A Strange Dream

“You don’t understand, Tiana!” I fumble with the crumpled newspaper in my hand, eyes darting every which-way around the room. I don’t know what to do with the stench of urine and human waste, either. “But Jules--”

“No.” I cut her off, my voice more cold and dark than I expect it to be. “You don’t understand, you can’t understand. Your whole life has been fine, no ugly secret to constantly push behind, no poverty to fight, no lack of family! My whole life, Tiana, my whole life has been about concealing my uncle’s treachery--which I can only tell you about now cause heaven knows when we are going to get out of this stinking, rat-infested embarrassment of a place.” I mentally facepalm--hard--for not using a stronger word in my anger before continuing. “It’s been about paying the bills, burning every scrap of wood left, every piece of fabric we can spare. It’s about digging through garbage, Tiana--garbage--and then throwing together the stuff in a disgusting, slippery mush that you will probably vomit the next morning, but hey, at least it’s something!” I smirk sarcastically. “Tell me, when have you ever in your whole life wanted for something? When have you felt what it’s like to be here? Ever had family members drop like flies in your home, perhaps? Or possibly seen a grown man hack off the head of his dead dog to cook the body?” 

I watch as Tiana’s eyes grew wide with my rant, relishing the distaste and paleness that registers on her face. Good. She should be shocked. Because it would be truly disgusting to watch her turn up her nose at all I have said like the rest of her kind do. They don’t care about what we ‘feel.’ We’re like animals to them. Same skin color, even. Some of us went to the same academies as her current university classmates and they spit on us when we pass by. The lot of us are slaves. But we’re lucky not to have our eyes gouged out or limbs cut off. Every once and a while you’ll see someone with their tongue cut out, but that’s only for ‘special offense.’ Ha. Like there’s even more than a fine line between existing and ‘offending’ these Crespian citizens. That’s what this place is called. This wretched country, it’s idiotic ruling government. Half our history is buried and marred. An officer sees you singing some harmless bedtime song handed down for generations? You’re lucky if you last the day. 

But Tiana doesn’t know what it’s like, slaving day and night for meager scraps of food or clothing. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her hair this greasy and her face without makeup. After bombs attacked their precious city, all of us--the servants--were corralled down her in old sewer tunnels with the unfortunate passer-by who just happened to be lucky enough to get swept up in the crowd. Although maybe I should give her a little credit, since she does seem to try to empathize or sympathize. But being my ‘mistress,’ there’s really no use. 

The newspaper that I have balled up in my hand is of little to no significance to people like Tiana who have no lack of anything. I believe it was a paper left on the sidewalk a few days ago when I found it this morning. I can’t tell, though, because I can’t read. I doubt there’s anything of real importance on it, though. If it had anything to do with the war, then surely we would not be trapped here in the sewers, crammed in this relatively tiny section with thirty other unfortunate creatures. I also doubt the authorities thought twice about where they should stow us, if indeed it really were a priority to keep us alive. Either way, I, along with the other twenty or so slaves--or servants, which terminology do you like better?--see this slightly damp and fish-smelling paper as fuel for fire. Just a spark could do wonders. 

I leave Tiana to herself, not really caring about the way my words might have sounded to her. Yes, I was harsh. But really, how else would she see? 

A small voice in my head peeps up and asks, See what? 

What do I want her to see? I want her to see the miserable condition human beings have been kept in for the last--who knows how many years? Certainly not us, our generation never went to the academies. And those that did from our parents’ time were killed off because they didn’t ‘want us thinking.’ It’s ridiculous and barbaric. Most of us are thirty years or younger. I myself am only sixteen, but the whispers I have heard from the older ones suggest that we were not always this way. I can believe that. So why did we fall? What brought us down so low as to think every life so utterly expendable that we don’t give a second thought to what we say or do?

