Muted

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Coming home after a twelve hour shift the next day, you noticed a handwritten note posted to your door.

'I believe we accidentally switched earphones', it read.

A sigh unknowingly escaped your lips as you dropped your work bag in your living room. Retrieving the mentioned earbuds from the case on your stand, you studied them. They looked exactly like yours, and you weren't entirely sure how your neighbor knew they were his, but you weren't going to argue about it.

Within minutes, you were knocking on the door next to yours.  When it opened, eyes landing on the man in front of you, it felt like your brain short circuited.  

His hair was messily tousled, shirt wrinkled, and his pajama pants hung low, very low, on his hips.  You had clearly woken him up from slumber.

"Oh," the word left your lips like a breath should have.

It felt like a computer glitch was happening in your head, your brain refusing to function normally.  Completely baffled by your own behavior, you shook yourself, literally, before you jutted your hand out and opened your palm, showing him the buds within them.

"You said these were yours?" you finally managed.

For a moment, he stared at you blankly, and you wondered if perhaps he was still sleeping.  But, when he finally moved, grabbing his earpods from you and then gesturing for you to enter, you knew you were awake.

You watched his back as he walked inside, your feet still planted on his doorstep.

You had never- never- been to someone's else's apartment or home. You weren't sure if visiting someone's home was even allowed. A house was only for resting and eating and typically only shared by family members.

This was not typical.  

The thought of entering a single man's house in the late evening hours could easily be misconstrued.  This would certainly not look good to the outside eye.  And for a model-citizen, like yourself, you were always on-guard to put forth only the most respectable images to the people around you.  

After all, the Regime closely monitored the actions of the citizens and one misstep could kick someone out of the their good graces, whether it was intentional or not. And they certainly had eyes everywhere. Between the plethora of government workers protecting the public areas and the myriad of cameras on every street corner, there were very few places where one was truly alone.

"You are letting the cold air in," Yuzuru spoke, breaking you from your thoughts, reminding you of the winter winds that had been sweeping through the flimsy walls of the apartment complex the past few weeks. 

Although the cold, like any other feeling, was muted thanks to your Daily Supplements, your rational mind told you it was dangerous.  The cold could kill, even if you couldn't feel its frosty nip on your skin.

You stepped in quickly, closing the door behind you.

It was completely unintentional when your wide eyes scanned the area. Truly, you didn't know what you were looking for, because you knew his apartment was going to be an exact replica of your own, like every other apartment likely was. 

The space was small and monotone, holding only the bare necessities, as was fitting for the model citizen who didn't need frivolities to live a productive life.

There was a small kitchenette to the right, a living room straight ahead, and a bedroom that you knew was directly adjacent to your own, thanks to living next to him for so many years. Many of nights you had heard the squeaky springs of his mattress as he laid down to rest, the thin walls doing nothing to block the sound.

You walked further inside the apartment.

There was a stack of children's books on the desk in his living room, all government-issued of course, as any other books were strictly prohibited in the District. Scattered papers laid about, a telltale sign of a teacher grading homework. Among the papers sat his Monitor, the device every citizen had for information dissemination. It was what connected with one's earpods, providing access to the latest news from the Regime. Some even claimed the Regime could contact them through it, although you had never seen that function for yourself.

Then, your eyes landed on an item that stood out amongst the rest, a small picture frame nestled on the desk.

It was rare to see a picture these days, most of them having been destroyed in the Great War, but there one was. It was one of the few items the Regime allowed from the past, but even then, there were stipulations and they required strict inspection before approval.

Inside the frame was a photo of a family of four. A young boy, a girl, and two adults.

You couldn't help but be drawn to the girl in the photo.  The dress she wore caused your brain to lag once again, as if your brain was hiccuping. There was a pattern on it, with shapes you didn't recognize, color hues your eyes couldn't comprehend, and delicate edges that you had never seen on the clothing people wore now-a-days. Really, you had never seen anything like it, ever.

"Here," his voice knocked you out of your examination as he held out your earbuds.

You tore your eyes away from the photo, taking them.

"Your family?" you asked.  

You don't know why you asked.  You knew the answer. The boy in the picture was him, albeit over a decade younger. And the others, well, they looked just like him. Truthfully, it was probably rude to ask, especially when the actual question was, 'where were they?', and you were pretty certain you already knew the answer to that question too.

Like your own family, they had probably perished in the Great War.

After living next to him for years, you knew he was on his own, just like you.  Although, you supposed that would end soon, as the Regime would assign him a wife, as was common with men of his status and age in the District.  In essence, it wouldn't be long until you would gain another neighbor.

"Yes," was all he said.

You watched as his eyes darted to the window. For a moment, your eyes lagged on the way the moonlight filtered through the glass pane and landed on his high cheekbones.  It held your gaze hostage and you had no control over your breath as it caught in your throat, your palms becoming sweaty as they clasped your forgotten earbuds.

You shook your head again, trying to shake yourself out of your stupor.  Clearly you were fatigued, so over-worked that your brain was physiologically protesting, slowing your mental faculties.  You needed to start working less hours.

"I-I should go," you spoke, noting your own stutter.  Before he would respond, you bowed to him, before making your exit.

"Goodnight, Miss Lawson," he spoke to your back.

That night, you went to sleep with pastel hues, an unknown dress pattern, and moonlight shadows casted on the back of your eyelids.  You tossed and turned beneath your sheets.