Читать книгу A Penny for your Thoughts - E.D. Squadroni - Страница 2

Rain poured; allowing for water to drench the red velvet curtain. Brixton and his mother neglected to patch up the crack in the bay window. For years it went overlooked. A light drizzle here and there didn’t affect them. Only the occasional downfall like today brought attention to the heavy drape. Brixton watched as the water spot grew larger and larger. He hated that curtain. It blocked out not only the sun but all of civilization. Not to mention, it was about five feet longer than it needed to be. The excess fabric sat crumpled on the floor causing a tripping hazard that Brixton fell for almost every time he came near the window. The five extra feet did come in good use today though. He used the massive wine-colored velvet as a dam to prevent it from soaking the window seat. As he dabbed up the escaping puddle he wondered.

How powerful can thoughts be? Thoughts are like the wind; just as invisible. Yet they can embrace any amount of turmoil. Both can destroy everything. A single thought can take control and rule a nation. One thought put in the mind of an innocent person can ruin it forever. One spark can lead to a great fire in a dry forest.

He drew back the curtain and peeked outside.

“Nobody. Good.”

He opened the drapes up even further. There wasn’t as much to worry about when nobody was outside. Finally, he could feel like he wasn’t hiding something.

No matter what they did, the people in the Court were always hiding. Hiding from Fatalities. Hiding from their past. Or even from their doomed future. To be overlooked was a good thing. He watched a stream of water make its way through the cracks of the cobblestone streets like a giant maze. It winded to the left for a bit then changed course completely and took a sharp right.

What of memories? They are like those streets. Over time they fade with wear. Each stone also locked into place forever embracing new characters. If told right, a memory will carry on in the stories read generation after generation.

Both of these things, thoughts and memories, were so strong and so pliable at the same time. Brixton shuttered to think about the fragile position anyone would be in if they crossed with a Fatal.

The warmth of his house and the window seat soothed him and carried him out of his thoughts. This particular spot became his favorite area in the entire house to sit in spite of his mother’s requests not to do so. Pillows stuffed with feathers made this the place he could relax in his tattered WWI army jacket and read.

Sonu, Brixton’s mom, bought it for his birthday two years ago. He hadn’t taken it off in the apartment since. Only when he went outside did he leave it hanging on the coat rack. As soon as Brixton came back in, though, he wrapped the history around him again. Some of the pockets had holes, but he didn’t mind. He liked to imagine that a soldier wore the fabric out in it from heavy grenades.

His hair fell on the collar of the jacket just enough to cover it. At one point, his hair was a light blonde. Each year it lost its yellow hue and turned more to a hazelnut brown. He could barely see the blonde anymore. He swiped his bangs across his face. That part was annoying about having long hair. He was constantly pushing it out of his eyes. On some days it felt like he had a constant twitch.

Maybe I’m the exception to aging. Instead of getting lighter and turning gray, my hair will be like a raven’s feathers by the time it finishes getting darker.

“Be jealous ladies,” Brixton said to nobody in particular.

Although a haircut sounded good, Brixton chose to keep it. Other boys his age grew their hair out. He wasn’t one to follow in pursuit of the latest fashion trends but with the hair, girls swooned all over the other guys on a daily basis. Of course they were better looking. Brixton liked to think of himself as an average teenage boy with glasses and a medium-build body.

At least I’m not too skinny like some of the other guys. He thought. I’ve got some definition. He flexed in the reflection from the window.

“I could definitely be a soldier.”

He kicked off his worn out shoe and lifted up the inside sole of it. A penny flipped out into his hand.

“What do you think? Am I destined to be a big “war hero”?”

The penny given to him at birth said 1880. 1880? Eh, an okay year from what he read in history books. Not that he could find anyway. The only thing of particular interest was the place he was named after. His mom found a city in the same history books and named him after a district in London.

