Lights Out

I was born into a world without electricity. I am sixteen years old. I am also dying.

My name is Anastasia Irina Smirnova, but everyone calls me Ana. Twenty years ago, Chinese terrorists set off an electromagnetic pulse in the atmosphere above Saint Petersburg, Russia, where I was born. That was the day the lights went out. Everything electricity-based was immediately rendered useless. I have never known computers, airplanes, smart phones, refrigeration, air conditioning, or clean hot water from a faucet; only through stories do I know of these things. I was born into the darkness.

We know that we were not alone in this situation. EMP pulses were detonated over Moscow, Western Europe, parts of the United States, Australia, and Asia. Shielded radios and morse code were used to connect with others in the dark. The United Nations, NATO, any peace-keeping or aid provision installations were rendered useless in a matter of hours. The world never saw it coming, was not prepared for it, and billions have died as a result.

Papa reminisces about a time when you could drive to a store and buy ready-made food, filtered bottled water, and clothing off a rack. You could log onto a computer and order a pizza, hot and ready to eat, delivered to your home. Vehicles still litter the streets outside our apartment, immovable, their computer chips fried beyond repair. We struggle for food, clean water, even clothing.

This is the only life I know. Papa was a dentist, like my grandfather before him. Mama died giving birth to me. She had uterine cancer while pregnant with me and no one knew. Doctors and medicine are a finite resource and with no electricity or machines, there was no ultrasound that would have detected the cancer only five years earlier. While my older sister, Sonia, played midwife by candlelight with Papa, their skills were not enough to save Mama from exsanguinating. Sonia often recounts that I came into this world screaming but have been quiet ever since. Mama begged them to save me, to let her go. She gave her life for mine.

Besides my name, luminous green eyes, and lustrous brown hair I inherited from her, the only thing I have from Mama is a small silver locket fashioned with exquisite filigree. Sonia inherited her laugh, and, according to Papa, her quick wit, and clothing.

I have never been particularly feminine, always what you would call a tomboy. I would run around the neighborhood, in the alleyways of apartment buildings, racing the boys, the fleetest amongst our little gang. We used to roam the dirty streets looking for bicycle parts and stealing what food we could find from community gardens and farms. Not getting caught meant our family could eat that night. You had to be stealthy and clever. Getting caught bought a trip to the local militia base for punishment. Stealing food is considered a crime against everyone, the good of the people. For kids, the punishment might be a day or two in jail, depending on how long before their parents are notified and the severity of the theft. For adults, the crime is typically dealt with by hanging. Bullets are too expensive for a firing squad. I’ve never been caught.

Mama’s locket is the only feminine thing I own. It has her picture in it. I wear it every day, under my threadbare and faded shirts. If anyone on the street knew I had something so valuable, I would have been beaten, left for dead, and the only reminder of my mother stolen. Papa gave it to me on my twelfth birthday, reminding me how precious the gift is and the sacrifice she made so I could live.

I have typhoid fever. Without computers and sanitation plants, the water around Saint Petersburg has become infected with fecal matter, decomposing bodies, and other pollution. We have to boil our drinking water every day. I got sick when I scraped against a rusted car and then fell into a mud puddle while running with my friend Pyetor. We had just found a cache of a rival gang’s bike parts and needed to tell our leader, Viktor. The market for parts is lucrative and we couldn’t pass up the opportunity. It meant more food for our families, trade for tools and cloth.

Papa is in the kitchen, lighting a fire. He has a small porcelain crucible on the counter. I watch through a febrific haze. It is the dead of summer and the fever set in a few days ago. Sweat is running down my face, the crooks of my elbows and knees, but I shiver and curl deeper underneath the wool blanket. I am afraid. Sonia frowns at me, her brow furrowing with concern, while she spoon feeds me watered down broth. If I keep sweating like this, they will make me take another bath. I just had my summer bath a few weeks ago. I shiver at the thought of being immersed in cold water, harsh pumice soap being applied all over my body, the water becoming opaque with the dirt and grime of running the streets. I fought like a feral cat against bathing. I turn away from the proffered spoon, close my eyes, and descend back into the darkness....

I blink. I’m outside. The streets are empty, the rusting cars are gone. The pavement is intact and ready to be driven on. The emerald green light filtering through the leaves of trees that line the sidewalk is hurting my eyes. I can see the individual leaves with a clarity I’ve never known. A breeze plays across my face. I can smell flowers, their honeyed sweetness tantalizing my senses. The turquoise sky above has a few clouds, contrails from what I imagine are airplanes criss-crossing the cerulean expanse. The apartment buildings all have their windows, roofs, siding intact. This is not a world I recognize.

