New Normal

Part 1

October 16th, 2019

Pop. My mother swiftly snatched two slices of toast out from the toaster; the kitchen smelled divine. She wasn’t usually as anal about breakfast preparation as she was this morning, but, my father was home later than usual today and would be joining us at the table so, it must be perfect. I understood. My father is a very important man. He is a state senator. Strong. Powerful. Maybe a little abrasive, but he always knew what to do in time of need. He was the voice of reason and a trustworthy one at that.

“Your letter from Stanford is here!” my father shuffled to me. Eager. He kissed me on the head and handed me the letter as he sat next to me.

I bent the letter between my fingers. It took me escaping my own mind to realize the entire kitchen fell silent. My mother had stopped cooking and was standing next to my father with an apprehensive smile. His arm around her waist. He looked more confident than I felt. I held my breath as I opened it.

“Dear Claire,” I swallowed, “as tribute to your extraordinary achievements as a student and scholar, it gives me great pleasure to inform you that–” I had not even finished reading when my father hollered with joy, my mother ran to my side and wrapped her arms around me. Tears filled my eyes; I did it. I eagerly scan the letter until I’d seen it: pre-law. I had been accepted into my first choice program and accepted as early admission at that.

“I’m assuming you didn’t receive an admission letter from Stanford as a photography major.” Poppy sighed in controversial disappointment. I knew not in the program I had been accepted into, or lack thereof, or this prestigious college as much as her older sister’s ability to overtly conform. I had barely noticed she was at the table with us.

“Pre-law,” I turned the letter out towards her and flashed a shy smile. My reply made my parents even more excited. Wow. I knew you’d do it, kiddo. What did I tell you. She’s so brilliant. My fathers eyes lit up the whole room. I was proud but also wished Poppy would not have mentioned anything photography related. Honestly, it was an old dream of mine. Maybe at twelve I as well would have viewed it as more than a hobby. Pre-law was good for me. I could benefit from the advice my father would provide to me from when he was pre-law at Stanford.

Of course, my parents ignored Poppy. But I studied her. She had black eyeliner appearing to be perfectly smeared under her eyes and since it was just after 7am, I figured it was her way of appearing intentionally unintentional. She was making a statement, as usual. Her hair was still choppy and growing in. She had dyed the ends of her blonde hair blue at a friend's house a few months back. My father was disapproving and advised my mother to bring her to a salon to revert it back to the light golden blonde it had been. This was a battle my little sister was not prepared to lose. Later on that night she defiantly chopped off her hair and threw its remains at our feet as we watched a movie. No one mentioned it then and we all just ignore it now.

I grabbed my school bag by the front door as we all prepared to go about our day. I slow as I pass Roman’s high school graduation photo hanging near the stairs. The light coming from our house’s many windows was bouncing off his smile in just the right way. Almost as though he was still here with us.

“I did it.” I whispered to him. I wondered how I would feel in the fall when I left for college, knowing that he never did. Or even how I would feel this summer. The summer that I would finally be older than my older brother.

“By this time next year,” my father put his hand on my shoulder, pulling me from my trance, “you will be a Stanford University freshman studying pre-law. My God, Claire. I am so proud of you.” I smiled and walked out the door with him. I have a feeling I will remember this moment forever.

October 16th, 2020

I woke up another day. It was getting harder and harder to determine what it was that disrupted my slumber. Crying. Coughing. My stomach, begging for something to eat. Maybe the generator? It didn’t matter anyway. There was no end to this new normal in sight. I started my day as usual; walking through the halls. I had always hoped it would give me some feasible sense of hope, but it only ever seemed to cause more dread. Each day the hallway seemed to get narrower, like the walls were trying to squeeze us out of that building themselves. I watched the water which coated them. They smelled of mold and stale air. I could see my breath. We were trying to conserve energy before winter. It didn’t matter, my body felt hot. I walked towards the cafeteria, certain there would be nothing but scraps to eat. I paused before entering, glaring at the barricaded double doors that men routinely guarded. I always hoped the sunlight might reach me. It never did. It's been just about a year, I suppose, since direct sunlight has touched any of our skin. We ached for it. Yet, we should be grateful, we were the lucky ones. The survivors. I took a deep breath before entering, cautious not to look too tired. Tired of this place. I reminded myself of how good I got it here compared to the others around me and all the special treatment I received within these walls. And I guess even outside these walls, before all this. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the heavy wet coughs from within, I pushed on the door, careful not to touch them for too long, and advanced inside. This has become a routine of mine for what feels like eternity.

