Under The Blue
By Nina Kaiser
Under the Blue was awarded the Alfred J. Montesi award in spring 2020.
A petal falls off one of the yellow daisies, but Angela’s eyes close before it lands on the coffee table. She inhales. Air rests, unmoving, on her face. The dishwasher hums through a cycle, complemented by the clamor of cars outside. A breeze wafts in through the open window, and a triangle of sun reaches her arm, a warm embrace.
She exhales. A dull ache pulses through the upper middle of her spine from sitting up straight, and the cushion’s leather pulls on the bare part of her leg as she adjusts. She tilts her head, her thick auburn hair sliding across her neck. Angela settles. Images and sounds flash by in fragments, and phrases weave in and out of her consciousness, forming thoughts and ideas and combing through memories. A younger version of herself chases after a gray cat through a grimy alleyway, and the sound of her footsteps splashes in echoes off the buildings around her. The alleyway seems unending and the footsteps get louder, and the cat meows more ferociously with each step. Suddenly, the alleyway ends and the cat pounces out into the street, and Angela too would have been hit by a car if not for the officer who caught her arm at the last moment. “Calm yourself,” he says, pulling her to the side. “Calm. Calm yourself,” he repeats. Angela’s chest tightens as the officer leans down towards her, his dark pupils peering into hers. The cat lay dead in the middle of the street. “Calm,” says the officer. Then, the door slams.
Angela’s eyes flutter open, her heart pounding at the memory. Ruth’s words enter before her body. “So sad,” Ruth calls out from the foyer, “we lost another potential today.” Footsteps plod toward the living room. “You would think that- oh! Oopsy,” Ruth nods her head towards Angela’s legs, which are crossed into her lap. “You’re meditating. I’ll leave. Don’t let me forget to tell you about this guy!” Ruth spins away, the pastel blue handkerchief in her hair whipping with the motion. The bedroom door shuts.
Angela glances at the time. Barely a couple minutes have passed. Taking a breath, she smiles to herself and reaches for her laptop, kicking up her legs. She is happy for the interruption, for having a reason to stop and try again later. There is no room for reflective thought with Ruth in the apartment, not that Angela can concentrate in the first place. Besides, meditation is stupid.
That evening, Angela heads out to the library to do some work with Scott. As the only other intern at her work who was also in graduate school, Scott introduced himself to Angela on day one, and the two quickly formed a close friendship.
Dipping her head against the wind’s chill, Angela watches her tennis shoes as she strolled down the block. As a child, she always carefully stepped over the sidewalk cracks, able to concentrate on the task for as long as needed to get to her destination. Much unlike herself now. Maybe Scott can help Angela with her inability to meditate. She has long since completed the regulatory rumination course, and months of attempts to reach nirvana have passed. Colors blur, words harmonize, ideas populate in her head; Angela has not felt relaxed at all, but rather increasingly creative and alive. At least the new enlightenment mandate has benefitted her in some way.
Angela steps into the library, brushing the hair out of her face. At Scott’s table, a man wearing a gray suit is packing up a dark leather briefcase. Based on the impeccable folding of the man’s blue handkerchief, which is neatly tucked away into the pocket of his suit jacket, this is presumably Isaiah. Scott has mentioned Isaiah’s starching and ironing obsession as one of the weirder of his quirks. With a profound and expressionless countenance on his face, Isaiah mechanically strides toward the exit, creating a breeze as he passes Angela.
Sliding into the seat that Isaiah left behind, Angela grins at Scott. “Seems like a great guy,” she says, nodding her head in Isaiah’s direction. She pulls out a package of chocolate wafer cookies from her bag.
Scott rolls his eyes, leaning his chair back on two legs. He tucks a pencil above his ear into his short, dark curls. “I can’t wait until I can live alone,” he says. “I’m going to live solely in wrinkled pants from here on out.”
Angela laughs. She has never been to Scott’s apartment due to his strong distaste for his guardian, and although Angela has never officially met Isaiah, he seems too uppity for Angela’s liking. At least Ruth is more laidback, even if she is something of a ditz.
Angela kicks her feet up on the chair next to Scott. He has pulled out a book and is fingering the scruff on his face, which appears longer than usual. Pulling out her laptop, Angela notes the dark circles under Scott’s eyes. Is he stressed? “You haven’t touched the cookies,” Angela says.