Nothing much happened in Brixton. Electric Avenue turned into the first market street to beam electricity to the area in 1880. Sonu told him that one day he too would bring light back to the world. She probably said this out of electricity deprivation. They hadn’t had the convenience of a light switch since he was a baby. Everywhere else did. But not Sonu. She said it would bring too much attention to them. That and she refused to support anything that had to do with the Fatalities. Since they owned the electric company, the gas company, the water plant and everything else in the Court, he and his mother had to resort to doing things that she liked to call, “the old fashioned way”.

He imagined some sort of superhero there to save the day. “I am here to bring light into the world!” Superheroes paraded around in his imagination all the time when he was smaller. He defeated the powerful Fatals and ended the madness for all.

As a teenager, his world remained the same boring place. The superheroes were replaced with reality. He knew superheroes never even existed. They didn’t even live remotely close to England anyway. Why did she name him after a place she never traveled to?

Nevertheless, he kept the penny safe in a hidden compartment in the sole of his shoe.

I wish my penny could be just thirty years older, Brixton thought. I could really make a difference with a penny like that.

War fascinated him. Maybe because there hadn’t been a full out battle for a couple of decades. Some uprisings here and there but not to the extent of tanks, armor and the good stuff he liked. The Fatalities’ idea to end all conflicts actually worked.

They became the first form of government to gain world domination. Complete control took close to ten years to accomplish; the United States being the last to agree. Since they were the last, immigrants poured into the country. Brixton imagined millions of refugees crashing onto the shore; just one solid wave of nothing but desperate people.

Of course, the idea sounded good at the time; everybody flees to the last place standing. What they didn’t predict was that as soon as the States did convert, they quickly became the central command station for the entirety of the Fatality system. It was their idea to take over all businesses. Grocery stores, gas stations, electric companies were all owned by the government. They knew what a citizen was doing before they did it.

To give the Fatality system credit, the initial idea seemed quite logical. If the world was all under one roof of governmental control then they would all be the same. There would be no fighting about differences. A dispute free life came with a heavy price though. To gain freedom from war meant to lose freedom from life.

Two tanks occupied his street at that very moment. One sat on one end of the street while the other stationed itself at the opposite end. Day in and day out those tanks perched like vultures waiting to exterminate anything that wandered into its path.

“Please find somewhere else to read, Brix. I hate it when you read in the window like this. It brings –“

“Too much attention to our house,” Brixton finished for her in his best motherly voice. “Someone will see you. You know how nervous it makes me.” Mom, you worry entirely too much.”

Brixton chuckled. She said things like this too many times during the day for him to count. Plus entirely was a new word he had picked up that week. Alone, it ranked as a weak adverb, but it felt like the perfect word to try with his mom.

Sonu was a small, petite woman. He couldn’t figure out how she had been able to have him. Her tiny frame could’ve snapped in half trying to carry around a baby all day. No matter what she ate, she stayed the same for as long as he could remember. Her hair had faded some, but still glowed a soft honey-brown in the sun. She wore it down during the day. Not once did she cut it shorter than the middle of her back. One time the hairdresser did just that and she cried for days. She actually cried. Over hair. Although ridiculous, he agreed. She did look different with shorter hair. Even though it was still long compared to other people’s.

Where she lacked in height and size, she made up for in mind and spirit. She stayed strong when citizens were asked to conform and pay for the power. She refused to buy food from the government run stores. On the roof of their house, Sonu grew her own garden. She became good at it too; so good that she actually sold half of the extras to close acquaintances and neighbors. Any remainders that she didn’t use for the night’s dinner, she snuck down to the docks and gave to the people who needed it more than they did. Brixton hated the kale and ginger anyway so he was thrilled to see it go.

Everyone spoke of her beauty and strong heart too. It was at night though that Brixton admired his mother the most. She wore a loose braid to keep the hair out of her face while she worked on projects around the house. She was always rearranging or making some craft project that she swore would make the house better for whatever reason. For the most part, it did. Some projects turned out better than he would have expected with a piece of junk.

