The Dawning

The Departure

The threads in my sheet are shades of yellow. There are twenty-six holes in the fabric, but nobody cares. They've been there for a long time. The holes are so minuscule, you barely notice them, but I do. I know just how many there are. I know where each one is. When I'm locked in this room alone, I run my fingers over the sharp, crisp edges of the sheet, over every dip and valley. I know the grooves of the threads by heart. If I wasn't so lazy, I'd probably know how many threads there were, too. 

This room is in an attic of a house that was partially decimated by the war - most houses are. I'm a serving girl, according to the house masters, but really I'm no more than a slave. A prisoner. It's a pathetic attempt by the formerly wealthy to keep what they consider to be left of their dignity, their livelihood. Since they have no currency to pay domestic workers, they just take slaves instead. It's not a show of money, but still a show of power. After all is said and done, though, both are one in the same. It seems like the people who had all the power back when they all had the money were missing one thing they couldn't buy and that was a conscience. Even now, when almost everyone is starving and left in the bitter winter snow, they're on some cold-blooded power trip. They'd much rather have a serving girl with no food to serve than no serving girl at all. 

It's only a matter of time before the black flags come marching through this neighborhood, burning down the mansions and claiming what used to be Beverly Hills. They've taken much of Nevada already, I can only imagine that California only has a few more weeks. 

I lay flat on my back against the thin mattress that the house masters have afforded me and stare at the slick blue ceiling. Ornate embellishments accentuate the walls, not just in this room but throughout the house. They're probably made of real gold, but what do I know? The only time I ever saw gold in person before was through the glass-paned display cases at Zales in the mall. 

I am startled suddenly by three short knocks on my door. "Girl," a voice shouts.

I scramble up and tidy my dirty clothes. I haven't changed in weeks and my torn jeans are stained from when I was running from the war, but the house masters still want me to keep up appearances to the best of my abilities. What a fucking joke. I hope they realize that all the serving girls in the world won't make up for the fact that their money is essentially worthless now and that the faux-power they have attempted to claim for themselves is transparent. When the victors of the war come to claim their spoils, the house masters will be rounded up with everyone else to do the victors' bidding. 

A key slides into the lock of my door and the wooden panel swings open, bouncing off the wall. Charles, the husband, looks me over. "We have visitors."

Without another word, he pivots and walks away, leaving me to trail behind slowly in his wake. My threadbare socks shuffle against the cool tiles of the hallway towards the enormous staircase, past the war-torn wing of the house that the house masters have boarded up and blocked off. Downstairs, three men in thick black coats stare at me from the couch, the silver pins on their lapels winking at me in the dewy winter sunlight. 

"Here she is," Charles says, clapping me on the back as if we've just downed a pint at the bar. "Isn't she lovely?" 

The man farthest to the left gives me a quick glance, up and down. He is wiry thin, but tall and still slightly broad shouldered, by the looks of his awkward stretch across the couch cushions. His eyes are a piercing shade of green and he is young enough that his hair is still a vibrant red and his chin just barely has the showings of a five o'clock shadow. "Quite," he says dryly. 

"Her name," the man on the right says, with the beginnings of a question in his voice. "What is it?" 

He is ginger-haired and green-eyed, as well, like the man on the left, but there is something about him that is more mature. Maybe it's the way he holds himself, or the shadows in his face, but he seems older.