Scott sheepishly grins. “I’m on a diet,” he says, patting his slender stomach and grabbing two wafers from the box. Scott is wearing the same shirt from the last time she saw him. He winks as he puts the first cookie in his mouth. “How are you?” he asks over the crumbs in his mouth.
Angela chews on the inside of her lip. She wants to ask for meditation advice, but Scott seems off. Maybe he is just tired. Angela smiles softly. “The same. Ruth walked in today while I was trying to meditate. At least she saw me attempt to find my personal peace,” Angela says.
“Don’t roll your eyes. Remember, Angela, national amnesty is hinged on our inner nirvana,” Scott says. He smirks. Angela smiles, raising her eyebrows. Attempting to suppress his laugh, Scott shoves another wafer into his mouth, then starts coughing, choking on the crumbs.
Angela laughs out. Ducking her head as the neighboring table shushes them, she reaches into her bag to hand her water bottle to Scott. She decides against asking for advice; it is nice to see Scott smile. Better to keep things light for now.
...
Golden and red-tinted leaves cover the sidewalks during the drive to work the next day. Humming along to soft tunes in the background, Angela rolls down the car windows for a whiff of the fragrant fall air. The day is handsome, and Angela enjoys these Tuesday drives since she gets to carpool with Scott.
Up ahead, on the sidewalk, Scott is leaning against a post outside his apartment complex. Standing under the shade of the portico, he laughs and nods enthusiastically at a woman who is standing next to Isaiah. She has graying hair and wears a pale pink business suit. Peeking out from the sleeve of the woman’s blazer is a blue handkerchief, wrapped tightly around her wrist. Angela’s throat tightens, and a small wave rides through her chest as she rolls up the windows, but she brings her lips into a smile when they spot her. She slowly pulls up to the curb and rests her foot on the break. Grinning at the couple, Scott says a quick farewell and walks to the car.
“New neighbor,” he says, still waving to them as he pulls the car door shut. A little sweat glistens on his forehead. “My final interview’s next week.” He offers a half-hearted chuckle.
Angela raises her eyebrows. Her final interview is in three weeks to the day, but she knows that Scott is worse prepared than she. No wonder he had looked so worn out at the library. Moving the gear shift to drive, Angela feels a little perspiration gather between her hand and the leather.
Through the rearview mirror, Isaiah and the older woman are talking to another tenant of the apartment. Angela recognizes the girl, Olivia, as Scott’s neighbor who lives three doors down. Olivia is looking straight at the woman with a serious, blank expression on her face. She nods slowly as Isaiah pulls a syringe out of his back pocket and prepares it with a solution.
Noticing the direction of Angela’s gaze, Scott turns to look back at the scene. He bites his lower lip. Olivia is now holding hands with the woman, and she is scrunching her face, as though she is crying. Isaiah positions the syringe at Olivia’s neck. She closes her eyes, and seconds later, collapses into the woman’s arms.
Scott turns back in his seat to look at Angela, who maintains her gaze on the rearview mirror. Isaiah and the woman strap Olivia into a prepared gurney and begin wheeling Olivia toward the patrol wagon parked at the end of the block.
“It... isn’t even 7 in the morning,” Scott says. Olivia’s silencing would probably make the afternoon’s Amity report.
Angela blinks. Her hands grip the steering wheel, paling at the knuckles. Olivia always warmly asked after Angela when she saw her at Scott’s, gently knocking on the door before peeking her head in.
“She always seemed so tranquil-” Angela started to speak, but suddenly, in an increasing crescendo, a nearby car screeches to an abrupt stop. Angela gasps and slams on the car breaks. Her eyes snap back to the road ahead of her, registering the red traffic light she has just driven through and the intersection she is currently stopped in. Horns violently blare from her right, and she turns toward Scott just in time to watch a car sail into the passenger side.
...
Outside the window, near-empty branches sway in the cold wind. Standing in the kitchen, Angela observes the trees moving with the force of the air as she sets her bag on the counter. She closes her eyes and presses her fingertips onto her face, feeling the contrast of her icy fingers against the warm and puffy skin around her eyes. Her nose tingles, and she feels some pressure in her sinuses as she quietly sniffles. A door down the hall creaks open, and footsteps quietly make their way to the kitchen.
