Avital's Hope

Monday, March 23: I awoke a little past dawn this morning, and the commander seemed a bit irritated with my indolence. His harshness has dulled lately, though – he even let Marcus off duty early yesterday when he wasn’t feeling well. Officially, he should have been sent to the infirmary, where the nurse on duty normally deems you competent to continue your shift. He even slipped Marcus some of the fresh, clean, bottled water provisions that are normally reserved for the officials.

The other week, Maria had told Commander Ward about my trading books with Avital (that little snitch) and I still haven’t received a punishment – or even a warning. Even though they officially banned books that aren’t approved by management (which means only a handful of books on the history of BrighamOil or that speak of the “wonders” of the new frontier), the commander has glossed over my illicit dealings in banned books. Anyways, why should I care about the curiosities and wonders of the new frontier those books speak of, the new frontier, of which I will never be permitted to go? Even Commander Ward – who voluntarily enlisted to manage Travailton quite some time before commitment to a town became a necessity for survival – has not been permitted to visit the new frontier yet.

I was moved to the pharmacy, though, which means I don’t have to endure hard labor anymore now. It’s quite a bore, because hardly anyone comes by. Who could normally afford the goods we sell in there on our paltry wages? Mostly just the black-marketeers and a few of the officials. I’ve taken to sneaking in pens and paper so I can write my letters behind the counter; I just have to keep an eye out for Ward and the other officers, but the marketeers who account for most of our customers could care less whether I’m slacking on duty or not.

Thursday, March 26: I hate that we have to drink that filthy water. With all the talk of the bounty and wonders of the new frontier, they can’t send us enough water for us workers? They barely send enough provisions for the officials. The rest of us are faced daily with that copper-colored liquid that hardly tastes like water anymore. It’s probably why the town is sick all of the time. It’s probably why Mama and Tom had succumbed so soon, back in the early days.

They left us here to die, I think. Work, and then die. If the labor doesn’t kill you, then the conditions will. That is, if the hopelessness and dread doesn’t sink in first, convince you to take the only way out us workers have.

They’ve been poisoning the air and the water for over a century – they’ve must’ve known about it for almost as long. Now that anyone who is anyone has left – gone to the new frontier, space – they make their workers continue to manufacture the toxins at even higher rates now that they don’t have to worry about its effects themselves. It’s accumulated so fast in the last few years, who knows when earth will become outright uninhabitable?

They make us manufacture those poisons, dump the remnants in our bodies of waters or in landfills so we can drink it or breathe it – it’s like we’re committing a slow suicide. But what other options are there?

Friday, March 27: Today, Anthony was shuffled off to the Commanders’ Quarter: a large, grim building that overlooks the town, and houses commanding officers far more terrifying than Ward. Rumor has it that Commander Ward was too gentle in issuing a sentence for Anthony, so he was taken down to the Quarter to face the ruthless officers that spend their days hidden in that fortress.

Anthony was to be guarding the provisions today, but it seems he let his conscious get the better of him: he let a dozen or so workers slip past him to confiscate whatever they could carry. Clean, bottled water has been circulating through the town’s workers today. Even in their own desperation, other workers will make sure to share their spoils with their kin, while the officers and the management just watch us wither away.

Tuesday, March 31: I wrote letters to Leanna and Edwardo today. I miss how simple it was to see them in our youths, before all of these corporate towns put up their borders. Now you have to get permission from your town’s commanders, and make it through the checkpoints.

Of course, every marketeer scouring the pharmacy saw me writing, and offered to carry my letters – for a price. But I always send my letters through George; as long as business is good for him, he’ll throw some of his findings over to Avital. Avital is something of a marketeer herself, but small-time. Mostly, the two of us take pleasure in scrounging up banned books for reading and empty diaries for writing – and of course the occasional candies. Not to say there aren’t plenty of candies available to us normally, but the stolen ones from the provisions are made with clean water, which makes the illicit ones taste extraordinary.

Sunday, April 5: I took my letters to George today, who offloaded a small stack of books on me. He said that Avital never showed for their usual meeting on Thursday to collect them. I didn’t have a chance to reach her cottage before curfew, so I’ll have to awake before dawn to check on her before I head off to the pharmacy for my shift. The flu has been making its rounds through the town, so perhaps she has been bedridden.