Once, Sonu found a tattered old suitcase and stuffed it with tufted fabric. She then added legs on the bottom for a rather conventional chair. It sat in the brightest corner of the room so she could gaze upon it from every location in the great, open living space.

That was the beauty in his mother no one else knew about. He could see the passion in her eyes and the ideas churning in her head. She still had the spark that so many people lost over the years of New Policy.

“Nice word, Brix, but that isn’t going to make me feel any better. Actually it scares me even more. Entirely,” she repeated under her breath as she brushed her hair out of her face.

“You’re so smart. One day your smarts are going to get you into a lot of trouble.”

She spoke with a frantic tone. He couldn’t help but picture her as a twisted rabbit that lost its hole. She polished pieces of furniture that hadn’t been touched in months. She beat pillows to give them a good fluff. She tugged on the drapes to close them up tight again. Then for extra precaution, clipped wood clothespins to the edges to make sure they would not open with even the slightest breeze from outside. The wind sometimes slipped through the poorly set windows causing the curtains to dance within the wind’s faint whispers.

Brixton thought she had lost it once she started moving the furniture around. Any other day this would be normal, but she had just done that two days ago.

She usually leaves it for a while; at least a month or two.

Sonu continued to dart about; always looking over her shoulder at the window. Every time she did, so did Brixton. He kept thinking something was behind him which made him feel nervous too.

“What are you doing? Are you expecting someone?”

No visitor ever stepped foot in their loft apartment. Sonu liked to keep things private. She did the visiting around the Court.

His mother continued as if she didn’t hear his question over the screeching of the couch on the hardwood floor.

“And – if you must know, ummf, I worry, uummf, because I’m a mother. I’m allowed to. It’s in the rule book right next to Kiss Your Child More Than Five Times a Day.” Sweat glimmered through on her already natural glowing face.

“That’s pushing it. I’m nineteen-years-old. Don’t you think that’s a little old? I’m pretty much old enough to kiss other girls who are not my mom.”

“You’re never too old to kiss your mother,” she said as she tugged on the bulky curtain for the second time.

“Mom! What are you doing?”

“This place has gone long enough without a good cleaning. I’m sick of living in this somber hole! It’s about time you started helping out around the house, too. What about school? Have you done your work?”

Brixton grew discombobulated with all the questions that were so random and all of the different topics. He put his arms out and shrugged his shoulders.

“It isn’t even that bad. If there isn’t enough light, why don’t we open these stupid things, then?” He opened the barricaded drapes.

“Don’t argue with me, Brixton Bex. Today is not the day.”

Sonu drew them closed again and secured them with even more clips. She never called him by his full name, Brixton Bex. Something was wrong.

Why so wound up? Had something happened she wasn’t telling him? Surely my own mother wouldn’t keep a secret from me.

“I’m going to the library. Make sure to lock the door behind me-”

“And don’t open it until you hear me knock,” he finished for her. Another thing Brixton heard more than he wanted to.

“Very cute. One time, Son. I’m telling ya. That mouth will get you into a hole you won’t be able to talk your way out of.”

“Wait,” Brixton stopped his mom before she shut the door. “The library? It’s pouring out there. We haven’t even finished the books we have here.”

With all the hustle, this idea had just occurred to him.

“Keep those. I’m just going to get a few more.”

“They must be important with the way you’re acting. Is there a certain Prince Charming in a fantasy book filled with romance and suspense that’s got you all flustered? Perhaps War and Peace for the hundredth time?”

“You don’t even know the meaning of flustered when it comes to love nor that book. But no there isn’t,” Sonu looked her son directly in the eyes before taking another step back toward him; leaving the door wide open. “Okay, I’ll be right back. Watch for me.”

She stepped again and hopped over the pile of books they were keeping and kissed her son gently on the head and tugged on his hair. It completely messed up any attempt for his rugged look he was going for.