Somewhere, deep in my heart, whispers of love and friendship and even romance haunt me. But all of those things are alien. Slaves don’t have friends, they don’t have family. They don’t know how to love and how to feel. Something goes wrong? It’s our fault. A little girl’s birthday party gets crashed by someone blaring loud music from across the park? Execute the slave that turned it on. In front of the little girl’s eyes. A hurricane sweeps through a desolate village and tears up a barn that has an abandoned, half-dead cow that some little boy sympathizes with? Off with their head!

A click of a trigger, the silent slash of a knife, or a quick suffocation is a small price to pay for riches. No, no one in this wretched place will ever get out of this cycle of abuse and torment. We don’t get any pleasures such as the skip of a heartbeat when we hear someone's voice. We don’t get the comfort of feeling someone else’s arms around us or even the much sought-after touch of a hand. Tiana my mistress will never understand how much of a living hell she has made my life. 

Just then the ground rumbles and a deafening crash above our heads knocks some of us over. “Bombs!” Some people cry out while waving their arms wildly and run feral into walls. I guess after years of being treated like animals, we have become them. 

What hope is there for humanity? What is so worth saving?

Being dramatic always was my strong suit, but this is a real question and I take time to dwell on it. A voice in my heart whispers, “Love.” Ha. Tell me what love again? The kind that kills for sport? Yeah, I thought so. There is nothing worth saving. Let the radicals bomb us and burn us, pile up our carcasses and feed them to their dogs. I don’t care anymore. In a sudden impulse, I turn away from the wall and yell at the top of my lungs like a lunatic, “LET THEM COME!” 

Silence. 

All eyes are on me, but I am not intimidated. I am not ashamed--the idealistic spotlight is mine, and yeah, it’s totally real. “Let them come!” I repeat, this time a little more controlled. “Let them kill us--what good is our life anyway? What good are we to them,” I gesture to the roof, to the probably half-demolished city above us. Then another though enters my mind. One that lights a tiny spark of hope. Crazy and adrenaline-stocked as I am, I don’t let people say another word before I burst again, “What if they’re on the right side? What if they don’t think we are animals? Ha! Yelling this to you all makes me feel like one--I don’t even have control of my body!” I cry, letting an arm almost wack someone in the face, earning a laugh from the crowd and a few grim smiles from others. “What can we do to help them? I propose we find a way to break outta here--this is our chance to show them what it’s like. This is our chance to fight back!” 

“Ayyyy”s and “Huzzah”s erupt in the cheering crowd. Slowly the choir of voices begin to chant low, 

Watch out, city-dwellers; watch your step 

See we are the fortune-tellers

We’ll predict your doom, your doom draws nigh

But don’t hold your breath, ‘cause you’re all going to die!

The chanting is molded into a steady rhythm, and the voices grow louder, but this time they sound like children and they call my name…

“JULIA!” My two brothers shout in my ear. My hand wacks their face in greeting. I sit up straight, breathless from the weird complexity and...simplicity of my dream. \

It’s not real. 

Thank the Lord for that. I was like...it reminded me almost of the Hunger Games...but a different sort of cold fear--leftover from my dream--still has me sitting rigid and upright as a statue. “Julia! Julia!”

“What?” I groggily demand, rubbing my eyes and shaking off the shock of waking. 

“Lila is here.” 

I stare at my brother straight in the face. He’s smiling mischievously, but the other one is already calling from the hall, “Come on, Lila, she’s awake!” 

I throw the tangled covers off of myself and leap to my dresser--nearly resulting in a national emergency. I stare at my face and groan. I can’t see Lila like this! Spinning quickly around and almost trampling a brother to get to the bathroom to wash my face, I overhear a little conversation. “Did she fall for it?” Mikey, the younger one giggled. “Like stealing candy from a baby,” was Alex’s ‘oh so smart,’ ten-year-old, smart alec response. I shove the door open in frustration, ready to splash them with a handful of water, but the little guilty expressions they wear make me think of something far worse. They look up at me in surprise, feigning innocence. “I’m getting back at you two.”

“Oh, you do that.”

I chuckle to myself. Oh, if only they knew what pranks I learned at Rachel’s house last summer...