Monday, April 6: Avital is missing. I went to her cottage this morning on the edge of town, and there was no sign of her. Not sure what to do, I got up the nerve to approach Commander Ward. He knew nothing of her whereabouts, only that she hadn’t shown up for her last two shifts at the rig, and she would undoubtedly be in trouble when she was located.

On her bed was her locket. A graceful silver creature, heart-shaped, that sat over her collarbone every single day. She never took it off, and despite being willing to sell or trade just about anything these days, she held steadfast that she would never dare sell this locket. I knew that it must be significant to her, but she never told me where it came from. I snatched the locket off of the bed and slipped it around my neck, tucking it into my shirt. Then I fell to my knees and wept. The only person I had left. My dear Avital. Where is she?

Wednesday, April 8: Frank, my superior at the pharmacy, let me stay home the past three days, once he had heard of Avital’s disappearance. He instructed me to stay inside and not mention it to anyone else; he wouldn’t report my absence.

So let me tell you of my last encounter with Avital, then. We were swapping our latest reads scavenged by George. There was nothing that brought us more joy than to talk of literature. It was our last vestige of our past lives, our one little pleasure. We made sure to leave notes and annotations in our books before we traded them with each other – it was like reading them together.

She got up to warm me some bread and soup for lunch; she had an unusually fanciful kitchen and some of the freshest produce of any of the workers. I got the sense that she put all of her profits from marketeering into her culinary fascinations. Her cottage was just that, the usual drab architecture commonplace in our little corporate towns – aside from her unusually robust kitchen – but she had a way of making the place feel warm. It was a home, not simply a place to recoup for the next shift.

“George says there’s a small community on that little island off the shore,” she had started, “he says he can try to sneak us onto a cargo ship that will stop on the island, for a price. That is, if we want to take the risk. There’s probably no coming back, if it doesn’t work out.” I was surprised: Avital normally considered her small-time marketeering to be the most dangerous affairs she would dare engage in. Now, she was suggesting we flee to an island, with people who may be hospitable to us? “There’s nothing left for us here, we’re better off venturing to this island, seeing if it has any potential for us,” she continued, “I don’t think I can stay here any longer. Watch them poison us, profit off of us. They control every moment of our lives. And what have we ever gotten in return?”

She was right. The setup of these towns is such that we work for whichever corporation owns that town. They provide us with shelter and some semblance of food and water, but our wages are scarce. And, of course, they own all of the stores in town. Your employer, of course, is off in the new frontier with anyone else who matters. They receive all of the prosperity from our work, and leave us here. Those who serve faithfully as officers, keeping order and efficiency in the towns for management, are bribed with the promise of spending their retirement in the new frontier.

But to flee, to a place we knew nothing about? Would that be any better? But Avital seemed to have already made her decision, and how could I watch her go without me?

She leaned over to hand me my soup, brushing my hair out of my face and letting her fingers linger on my cheek. Her own hair dripped down her face like honey, and I thought she would kiss me. Instead, she sat down beside me, and we imagined together what it would be like to press our feet into the sand, relax on the island.

That locket graced her neck like always, and she seemed genuinely happy – an occurrence that was becoming rarer these days. Morale is shifting. A wave of suicides gripped our town, and rather than holding out hope for revolution, everyone around us seems to be giving up. But a smile graced her face that afternoon, her eyes alight with hope, with contentment.

We lied on her couch the rest of the afternoon, her face nuzzled into my breastbone. We talked of literature, and of the possibility of life on the island. We had no idea what lie beyond our shore anymore, but we were lulled by our imaginations of the possibilities. A new hope pulsed through us that afternoon.

Thursday, April 23: Avital is still missing. I opened up one of her last books, and in it, she had left me a letter. She told me that if anything were to happen to her, I should dig up the soil underneath her front window. There, I found stacks of cash. Her letter ended by telling me she would be dancing in the sand with me, if she could. That we would spend the rest of our days happy, together. And with that, I made my decision.

Tomorrow, I will ask George to arrange my escape. Whatever awaits on that island, I will feel her soul alive in the crashing waves. Her heart is in that locket, gnawing away at mine, telling me to leave this place behind. Begging me to pursue her aspirations on her behalf.