October 16th, 2021

I cannot sleep. I tense my muscles tightly to generate some heat. The air was brisk, fresh. I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not. My lungs filled with cold calm air while my nostrils filled with the smell of old rain. I can hear an eerie creak from the old rustic windmill just outside the barn. It sounded like the noise one would hear in a horror movie, right before something terrible would happen. I pushed this thought out of my mind. Stay focused, you haven't even seen a movie in two years. I thought, you’re probably just hungry. This has been a very compulsive excuse I used to myself while trying to convince myself that I was probably overreacting, even though logically, I knew I wasn’t. I tried to cover myself with the hay in the corner of the barn I was lying in. Keep me warm, help me hide if I happen to get any unwanted visitors. I could almost hear them outside, the others. I pushed the air out of my lungs hard until I was almost certain they would collapse. My body letting out an involuntary shiver. I clutched Poppy’s journal to my chest. A glaring reminder of why I am here in the first place. I began to feel sick. Everything felt so open. I felt so exposed. Again, not sure if I liked it. Although I knew in the back of my mind, I craved it. The darkness. The silence. The only exception was of the white light from the moon fighting its way through the broken panels of the barn’s old roof, like a laser. Every so often I look up at the silhouette resting on one of the beams. A barn owl. He cried out. I wish I could thank him for keeping me company tonight. I thought back to when I was still in high school, when everything was simple and good. I sat three rows back in Mr. Macrovitch’s urban legends class the day he discussed owl folklore and superstitions. I stared out the window on that sunny day, bored and ungrateful. I had already received my admission letter to Stanford so I didn’t see the point in appearing like I was paying attention, just to appease him. I would give anything to go back to that moment.

I tried to think back to that day and to what Mr. Marcovitch had written on the black board and the exam I precedingly studied for that would never happen. Wisdom and transformation, I believe. Or was it shapeshifting? I couldn’t remember. I hoped that I was making a wise decision. Then I remembered that owls also symbolized death approaching and the spiritual bridge between the living and the departed. I tried not to think about the death part but played on the possibility of me becoming the bridge between the living and the afterlife once I made it to the underpass. I stared blankly down at my sister’s journal. I felt queasy again. I pushed the thought aside to make room for another. Messengers. I whispered this aloud, unable to restrain myself. I jumped at the sound of my own voice suddenly laying as still as a statue wide-eyed at the barn door half expecting one of the others to have heard my voice also and to come barging in after me.

Inhale. Exhale.

Messenger, I repeated, only mouthing the word this time. If nothing else, I sure as hell knew I was that.

October 31st, 2019

2:09 pm. I tapped my pencil on my notebook. Twenty-one more minutes. Usually I liked Mr. Macrovitch’s urban legend class and a week ago I would have thought that I would have enjoyed it more considering it's Halloween. But all I could think of now is that it's last period… and it's Halloween. My last Halloween in high school. I usually didn’t do much but walk Poppy and her friends around our neighborhood. I had always heard that this holiday was better once you got to college so I thought I’d wait. This year would be different though. The girls on my team had convinced me to go with them to Ryan Keller’s party. We had our costumes picked out and everything. I texted my father in the bathroom before this class reminding him of it. He told me Monday that he would let me know if I could go.

I stared out the window and let the sun dance across my face. Mr. Macrovitch was still carrying on about what he had scratched on the black board ten minutes ago. I looked down at my notes.