“How was the funeral?” Ruth asks, pulling Angela into a tight embrace. Angela’s throat closes, and her back muscles tense at the physical contact. She swallows and opens her eyes wide, willing the tears back into her eyes.
“Fucking horrible,” Angela mumbles. She sniffles, exhaling loudly. Normally she wouldn’t curse in front of a guardian, but she is sweating and feels flustered. Angela is exhausted. She steps out of the hug, looking at the ground as she unbuttons her coat. She takes a deep breath. Scott’s funeral was not only depressing because Scott had died; it was depressing because he probably would have been dead by now anyway. Angela presses her fingers against her temples and feels the throbbing pulse that has permeated her head for the past week. The gravity of this realization hasn’t left her mind since she the day of the accident.
“I’m sorry, Angela,” Ruth says. She nonchalantly reaches for two mugs. “How do you feel about your final interview?”
Angela inhales. Holding her breath, she reaches for the kettle and begins to fill it with hot water. Ruth has lived with Angela for most of the required two years after being matched as her guardian. She knows Angela is not prepared; this is yet another subtle test of her temper. Even on a day like today, Ruth wouldn’t cut her a break.
Angela exhales, lightly placing the kettle on the burner. She can’t help her irritation. “About as good as I do now,” she responds.
Ruth looks over at Angela and nods. Angela watches the tail ends of Ruth’s blue handkerchief bob along with the motion, and she wants nothing more than to rip the fabric out of her hair. Ruth adds green tea to one cup and black tea to another. “Do you want me to help you run through more contemplative practices?” she asks. She pulls the jar of sugar onto the counter and pours a spoonful into her empty glass. Ruth leaves Angela’s glass empty. Angela doesn't sweeten her tea.
“I’ll be okay,” Angela says. She removes the water, as it has long been boiling and has begun to shriek. She fills both mugs. The water in Ruth’s glass diffuses into a warm, leafy color. Angela smiles tightly at Ruth as she hands her the steaming green tea. Ruth smiles back, her eyes vacant and unexpressive.
“You should consider doing some body scan exercises. Or practice breathing awareness. Both promote relaxation throughout the muscles and in the skull, helping alleviate the mind from negative energy and emotion,” Ruth says.
Angela holds Ruth’s gaze, a wave of nausea rising up within her. She nods once, then carefully lifts up her own mug, not feeling the heat of the dark, reddish liquid scalding her palms. Turning, Angela drops the smile on her face and stares into the distance. Scott’s face barely registers before her, a violent flash of light. A tear running down her face, Angela steps into the bathroom and throws up.
That night, Angela bundles up and walks out to a nearby neighborhood. The second to last house has been abandoned for some time, but it has an old porch bench that offers her some privacy.
The air is brisk and the night grows darker, but Angela breathes better than she had all week. She rests lightly on the bench. She lays her coat over her lap, and her worn wool sweater serves as a makeshift cushion between the splintering wood and her shoulder blades. Angela dangles her feet over the armrest, swinging them through the night air to give momentum to the bench’s sway. She prefers to move it side-to-side, against its natural motion, because the metal squeaks less obviously in that direction.
Angela gazes aimlessly out at the bits of light that are shining through the dark sky. After the recent election, street lights are kept on all throughout the night, leaving this spot as one of the few from which she can still see the night’s stars. If Scott was here, he would have gone on about the irony of having a beautiful earth and no peace of mind to enjoy it with. Angela chuckles, and her eyes moisten. Scott is right, after all. The regulatory courses, nonstop practice, and successive interviews that have been implemented by the Amity Party feel more perturbing than world-peace making. And the guardian supervision and public silencings?
Angela sighs, and the creak of the bench’s swing ceases as she pulls her legs in. The stars do look especially striking and bright tonight. At least there is one way to enjoy them. Leaning to the side, Angela reaches a hand onto the porch ground and pries open one of the wooden floorboards. Inside lays a damp, black polyester bag, from which Angela takes out a single joint. Mind-altering substances were made illegal the day the election results were released, but she and Scott kept a stash for fun. They never used the drugs, and Angela never even intended to risk it, but it felt liberating to have something hidden from their guardians and from the Amity reign.