“You need a haircut,” she said as she made it back to the open front door and slid the industrial metal frame shut. Brixton bolted all the locks and sauntered back to the window seat fixing his hair as he went.

This day spiraled into quite a peculiar one very quickly.

It’s gotta be the rain, he figured as he opened the curtain back up.

On dull and gloomy days like this, hardly anybody walked the streets. Beggars even tucked away. It also meant the Fatalities weren’t on duty. They were too lazy when the weather turned bad. There was no need to keep their home on such a locked downstate.

The empty streets looked and felt relaxing. They actually made the Court look somewhat normal for a change. Even the tanks faded into the gray buildings and fog accumulated between them.

The dreary scene reminded him of some sort of fantasy world where the Court rested on a cloud and monster tanks blew smoke from underneath. Its entire people, demolished. Only a few survivors remained hidden within the shadows and safety of the buildings.

“Man, you have a weird imagination,” he said to himself as he shook his head back into reality.

He looked down at the book in his hands. Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. He had already read it twice but repeated it every now and again on days like this when it rained.

“Each story has a purpose, Brix,” Sonu told him the first time he read it. For herself, she took out War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy and grazed the cover lightly with her fingers.

“Once upon a time, we lived in a different world. Someday- it will be better again.” She brought the book close to her heart and held it tight. “Many battles were fought then, too; like in this story I always read. “Countries invaded other countries and forced them to live in ways that they didn’t want to. Although these are all just stories, they come from the author’s perspective of some event in their lives or the lives of others. But their lives and experiences on paper are nothing like the fall of our island and everywhere else. We aren’t the only ones in this world. Did you know that? Our entire nation fell as well as all other nations. The whole world handed itself over to the Fatalities.”

Brixton couldn’t help but think of WWII and the children that suffered then. Surely their lives were worse than his. If anybody suffered, it was them. He and his mother never had to go to the camps described in the hundreds of volumes he read. Then again they did live in a barricaded city, on an island, with no way to escape. He was surprised he could read stuff like that in the first place now that he thought about it.

The Fatalities didn’t want the people to learn about those things. The pain, the failure of domination, the “good guys” winning. They didn’t want children to read about anything, really. Hope and positive values that so many of the stories concluded with seemed to be the worst.

To prevent any ideas for uprisings and “good guys” winning, schools closed ten years ago. Brixton was among the lucky few that learned how to read before they shut it down for good. By not teaching children to read, the Fatalities gained more control. Eventually, the entire population would be uneducated and easier to handle. They figured an ignorant person wouldn’t understand any better life than their present state of living.

Even if he didn’t know how to read, Sonu probably would have taught him anyway. She still gave him lessons each day and it was nice to have somewhere to start besides at the beginning. He felt ahead of the curve when his mom created lessons of her own to teach him.

On one hand, Brixton felt lucky to still be learning. On the other, on some days, he didn’t see the point. Nobody else would care about the things he learned so why bother with it? It wasn’t like he could discuss it with anyone. That would just get him and whoever else that listened into trouble.

One of the few places Brixton felt safe consisted of the bolted doors in his own home. He liked his apartment. Sure, it was no mansion, but the exposed brick and plastered walls around the room suited him and his mother. What was it his mother called it? Eclectic meets New Century loft. They were far from the New Century. But that seemed to be the time she liked the most besides the Victorian era. The New Century was the first part of the two-thousands; before the big fall; before the Fatalities. Brixton couldn’t understand why anyone, even of that era, would want to live in a building that looked like it was falling apart.

Sonu didn’t see it like that though. She saw in the walls a time when people were happy. She loved the vastness of the room. Their entire apartment opened up to beams and rafters above the second floor.

During a history lesson, Brixton found his island, then his building. He lived in Nantucket. Massachusetts was the bigger chunk that neighbored it about thirty miles away. Their island was one of the last places to go under. He guessed it was because they were such a small island that they would be easy to control. The bigger cities became a bigger focus. New York, London, Paris, Mexico City, and so many more were the first to go.

