimed state enemies for refusing the pill, while they were actually begging for it (they wanted to have those five days of happiness, not knowing why); they were pointed out as outcasts of society because of their neglect of the property, which was actually foreclosed by the state and no longer in their possession. The unlucky ones whose children have been taken away were shown as selfish, irresponsible bastards, if they cried, of course.
I was coming back from work joyful, filled with some quiet happiness that was repeatedly caused by the pill and the choice of music by my smart car. While I was holding my hand on the code reader, I heard the screams and the sounds of breaking things in a nearby apartment. I didn’t even manage to grab my doorknob when the door of that apartment opened up and two armed policemen came out, staring at me. Quickly, I ran inside while my heart pounded loudly. Suddenly I felt fear. I took the pill, I didn’t do anything, they are not here for me, why am I scared…. My brain was boiling. I quieted down and listened, but no voices could be heard, no sound from the outside. Maybe they left. But why were they here? I stepped away from the door and sat down. I felt fear and joy. How is that possible? What power does this pill posses, what is its goal? I don’t want to know, I’m happy, I’m not afraid.
Five days later, I realized that my neighbors were gone. Until then, I didn’t think about the incident, didn’t wonder where they were. Other neighbors didn’t, either.
It was Sunday. I didn’t have to go to work. The phone woke me up from my nap.
“Hallo, Sarah,” said a friend’s voice, disturbingly reminding me that she’s coming over in half an hour.
“Ok, why the panic? Come on over. I remember our appointment.”
She arrived. Now I was the one in panic. Her face, if you could call that a face, looked like a skeleton in some places. The skin on a bigger part of her face was nonexistent; it was burned away, and the bones were literally sticking out. The nasal bone was clearly visible and, around the eyes, there were still parts of some skin. A terrifying creature.
“What happened to you?”
I wasn’t even sure it was her. Frankly, I would have screamed when I opened the door if she weren’t covered up. She started crying.
“I don’t know. For days, I noticed changes on my face. Then the skin started falling off, it itched and swelled. The doctor told me to get a mask, they are sold in retail, and that I’m not the only one with this skin problem. Oh, and there is no cure.”
“But did he tell you what the diagnosis is?”