Angela fumbles for the kitchen lighter, which she tucked into the waistband of her jeans on the way out of the apartment. Solo joint in hand, Angela grips and loosens her fingers around the thin paper. Putting the skinnier end in her mouth, Angela sets fire to the paper and sucks in her cheeks. Coughing out the musky taste in heaves, she dimly registers the smoke spiral before her eyes. Her eyes water as the smell enters her nose and fills her throat.
Angela sighs and pulls out a baggy of chocolate wafers from her coat pocket. A couple of them have been crushed during the journey. Angela takes another drag from the blunt. This is not quite the typical study session during which she would eat the wafers, but no other snack feels appropriate for the occasion. Angela studies the blunt in her hand, bringing it close to her face. She despises its suffocating feeling, but for now, it is the only way to maintain any semblance of peacefulness.
...
Angela’s teeth are chattering. Sitting on the steps outside of her apartment complex, she watches a light snow cover the streets. The day has cooled off dramatically for a fall month. Angela just finished her final interview with Ruth and the district guardian, Maryanne. Maryanne asked Angela to wait outside during the scoring, as it would make it easier to transport her body if they were to silence her.
Angela closes her eyes and buries her face in her knees. She should have grabbed a scarf on her way out. She has not prepared for a long scoring session. Angela opens her eyes, shivering. Should she have smoked this morning? The weed would have helped her keep her calm, but she had felt unsure about cheating. Her stomach churns. In the midst of her preparations that morning, it had completely slipped Angela’s mind to eat something. She smiles to herself. At least she didn’t smoke; the hunger would have hit much harder, and probably mid-interview.
The door opens. Angela inhales sharply and turns over her shoulder to see a mother and child walk outside. The girl is probably four or five years old, and she wears a splash of red that matches the vibrancy of her unruly blonde curls. She immediately dashes into the snow as her mother calmly reaches out in an attempt to grab her hand. The mother watches her run out into the distance, and her face is expressionless. She has no reaction to the snow, to the girl, to Angela. Was she like this before her final interview? The girl, laughing, turns back to her mother and suddenly grimaces in Angela’s direction. Angela raises her eyebrows, but before she can speak, Maryanne greets the little girl from behind Angela.
Angela startles. She did not notice that Ruth and Maryanne walked outside behind the mother and child. “Oh-” Angela starts to apologize, standing up.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ruth interrupts, reaching for Angela’s hands. Ruth gives them a squeeze. Angela closes her mouth and studies Ruth’s face. She is smiling, and her skin and cheeks look healthy and rosy, but her eyes, unwaveringly peering back at Angela, appear emotionless.
Angela looks back over her shoulder. In the distance, the little girl trots alongside her mother, throwing up snow in a flurry around her. She is giggling, holding onto the hand of her mother. It seems fun, her excitement and motion, but her mother is immune to her daughter’s energy. Angela looks back at Ruth, at those blank pupils, then over to Maryanne, who is holding a syringe and solution with an equally empty expression. Beyond them, on the street, a stray cat sulks and slowly crawls behind the building.
Angela exhales. She remembers she has been holding her breath since the little girl wandered outside, and a slow smile comes to her lips. She learned in her last rumination course that in a true state of peacefulness, one almost forgets to breathe because the mind and body become so relaxed.
Angela straightens her posture. Slowly, she gives Ruth a kiss on the cheek and squeezes her hands. Letting go, she turns to smile at Maryanne. Then, in one deliberate and gentle motion, Anglea takes the syringe from Maryanne, pulls it towards one side of her neck while moving her auburn hair to the other side, and pushes the needle through to her throat, pressing the plunger to the barrel.
A flash of heat, then pressure, explodes around her neck, radiating towards her head, chest, back, and side in an expanding circle. Little pricks, like pins and needles jumping through her skin, soon follow the same path. A window screen crosses in front of her vision. Angela blinks. Behind the screen, Ruth appears to be screaming, but very slowly, and with no sound coming out of her mouth. Angela blinks again, this time noting Maryanne’s eyes and mouth frozen wide behind the mesh.
Angela blinks again. When she opens her eyes, the window screen is gone. Ruth and Maryanne have disappeared. The heat and pressure and pins and needles are also gone. All that is visible is cold, white snow. She reaches out to touch it, but her hand floats through.
