A Song of Silence

Chapter 10

Callisto

It was a mistake to have slept earlier. It's even worse to be alone in the darkness with only the ghosts of those who have died, joined with my constant fear of discovery. So long has it been since I last slept a nightmare-free sleep, one that was blissful and peaceful like the dream that started out last night – only that did not take such a fateful turn. I wonder what it would be like to feel protected by them, like you know that nothing can hurt you as long as you obey them, the only thing they ask of you. I wonder what it would be like to be liberated by their control, which may be less of a paradox than it seems to be. I wonder what it would be like to have a mother that cares for you and a father that loves you. I wonder what it would be like to have no worry of being caught doing nothing wrong but to not have ever been one of them in the first place.

If it were up to me, would I have chosen to be controlled? Maybe, but what would it be like to be aware that you could lose that easy protection only by "disobeying" them, even if it wasn't on purpose. Like what happened to all the rest of them, who lost their lives to the Imperium but were so soon forgotten and once again lost to their control. It's a cycle. We are meant to forget the defiers and disremember the acts of rebellion – all but the fact that they made horrible, horrible mistakes to do harm to the system that has so long worked for the benefit of the Imperium, and it will go on forever and ever until someone can interrupt it. If only I was brave enough to stop it and be that person. But I know and I know well that even though it's selfish, I would rather keep it to myself and live for a little longer. Maybe they should have wished for someone other than me to have been the one to be the only person who did not receive the drug, wished for someone braver, more compassionate than I am. Someone who would understand that we cannot live in this sorrowful world forever and put and end to it when she had the chance. That is not me. I wish it was, but it is not.

After thirty minutes of the clock hanging on my bare wall ticking, ticking, ticking, I put on my fleece coat and decide that it will be of no use to wait for something that will not come. The jacket is warm against my bare arms in the bitter weather, though the fabric and threads tickle at my skin. Maybe that's what this is, the Imperium and their methods. The wearer of the sweater has grown used to the contact, but it still grants discomfort to them. Finally, you tire of the relentless irritation, and remove it from your body. But it is then, and only then, that you realize how cold it is outside without the heat of the cloak to envelop you. And then it makes you want to put it back on, even if it means that you will live with the unpleasantness of the covering that will, at the very least, protect you from the outside. Maybe we'd stop wearing it and bearing it if we learned to deal with what else is out there, rather than hiding from it. Because really, no matter how much we run from it, there is one way to move forward. And that is to accept change. We have all been programmed to need them, but do we, actually? I would think not. We had survived for centuries upon centuries not being controlled by one council, still with the freedom to speak out and stand up, which has been taken away from us in their new procedure, so why do we so easily believe them? We are foolish and gullible, creatures who would trust the easy truth that is right in front of us instead of looking further, past the illusions that we ourselves have crafted.

When I open the door, a rush of cool air from the foyer in my building greets me right in the face, and I press my lips together and breathe into my hands to quell the chill of the dry, frosty air. I trudge through the snow, which crackles under my feet, having thawed and refrozen into an in-between of ice and the soft, powdery stuff. My boots sink through the first layer, which hampers my pace greatly. At the minimum, the crunch of it lets me know that I am alone, which means that for a short while, I may drop my smile.

Touching a careful finger to my mouth, I find that my chapped lips are bleeding from the continuous smiling and acting happy. I smear the drying red liquid onto the back of my hand, determined, once again, not to let it show. This kind of physical pain is nothing. We have all felt it, and it is "a necessary sacrifice and a signal of your devotion", as they said. It should not – must not – hurt me. The fear inflicts deeper wounds than this. Much deeper. This I have had to deal with for a long time, and the throbbing in my muscles and skin feels like nothing at all after so many years.

It is as I turn the corner, rubbing my eyes to get them to adjust to the shadows enveloping the alley where I stand. There are voices in the distance, but what they are saying is too hard to make sense of from this far away. Hushed murmurs to one another meant for their ears only. Do I risk getting closer? I am not far from unveiling their secrets, even if I came for reasons besides that. Well, I did want to be more courageous earlier. Now is my opportunity to do so. Take a leap of faith. Question what is not meant to be questioned. See what is not meant to be seen. Stop turning away from what I don't want to hear.

"Is it done?" comes the first voice. I would guess from the sound of it that it is a man talking in an urgent manner.

"Yes. We're all set," comes the response. Something is tugging at the back of my mind, because I feel as though I have heard them before. Who? And what is all set? What could they mean?

"Good."

I inch closer slightly to them, treading carefully so as not to upset the quiet that surrounds them.

They turn on their lights, and I hastily step behind a nearby wall. The Imperium would not approve of civilians wandering the streets in the middle of the night.

But my silence is nearly broken with a gasp as their faces come into view. Because I know these people. More than know them. I would recognize them anywhere, even though I haven't seen either of them for over a year. His hard-etched features. Her auburn-brown hair. His hazel eyes. Her pursed lips. He slides his arm through the loop she made with hers. She smiles widely at him. He smiles back.

My mother. My father. They're here.

~

Author's Note: I don't know if you would remember me, but thank you to my friend for the itchy sweater analogy that I just had to put in here. I still remember that from fourth grade, when you made that comment to the class. It's funny that if you put me in that same classroom with all the furniture arranged the same way, I could tell you exactly where you were standing when you said that. But anyway, thank you. You've probably forgotten me since I moved, but I miss you.