The sun moves across the sky with a rapidity I’ve never seen. Everything seems to move a million times faster. I watch the brilliant diamonds of stars begin to pop out of a darkening navy blue field from the roof of our home. I am a kid again, about eight years old. It’s now about two in the morning. I can feel Papa nearby, but he doesn’t say anything, I just feel his presence. He had woken me up a few minutes earlier. It is winter, but I don’t feel any cold. I just see the twinkling stars in the sky. I look around for him, pushing my wool hat out of my eyes, but I still don’t see him in the inkiness.

I feel - rather than hear - his voice in my head. I close my eyes, reveling in the reassurance of the timbre of his tones, the calmness comforting me. He was always a rock for me, an anchor to reality. When I had nightmares, I could rely on his strength and gentleness to pacify my mind back into sleeping. Now, though, his excitement is almost tangible.

I turn my eyes back to the sky, to where he’s pointing. Venus has risen and I am entranced by the steady glow of the green planet, a peridot-colored jewel on the black velvet of the sky. I wanted to visit that planet, until I learned it’s hostile atmosphere would kill me. How could something so small and beautiful be so deadly?

A ribbon of light flows through the sky. Curtains of light shimmer in my vision, captivating me with the beauty. Bright turquoise, indigo, violet, emerald, seafoam, jade, peacock blue, aqua, mint, sage, cornflower, sapphire, and teal dance across the sky above me. Up until this point in my life, I have had two favorite colors, blue and green. This spectacle, this wondrous stream of light, showed a conglomeration of the two colors into a fantastic blend I’ve never seen before. I was awestruck and overwhelmed.

“Aurora borealis, the Northern Lights,” Papa whispers into my ear. I cannot take my eyes off the show. I can barely breathe, the beauty is almost heartbreaking. Gratitude grows inside me. He woke me up to see this, not my sister, but me. I am thankful beyond words. Hot tears begin to trickle down my cheeks, but I don’t feel them in the winter cold. I wipe them away with my woolen mittens. “They were your Mama’s favorite, too.”

We stand on the roof for what seems like minutes, but it’s actually hours. My heart seems to expand with each new color I experience, creating a color palette I’ve never known before. Some I’ve seen in the onion domes of the buildings around the city. Others, I’ve seen in light filtering through stained glass remnants in broken windows. Others are from Mother Nature’s imagination and purely her own creation.

Eventually, the blended curtains of light fade away. Papa leads me back down to my bedroom, helps me take off my winter clothes, and I climb back into bed. The light of predawn was beginning to brighten the sky.

Have you ever gone to bed one night, thinking life is uncomplicated and simple, then wake up the next day feeling like your life somehow changed, is no longer as effortless and smooth as it once was? That’s how I felt. I went to bed one night knowing I had two simple favorite colors; I woke up the next day knowing I now had thousands of favorite colors. My heart and mind filled with them all the time since that night. In a world of gray and brown, these colors kept my soul alive and dancing like those curtains of light.

I feel those glowing lights slowly fading. I know if I don’t get help soon, they will be extinguished forever. A tremendous sadness at the loss of such beauty courses through me. Papa stands over me, his hand goes to my forehead. He knows what is wrong and is almost powerless to help fix it.

He turns to my sister who is standing behind him, her arms crossed in concern. Sonia’s been taking care of me since I laid down with this fever. Papa nods at her and she knows what to do. I know what she needs to do as well, but it is breaking my heart.

I feel her cool hands on my forehead. I close my eyes, tears welling in them, silently slipping down my cheeks. Her hands move down to my throat, fishing under my sweat-soaked shirt. I can feel the delicate chain of Mama’s necklace scratch against my neck. Sonia moves the delicate chain, finding the clasp, undoes it, and slips it from my neck. I open my eyes and look into hers. Under the deep cognac brown is a pain that touches her soul.

She gathers the heart-shaped silver locket into her hand, pooling the necklace into the palm. I grab her wrist.

“Please,” I sob.

She hands the locket back to me. I open it and peer at Mama’s tiny picture. Her elfen features, her kelly green eyes, the thick brunette hair, her incandescent smile that must have lit up any room she entered. I close the locket, running my thumb over the delicate filigree. I hand it back to Sonia and I cry uncontrollably.

She walks it to the kitchen and hands it to Papa. He opens the locket, uses a pair of tweezers to remove Mama’s picture. He places the locket in the red hot crucible that has been heating up. I can’t see it, but I know that the locket will soon be liquesced into a molten puddle of metal. Father will use the silver, refining it for purity to create antibiotics. Mama will have saved my life. Again. Until then, loss and numbness courses through me like a drug injected into my veins. I close my eyes once more and hope to wake up to a better day without the anguish building in my heart.