Under the Blue was awarded the Alfred J. Montesi award in spring 2020.
A petal falls off one of the yellow daisies, but Angela’s eyes close before it lands on the coffee table. She inhales. Air rests, unmoving, on her face. The dishwasher hums through a cycle, complemented by the clamor of cars outside. A breeze wafts in through the open window, and a triangle of sun reaches her arm, a warm embrace.
She exhales. A dull ache pulses through the upper middle of her spine from sitting up straight, and the cushion’s leather pulls on the bare part of her leg as she adjusts. She tilts her head, her thick auburn hair sliding across her neck. Angela settles. Images and sounds flash by in fragments, and phrases weave in and out of her consciousness, forming thoughts and ideas and combing through memories. A younger version of herself chases after a gray cat through a grimy alleyway, and the sound of her footsteps splashes in echoes off the buildings around her. The alleyway seems unending and the footsteps get louder, and the cat meows more ferociously with each step. Suddenly, the alleyway ends and the cat pounces out into the street, and Angela too would have been hit by a car if not for the officer who caught her arm at the last moment. “Calm yourself,” he says, pulling her to the side. “Calm. Calm yourself,” he repeats. Angela’s chest tightens as the officer leans down towards her, his dark pupils peering into hers. The cat lay dead in the middle of the street. “Calm,” says the officer. Then, the door slams.
Angela’s eyes flutter open, her heart pounding at the memory. Ruth’s words enter before her body. “So sad,” Ruth calls out from the foyer, “we lost another potential today.” Footsteps plod toward the living room. “You would think that- oh! Oopsy,” Ruth nods her head towards Angela’s legs, which are crossed into her lap. “You’re meditating. I’ll leave. Don’t let me forget to tell you about this guy!” Ruth spins away, the pastel blue handkerchief in her hair whipping with the motion. The bedroom door shuts.
Angela glances at the time. Barely a couple minutes have passed. Taking a breath, she smiles to herself and reaches for her laptop, kicking up her legs. She is happy for the interruption, for having a reason to stop and try again later. There is no room for reflective thought with Ruth in the apartment, not that Angela can concentrate in the first place. Besides, meditation is stupid.
That evening, Angela heads out to the library to do some work with Scott. As the only other intern at her work who was also in graduate school, Scott introduced himself to Angela on day one, and the two quickly formed a close friendship.
Dipping her head against the wind’s chill, Angela watches her tennis shoes as she strolled down the block. As a child, she always carefully stepped over the sidewalk cracks, able to concentrate on the task for as long as needed to get to her destination. Much unlike herself now. Maybe Scott can help Angela with her inability to meditate. She has long since completed the regulatory rumination course, and months of attempts to reach nirvana have passed. Colors blur, words harmonize, ideas populate in her head; Angela has not felt relaxed at all, but rather increasingly creative and alive. At least the new enlightenment mandate has benefitted her in some way.
Angela steps into the library, brushing the hair out of her face. At Scott’s table, a man wearing a gray suit is packing up a dark leather briefcase. Based on the impeccable folding of the man’s blue handkerchief, which is neatly tucked away into the pocket of his suit jacket, this is presumably Isaiah. Scott has mentioned Isaiah’s starching and ironing obsession as one of the weirder of his quirks. With a profound and expressionless countenance on his face, Isaiah mechanically strides toward the exit, creating a breeze as he passes Angela.
Sliding into the seat that Isaiah left behind, Angela grins at Scott. “Seems like a great guy,” she says, nodding her head in Isaiah’s direction. She pulls out a package of chocolate wafer cookies from her bag.
Scott rolls his eyes, leaning his chair back on two legs. He tucks a pencil above his ear into his short, dark curls. “I can’t wait until I can live alone,” he says. “I’m going to live solely in wrinkled pants from here on out.”
Angela laughs. She has never been to Scott’s apartment due to his strong distaste for his guardian, and although Angela has never officially met Isaiah, he seems too uppity for Angela’s liking. At least Ruth is more laidback, even if she is something of a ditz.
Angela kicks her feet up on the chair next to Scott. He has pulled out a book and is fingering the scruff on his face, which appears longer than usual. Pulling out her laptop, Angela notes the dark circles under Scott’s eyes. Is he stressed? “You haven’t touched the cookies,” Angela says.