Owls in Mythology and Culture

Ancient Greek: Athena’s (Goddess of Wisdom) Little Owl “Athene noctua”. The owl's night vision is acquired by its magical “inner light”. Owls symbolize protection during war.

Ancient Rome: A dead owl nailed to a door averted the evil it had once brought. To hear an owl hoot meant death, to dream of an owl meant bad luck i.e. robbery, shipwreck, loss during war, etc.,

English: Barn owl symbolized the “bird of doom”, yet can ward off evil if nailed to a barn door. Can predict the weather. Seen as good luck by northern England. Its eggs, if given to children, can steer them away from “a life of drunkness” as adults.

American Indian: strong link between owls and the supernatural, transformation and rebirth, spiritual fortune telling.

Northern Japan (Ainu):: Owl’s are viewed as the messengers of God or a divine ancestor. The owl warned of danger and protected against famine.

I shook my head at my notebook and sighed. How would this help me in Stanford? I spent the rest of the time in his class trying to come up with a situation where I could ever possibly benefit from knowing owl mythology and folklore.

As eager as I was for the class to end, I was the last to leave the classroom once the bell rang. Getting to my locker, I carefully filed through the books and papers I needed to bring home with me and placed them in my bag. Chemistry notebook, precalculus textbook, philosophy study guide, girls soccer team bake sale flier, next week’s parent-teacher conference notice. I thoroughly checked off each item in my head. One paper stood out, I had almost forgotten about it. A notice from the school warning us about a potential viral outbreak that has affected other parts of the world and the CDC’s recommendations if it were to reach us. I couldn’t roll my eyes harder.

My head along with several others snapped toward the commotion going on down the hall. Sophie Peters. Glowing skin, short coily hair, reserved, intelligent, elegant, confident. Sophie Peters had a scholarship here. Most of the students that attended this high school were children of business owners, lawyers, doctors, and politicians. It was rare to have outsiders. Admissions here rather admit students with influential parents who earn a 2.0 GPA than give any capable outsider a chance. The discrimination was riveting. I was not even here a year when I demanded that my parents stop notifying administration of the volunteer work and community service I was doing. They put me in the school paper. Twice. Not one sentence in either of the articles mentioned anything about the causes themselves or how to get involved. The indications of the article were obvious: rich, pretty, white. I cringed at the large “Bless her!” above my old eighth grade yearbook photo my mother submitted. I still volunteer, I love it. I just don’t tell anyone.

Sophie was surrounded by four other high school boys. As I walked near I could hear the sexual profanities they were shouting at her followed by a drawn out “miss presidantttttt”. Sophie was running for student council president. She hadn’t won yet but everyone knew she would. These boys disgusted me. I pushed through and stood next to her. Now we were both silently staring at them. The boys mumbled a couple of more words before laughing awkwardly and strutting away. Now, Sophie and I were silently staring at each other. She looked at me skeptically, her shoulders were straight as she held her books and her expression was administrative. I moved my lips around hoping words would come out. I was intimidated by her.

“People usually assume money equates to class, but clearly…” my voice trailed off.

“Clearly,” she was studying me.

“Does not saying anything, ya know, when they come up to you like that usually work?” I was clearly not well versed in these situations. Most people knew who my father was and their fathers generally drew a line when it came to me, probably business related. The worst and only incident was last year when Billy Summers told everyone at lunch that he “fucked the goveners daughter”. My dad is a state senator. I let him have whatever victory he thought it was.

“My dad always says that words are like currency. The less of them you use, the more they’re worth. When you’re silent you reflect the true nature of that person back at them, like a mirror and their reflection, well,” Sophie took a deep calculated breath, “it’s ugly.”

I began to process the philosophy of what she had said but nodded my head precedently so she wouldn’t assume I was still thinking about it.

“You’re Poppy’s older sister, aren’t you? My little brother is always hanging around her, I think he has a little crush on her.”

I knew who she was referring to almost immediately, “Clyde?,” I laughed at the thought of anyone having a crush on Poppy, “God help anyone who gets involved with her.”

