Story
He let me go. So great and noble, never to be excessive in their punishments, they would say. The army for the people.
I lost my scarf sometime between being knocked out and waking up in that fed-hole. And my clothes still smelled of the place.
Someone grabbed my arm.
He spun me, slapped my face. “Kari, what the rep did you think you were doing?!” I cringed briefly, let out a soft cry, but was immediately ashamed of myself. Grabbing my arm again, he led me roughly to an alley, though the street had been vacant.
“Stupid. That was really stupid!” He slapped me again. I let my head turn with the blow, but didn’t make a sound or response. I turned my eyes toward him and glowered. “Jennings, what were you thinking? Nevermind. If you’d been thinking it wouldn’t have happened. What did you tell them? What did they ask you?”
I was silent for a moment. “Nothing. They didn’t ask me a thing. They just wanted to be all jag-head on me.”
“Jennings. That was too close.” He took a step toward me, half-thinking, half-conversationally. “Do you think-” I hooked him with my right, and his face turned. Again, stupid. His backhand caught my already broken nose, which bled again. My eyes filled with tears, pain was immense. His hands wrapped around my throat, and he shoved me against the side of the building.
“Now. You’re just lucky you’re-”
“-I’m what? You think that makes a difference to you? You don’t have the Jennings, Faren.” I was crying bad, but spitting out the words spitefully still. “You think I wanna live like this? I don’t care what the scourge is like, it’s gotta be better than this wasteland.”
“You sayin’ you wanna die, Kari?” Tears never stopped, but I glared at him still, without a word. He pressed on my throat a little. It was slowly getting harder to see, harder to concentrate. Eventually, he let go of me, turning away.
“You’re a waste of my time, and nothing but slag to us all. You’re slag, you hear me?” He took a letter from his coat, dropped it carelessly, and walked away without another word. I stood against the wall awhile, regaining my vision, trying to calm down. I picked up the letter, tucked it away without a second glance.
***
I got back to my hole after a walk too long for the pain. My room was off the kitchen. I swear, it used to be a pantry once, but was missing its door. It was private like the flu, but I hung a heavy blanket to separate. Thankfully now, no one was back. It was so strangely quiet. Unnerving…
The shelves… well, they were covered in junk. But it was my junk. An old optical mouse, a bunch of bottle caps, tiny flags from countries that didn’t even exist anymore, a couple pages from some very old children’s books. That kind of thing. Nothing useful to anyone, nothing meaningful to anyone but me. But they were mine.
I pulled a cup from my shelf, filled it from the kitchen basin. I drank half, and watered Steve, my tiny potted plant, with the rest. Honestly, I had no idea what kind of plant he was, but miraculously, he was still growing, in spite of all the darkness in that Fed-hole.
I went back to my room, pulled the blanket shut. By the dim light from behind the blanket, I sat in front of my bed and reached for my guitar. My pride and joy. It was a Telecaster, 2012, modified to all scourge, not that I’d ever know without an amp. The black paint on it was chipped, scratched, and worn to no end, and it only had four strings, but I’d learned to play around it.
So I played. I sat in front of my bed, and I just played and played. My fingers were cold, slow. They slid and pressed on the hard metal strings, all the while finger-picking, caressing almost, the notes out of the guitar with my other hand. The old strings had some sour overtones; though tuned, it was …off-sounding.
After a while, I stopped. The guitar was resting gently on my leg. I let my nose and gut and throat just hurt for a few moments, letting the pain wash back into me. I set my guitar back down. I leaned back against my bed, and ran my fingers through my short, wavy hair. Greasy. It was always greasy, gross, but that jag and his fed-hole didn’t help any.
I sighed deeply, placing my hand near my navel. The wet from my tear cooled my warm face.
~~~
I lost my scarf sometime between being knocked out and waking up in that fed-hole. And my clothes still smelled of the place.
Someone grabbed my arm.
He spun me, slapped my face. “Kari, what the rep did you think you were doing?!” I cringed briefly, let out a soft cry, but was immediately ashamed of myself. Grabbing my arm again, he led me roughly to an alley, though the street had been vacant.
“Stupid. That was really stupid!” He slapped me again. I let my head turn with the blow, but didn’t make a sound or response. I turned my eyes toward him and glowered. “Jennings, what were you thinking? Nevermind. If you’d been thinking it wouldn’t have happened. What did you tell them? What did they ask you?”
I was silent for a moment. “Nothing. They didn’t ask me a thing. They just wanted to be all jag-head on me.”
“Jennings. That was too close.” He took a step toward me, half-thinking, half-conversationally. “Do you think-” I hooked him with my right, and his face turned. Again, stupid. His backhand caught my already broken nose, which bled again. My eyes filled with tears, pain was immense. His hands wrapped around my throat, and he shoved me against the side of the building.
“Now. You’re just lucky you’re-”
“-I’m what? You think that makes a difference to you? You don’t have the Jennings, Faren.” I was crying bad, but spitting out the words spitefully still. “You think I wanna live like this? I don’t care what the scourge is like, it’s gotta be better than this wasteland.”
“You sayin’ you wanna die, Kari?” Tears never stopped, but I glared at him still, without a word. He pressed on my throat a little. It was slowly getting harder to see, harder to concentrate. Eventually, he let go of me, turning away.
“You’re a waste of my time, and nothing but slag to us all. You’re slag, you hear me?” He took a letter from his coat, dropped it carelessly, and walked away without another word. I stood against the wall awhile, regaining my vision, trying to calm down. I picked up the letter, tucked it away without a second glance.
***
I got back to my hole after a walk too long for the pain. My room was off the kitchen. I swear, it used to be a pantry once, but was missing its door. It was private like the flu, but I hung a heavy blanket to separate. Thankfully now, no one was back. It was so strangely quiet. Unnerving…
The shelves… well, they were covered in junk. But it was my junk. An old optical mouse, a bunch of bottle caps, tiny flags from countries that didn’t even exist anymore, a couple pages from some very old children’s books. That kind of thing. Nothing useful to anyone, nothing meaningful to anyone but me. But they were mine.
I pulled a cup from my shelf, filled it from the kitchen basin. I drank half, and watered Steve, my tiny potted plant, with the rest. Honestly, I had no idea what kind of plant he was, but miraculously, he was still growing, in spite of all the darkness in that Fed-hole.
I went back to my room, pulled the blanket shut. By the dim light from behind the blanket, I sat in front of my bed and reached for my guitar. My pride and joy. It was a Telecaster, 2012, modified to all scourge, not that I’d ever know without an amp. The black paint on it was chipped, scratched, and worn to no end, and it only had four strings, but I’d learned to play around it.
So I played. I sat in front of my bed, and I just played and played. My fingers were cold, slow. They slid and pressed on the hard metal strings, all the while finger-picking, caressing almost, the notes out of the guitar with my other hand. The old strings had some sour overtones; though tuned, it was …off-sounding.
After a while, I stopped. The guitar was resting gently on my leg. I let my nose and gut and throat just hurt for a few moments, letting the pain wash back into me. I set my guitar back down. I leaned back against my bed, and ran my fingers through my short, wavy hair. Greasy. It was always greasy, gross, but that jag and his fed-hole didn’t help any.
I sighed deeply, placing my hand near my navel. The wet from my tear cooled my warm face.
~~~