Scott sheepishly grins. “I’m on a diet,” he says, patting his slender stomach and grabbing two wafers from the box. Scott is wearing the same shirt from the last time she saw him. He winks as he puts the first cookie in his mouth. “How are you?” he asks over the crumbs in his mouth.
Angela chews on the inside of her lip. She wants to ask for meditation advice, but Scott seems off. Maybe he is just tired. Angela smiles softly. “The same. Ruth walked in today while I was trying to meditate. At least she saw me attempt to find my personal peace,” Angela says.
“Don’t roll your eyes. Remember, Angela, national amnesty is hinged on our inner nirvana,” Scott says. He smirks. Angela smiles, raising her eyebrows. Attempting to suppress his laugh, Scott shoves another wafer into his mouth, then starts coughing, choking on the crumbs.
Angela laughs out. Ducking her head as the neighboring table shushes them, she reaches into her bag to hand her water bottle to Scott. She decides against asking for advice; it is nice to see Scott smile. Better to keep things light for now.
...
Golden and red-tinted leaves cover the sidewalks during the drive to work the next day. Humming along to soft tunes in the background, Angela rolls down the car windows for a whiff of the fragrant fall air. The day is handsome, and Angela enjoys these Tuesday drives since she gets to carpool with Scott.
Up ahead, on the sidewalk, Scott is leaning against a post outside his apartment complex. Standing under the shade of the portico, he laughs and nods enthusiastically at a woman who is standing next to Isaiah. She has graying hair and wears a pale pink business suit. Peeking out from the sleeve of the woman’s blazer is a blue handkerchief, wrapped tightly around her wrist. Angela’s throat tightens, and a small wave rides through her chest as she rolls up the windows, but she brings her lips into a smile when they spot her. She slowly pulls up to the curb and rests her foot on the break. Grinning at the couple, Scott says a quick farewell and walks to the car.
“New neighbor,” he says, still waving to them as he pulls the car door shut. A little sweat glistens on his forehead. “My final interview’s next week.” He offers a half-hearted chuckle.
Angela raises her eyebrows. Her final interview is in three weeks to the day, but she knows that Scott is worse prepared than she. No wonder he had looked so worn out at the library. Moving the gear shift to drive, Angela feels a little perspiration gather between her hand and the leather.
Through the rearview mirror, Isaiah and the older woman are talking to another tenant of the apartment. Angela recognizes the girl, Olivia, as Scott’s neighbor who lives three doors down. Olivia is looking straight at the woman with a serious, blank expression on her face. She nods slowly as Isaiah pulls a syringe out of his back pocket and prepares it with a solution.
Noticing the direction of Angela’s gaze, Scott turns to look back at the scene. He bites his lower lip. Olivia is now holding hands with the woman, and she is scrunching her face, as though she is crying. Isaiah positions the syringe at Olivia’s neck. She closes her eyes, and seconds later, collapses into the woman’s arms.
Scott turns back in his seat to look at Angela, who maintains her gaze on the rearview mirror. Isaiah and the woman strap Olivia into a prepared gurney and begin wheeling Olivia toward the patrol wagon parked at the end of the block.
“It... isn’t even 7 in the morning,” Scott says. Olivia’s silencing would probably make the afternoon’s Amity report.
Angela blinks. Her hands grip the steering wheel, paling at the knuckles. Olivia always warmly asked after Angela when she saw her at Scott’s, gently knocking on the door before peeking her head in.
“She always seemed so tranquil-” Angela started to speak, but suddenly, in an increasing crescendo, a nearby car screeches to an abrupt stop. Angela gasps and slams on the car breaks. Her eyes snap back to the road ahead of her, registering the red traffic light she has just driven through and the intersection she is currently stopped in. Horns violently blare from her right, and she turns toward Scott just in time to watch a car sail into the passenger side.
...
Outside the window, near-empty branches sway in the cold wind. Standing in the kitchen, Angela observes the trees moving with the force of the air as she sets her bag on the counter. She closes her eyes and presses her fingertips onto her face, feeling the contrast of her icy fingers against the warm and puffy skin around her eyes. Her nose tingles, and she feels some pressure in her sinuses as she quietly sniffles. A door down the hall creaks open, and footsteps quietly make their way to the kitchen.