Sophie laughed warmly. I can tell she knew what I meant but I can tell she also liked my little sister.

“Well, I have to catch my bus,” I forgot some students even took buses home, “it was nice to officially meet you, Claire.”

“I’ll see you around!” I yelled back, maybe a little too eagerly. I turned and headed towards the double doors at the end of the empty hallway. My mother was likely waiting in her car outside. Annoyed Poppy in the back seat, hoodie up, airpods on. I feel my phone vibrate:

Dad

Maybe not this year, kiddo. College is right around the corner and I’d like one more year’s worth of holidays with my little girl before she leaves for good. Even the small ones. Xoxo daddy.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. But perhaps he was right, he always knew best. Besides, in exactly one year from now, I will be going to a college Halloween party. Exactly as I have always planned to.

October 31st, 2020

I stared blankly at the little food I had in front of me. As hungry as I was, I felt as though I’d be sick if I ate it. I was daydreaming, in a better place, prom, graduation, freshman orientation. I was so in my head that I didn’t even know it began. Chaos. But more than usual. Beyond the crying, the moaning, the wheezing, the despair. When I looked up I saw Marcus, my fathers number two, standing on one of the cafeteria tables. I assumed he announced something along the lines of food being missing from inventory, again. This was three times this week. He looked angry. If I had any energy at all I would have pointed out that the only ones with access to the back kitchen were the six men, my father included, operating this prison. I heard muted gasps from around the room but did not truly tune in until one of the larger men lifted Sophie from her seat, dragging her from behind as she screamed and fought. I stood up from my seat, as did others. Two more men grabbed Mr. Peters, her father, whom I came to know as a caring gentle man who loved his family more than anything. Sophie’s mother was hysterical, her arms around Clyde. He was holding Poppy’s hand, who was screaming words that in any other situation, should never come out of a thirteen year old's mouth. In the back of the cafeteria towards the right corner sat the working class: the janitors, the cooks, the nannies, the Peters family. Anyone unfortunate enough to get stuck in this place with the rest of us “elites”. Poppy always sat there. I probably would have too under normal conditions. But I sat alone and talked to no one.

More men walked over and yanked at Mrs. Peters harder than he needed to. She begged for them to let her son stay, to allow Clyde to continue his life within these walls because he was a good boy. The men. Their expressions nauseated me. Emotionless as if their wives were forcing them to take the days worth of garbage to the dumpster after a long day of work.

Her pleas fell deaf to their ears. They grabbed Clyde too. They had to physically remove him from my sister's grip who had to be removed by someone else because she had jumped on the man’s back. I followed them to the hallway outside the cafeteria. I didn’t want to believe my suspicions, that I had accurately assessed the situation, but I had.

No, no, no. I whispered low as I watched. Pathetic.

Through the first set of double doors, then the second set. The sunlight burned my eyes as if I were a vampire. Admittedly, I felt a quick surge of jealousy come over me. They tossed Sophie out first, my envy dissipated and my heart shot up to my throat instead. I can hear it pounding in my ears.

“Anyone else?” Marcus yelled. To his surprise almost ten others walked willingly out the door behind them in protest, their message direct and pungent. They rather be dead than live under the rule of the six men, The Orderly, any longer.

Before the doors closed I looked down at my feet, almost willing them to walk out after them. My sister would have. My mother had nearly tackled her to the ground at this point trying to hold onto her.

It took four of the men to successfully keep Clyde out. His parents and sister had attempted to push him back inside. When the doors finally shut, it felt abrupt. Darkness. Silence. The men victoriously clicked the locks to the doors and wandered in. I can hear my sister’s exhaustive breathing.

“Murder!” I have never heard her sound so angry, and that says a lot for Poppy. I realized Marcus was standing to the side of her, out of arm's reach of course. Reluctantly, I followed her eyes, as did everyone else. He stood unafflicted, professional, arms crossed in front of his body. Poppy wasn’t looking at Marcus or any of the other men among The Orderly. She was looking at my father.

To be continued.