A candle factory claimed the building they lived in at one point long ago. It later became a museum. Remnants of the museum still decorated the walls today. He was surprised at how the building and even the island still looked like it did back then in the photographs. His mom kept the carved whale teeth on the mantle above the fireplace.

“I love the history. Plus it livens up the place,” she said.

The island was small. Its area was close to 100 square miles. It seemed even smaller knowing that no matter what they did, they would never be able to leave. That was part of the system. Nobody came in and nobody left. The one bridge that connected Nantucket and Massachusetts stayed heavily guarded round the clock. A giant gate blocked the way and two guardhouses planted themselves on both sides. Spotlights dotted the entire 30-mile stretch. From afar, it looked like a single white line that disappeared over the horizon. Brixton thought about what it would look like from space and how many other lines like this connected other islands to the mainland.

He opened his book for the third time. He figured, an hour for every two chapters, his mom should be back in three chapters; an hour and a half.

On a good day, he could sprint to the library and back in eight minutes. It wasn’t far at all. Three blocks down, turn right, and then there it was.

The library took up the entire block. Its statuesque appearance made it stand tall like some Greek structure. The whole thing was white. Even the brick wall around the front was made out of white bricks that the citizens repainted every year in the spring. The library was one of the only buildings the Court’s citizens took pride in. They held mini celebrations and fed whoever volunteered to help paint and clean the outside of the building. Sonu and Brixton helped every year by bringing extra paintbrushes and fresh sprigs of parsley for the buffet tables. He read once that the building next door to it used to be a children’s library. He must have known those went together at some time since they looked so much alike. The building was now a public mess hall for families who needed extra meals. Nobody went there though. It made for an easy target with the Fatals.

The Fatalities’ main quarter positioned itself directly in between their apartment and the right-turn to the library. If Brixton ran by and they were outside, guaranteed one of them would stop him.

“What’s the rush? Are you running from someone?” They would ask.

Every time allotted the same questions which in turn, the individual in question responded with the same nervous answers. The same laughs of conquering poured out of their wretched, crooked smiles along with slaps on the back by their fellow partners. He hated the humiliation. With that being said, he didn’t time himself much. He preferred to walk rather than go through all of that. The temptation haunted him every time a day like this came about.

Today would be a good day to time. I bet I could get under eight. I bet I could get less than that.

His legs itched to be set free from the confinement of the apartment. If it weren’t for his promise to stay put, he would have done it. Instead, he took a deep sigh and began to read.

The rain tapped against the window like the ticking of a distorted clock. One tick then two ticks back to back. Its irregular pattern soothed his desire to go outside. He felt its relaxing ticks take over him and soon enough he forgot about the time.

Chapter ten had just come into view when heavy footsteps echoed in the empty hallway just outside the sliding door. A wave of sound like bombs exploding accompanied the increasing running stride. As Brixton neared the front door, so did the stomping. Chills fizzed up and down his spine. The most terrifying thought he could ever think came into view.

Fatalities. They’re coming for me. My mother is still at the library. Wait. What if they caught her first? How long has it been? What if they already killed her?

Brixton’s heart sank into his stomach. He didn’t know which was louder, the pounding in his head or the pounding in the hallway. Both expanded to immeasurable heights. More echoes bounced off the walls making them screech with agony. They were so old and could crumble if shook just right.

In that brief moment, he concluded that any slight chance of running away came to a halt when the running ceased. Panting hovered at his front door. The hallway still echoed with disturbance.

His mind fell into sudden obscurity. He knew in a matter of seconds his life would be over. But then again what reason was there to live anymore? His mother was probably dead. She was all he had. A lump welled up in his throat. He swallowed hard.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Pounds on the door jolted Brixton back into the living room and to the front door pulsing with rage. The door handle jiggled in frenzy. Too afraid to open it, he squinted and looked through the peephole.