“How was the funeral?” Ruth asks, pulling Angela into a tight embrace. Angela’s throat closes, and her back muscles tense at the physical contact. She swallows and opens her eyes wide, willing the tears back into her eyes.
“Fucking horrible,” Angela mumbles. She sniffles, exhaling loudly. Normally she wouldn’t curse in front of a guardian, but she is sweating and feels flustered. Angela is exhausted. She steps out of the hug, looking at the ground as she unbuttons her coat. She takes a deep breath. Scott’s funeral was not only depressing because Scott had died; it was depressing because he probably would have been dead by now anyway. Angela presses her fingers against her temples and feels the throbbing pulse that has permeated her head for the past week. The gravity of this realization hasn’t left her mind since she the day of the accident.
“I’m sorry, Angela,” Ruth says. She nonchalantly reaches for two mugs. “How do you feel about your final interview?”
Angela inhales. Holding her breath, she reaches for the kettle and begins to fill it with hot water. Ruth has lived with Angela for most of the required two years after being matched as her guardian. She knows Angela is not prepared; this is yet another subtle test of her temper. Even on a day like today, Ruth wouldn’t cut her a break.
Angela exhales, lightly placing the kettle on the burner. She can’t help her irritation. “About as good as I do now,” she responds.
Ruth looks over at Angela and nods. Angela watches the tail ends of Ruth’s blue handkerchief bob along with the motion, and she wants nothing more than to rip the fabric out of her hair. Ruth adds green tea to one cup and black tea to another. “Do you want me to help you run through more contemplative practices?” she asks. She pulls the jar of sugar onto the counter and pours a spoonful into her empty glass. Ruth leaves Angela’s glass empty. Angela doesn't sweeten her tea.
“I’ll be okay,” Angela says. She removes the water, as it has long been boiling and has begun to shriek. She fills both mugs. The water in Ruth’s glass diffuses into a warm, leafy color. Angela smiles tightly at Ruth as she hands her the steaming green tea. Ruth smiles back, her eyes vacant and unexpressive.
“You should consider doing some body scan exercises. Or practice breathing awareness. Both promote relaxation throughout the muscles and in the skull, helping alleviate the mind from negative energy and emotion,” Ruth says.
Angela holds Ruth’s gaze, a wave of nausea rising up within her. She nods once, then carefully lifts up her own mug, not feeling the heat of the dark, reddish liquid scalding her palms. Turning, Angela drops the smile on her face and stares into the distance. Scott’s face barely registers before her, a violent flash of light. A tear running down her face, Angela steps into the bathroom and throws up.
That night, Angela bundles up and walks out to a nearby neighborhood. The second to last house has been abandoned for some time, but it has an old porch bench that offers her some privacy.
The air is brisk and the night grows darker, but Angela breathes better than she had all week. She rests lightly on the bench. She lays her coat over her lap, and her worn wool sweater serves as a makeshift cushion between the splintering wood and her shoulder blades. Angela dangles her feet over the armrest, swinging them through the night air to give momentum to the bench’s sway. She prefers to move it side-to-side, against its natural motion, because the metal squeaks less obviously in that direction.
Angela gazes aimlessly out at the bits of light that are shining through the dark sky. After the recent election, street lights are kept on all throughout the night, leaving this spot as one of the few from which she can still see the night’s stars. If Scott was here, he would have gone on about the irony of having a beautiful earth and no peace of mind to enjoy it with. Angela chuckles, and her eyes moisten. Scott is right, after all. The regulatory courses, nonstop practice, and successive interviews that have been implemented by the Amity Party feel more perturbing than world-peace making. And the guardian supervision and public silencings?
Angela sighs, and the creak of the bench’s swing ceases as she pulls her legs in. The stars do look especially striking and bright tonight. At least there is one way to enjoy them. Leaning to the side, Angela reaches a hand onto the porch ground and pries open one of the wooden floorboards. Inside lays a damp, black polyester bag, from which Angela takes out a single joint. Mind-altering substances were made illegal the day the election results were released, but she and Scott kept a stash for fun. They never used the drugs, and Angela never even intended to risk it, but it felt liberating to have something hidden from their guardians and from the Amity reign.
