Inoculation

"Tra la la!"

A declaration to the emptiness. It wasn't empty if she could hear her own voice. She was fairly certain that was her own voice. Familiar.

The vestibule demanded cautious navigation in case her past self had left her a trap. Something lurking in the dark. A vicious shoe. A thoughtless bag.

She flipped the switch. Let's be having some light on the matter. Yes, a bag. Thoughtless. She touched her throat, an ancient observance to ward off evil.

So, a bag, eh? She prodded it with her foot. It wasn't empty.

I wonder?

A box in the bag. A shoe box. (Vicious.)

Bending was difficult, these decades. Why did she have to leave it down there? Couldn't she put it on one of the packing cases? Stupid old woman.

Oh. A box of faces. Mixed up, muddled up faces.

Another touch of the throat. A fleeting moment of recognition. Tra la la.

She took the box to the chair. Sat heavily, and waited, with her empty faces. An hour. A week. A year.

Helen came. She was not young. Not old. Like the rest of the Helens. White coat. Bag. A song about the sea, and her inoculation against death. No-one dies any more, dear. Remember? They won’t have it.

Touch.

Helen offered the second jab. Gosh, but it was expensive. Wasn’t it? Expensive? Houses used to cost that much, she was sure. Helen demurred. Helen could remember. Helen could afford to remember.

She had worked at one time. Back when people were born and loved and died. She had done something useful. She thought. Maybe something kind? Like a Helen. Or not like a Helen. Something kind. She couldn’t afford to remember, so the dose went back into the bag. For another day. Another life.

Helen talked some more. She was sure. Filled up the space with her words, for a while. Tra la la.

She once had a locket. A heart shaped locket she wore at her throat, tied on a ribbon. Not a pretty ribbon, but she liked its softness at her fingertips. One of the faces told her that one day she would keep one of the faces there, for always.

That was before, of course. And the faces faded and muddled and the locket remained empty.

Touch.

One day she sang a song of the sea. It ran down to the rocks far below her and gathered in pools and runnels. She could have taken herself in hand that day. Made a decision while she was still able. Before the faces changed.

I know. I know. Silly old woman. But, they didn’t know then. Well. Didn’t let themselves know. So instead she sent the locket into the spume.

It isn’t empty if it doesn’t exist.

She thought she may have bicycled home that day. The feel of the salt air whipping her hair. But of course that could have been the wind on the cliff. Or one of the Helens' memories, kindly given.

She wasn’t sure what she did now. You know. For money. (Hushed tones. She didn’t like to talk about it.) A Helen had told her once. Her work was something basic. Universal. She was a part of the very fabric of society. She hadn’t understood. She knew that. Silly old woman. Whatever it was she did, she did it while she wasn’t looking. It happened while she was out.

Everything happened while she was out. Boxes in bags on floors. Faces and chairs. Lockets. Waves.

Endless time out of mind.

It isn't empty if it doesn't exist.

Tra la la.