Angela fumbles for the kitchen lighter, which she tucked into the waistband of her jeans on the way out of the apartment. Solo joint in hand, Angela grips and loosens her fingers around the thin paper. Putting the skinnier end in her mouth, Angela sets fire to the paper and sucks in her cheeks. Coughing out the musky taste in heaves, she dimly registers the smoke spiral before her eyes. Her eyes water as the smell enters her nose and fills her throat.
Angela sighs and pulls out a baggy of chocolate wafers from her coat pocket. A couple of them have been crushed during the journey. Angela takes another drag from the blunt. This is not quite the typical study session during which she would eat the wafers, but no other snack feels appropriate for the occasion. Angela studies the blunt in her hand, bringing it close to her face. She despises its suffocating feeling, but for now, it is the only way to maintain any semblance of peacefulness.
...
Angela’s teeth are chattering. Sitting on the steps outside of her apartment complex, she watches a light snow cover the streets. The day has cooled off dramatically for a fall month. Angela just finished her final interview with Ruth and the district guardian, Maryanne. Maryanne asked Angela to wait outside during the scoring, as it would make it easier to transport her body if they were to silence her.
Angela closes her eyes and buries her face in her knees. She should have grabbed a scarf on her way out. She has not prepared for a long scoring session. Angela opens her eyes, shivering. Should she have smoked this morning? The weed would have helped her keep her calm, but she had felt unsure about cheating. Her stomach churns. In the midst of her preparations that morning, it had completely slipped Angela’s mind to eat something. She smiles to herself. At least she didn’t smoke; the hunger would have hit much harder, and probably mid-interview.
The door opens. Angela inhales sharply and turns over her shoulder to see a mother and child walk outside. The girl is probably four or five years old, and she wears a splash of red that matches the vibrancy of her unruly blonde curls. She immediately dashes into the snow as her mother calmly reaches out in an attempt to grab her hand. The mother watches her run out into the distance, and her face is expressionless. She has no reaction to the snow, to the girl, to Angela. Was she like this before her final interview? The girl, laughing, turns back to her mother and suddenly grimaces in Angela’s direction. Angela raises her eyebrows, but before she can speak, Maryanne greets the little girl from behind Angela.
Angela startles. She did not notice that Ruth and Maryanne walked outside behind the mother and child. “Oh-” Angela starts to apologize, standing up.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ruth interrupts, reaching for Angela’s hands. Ruth gives them a squeeze. Angela closes her mouth and studies Ruth’s face. She is smiling, and her skin and cheeks look healthy and rosy, but her eyes, unwaveringly peering back at Angela, appear emotionless.
Angela looks back over her shoulder. In the distance, the little girl trots alongside her mother, throwing up snow in a flurry around her. She is giggling, holding onto the hand of her mother. It seems fun, her excitement and motion, but her mother is immune to her daughter’s energy. Angela looks back at Ruth, at those blank pupils, then over to Maryanne, who is holding a syringe and solution with an equally empty expression. Beyond them, on the street, a stray cat sulks and slowly crawls behind the building.
Angela exhales. She remembers she has been holding her breath since the little girl wandered outside, and a slow smile comes to her lips. She learned in her last rumination course that in a true state of peacefulness, one almost forgets to breathe because the mind and body become so relaxed.
Angela straightens her posture. Slowly, she gives Ruth a kiss on the cheek and squeezes her hands. Letting go, she turns to smile at Maryanne. Then, in one deliberate and gentle motion, Anglea takes the syringe from Maryanne, pulls it towards one side of her neck while moving her auburn hair to the other side, and pushes the needle through to her throat, pressing the plunger to the barrel.
A flash of heat, then pressure, explodes around her neck, radiating towards her head, chest, back, and side in an expanding circle. Little pricks, like pins and needles jumping through her skin, soon follow the same path. A window screen crosses in front of her vision. Angela blinks. Behind the screen, Ruth appears to be screaming, but very slowly, and with no sound coming out of her mouth. Angela blinks again, this time noting Maryanne’s eyes and mouth frozen wide behind the mesh.
Angela blinks again. When she opens her eyes, the window screen is gone. Ruth and Maryanne have disappeared. The heat and pressure and pins and needles are also gone. All that is visible is cold, white snow. She reaches out to touch it, but her hand floats through.