Provincial Freedom

Farren’s mind wondered back to the day she received a smart phone for her 12th birthday. She sat unwillingly, but necessarily, with her mother as she created a few social media accounts. She watched as her parent placed stringent privacy settings. Even with the babysitting she had to endure for the initial hour with her gift, she thrived on connecting with her friends and their friends. The smart phone was the most treasured gift at that time. Looking back now, as she touched the heart shaped locket around her neck, she realized her mother was the finest present she would ever have.

The twelve o’clock bell tolling brought Farren back to her current reality. She immediately logged on to the source to virtually attend the daily account of world affairs. As usual, the mouthpiece reported on the never-ending gun violence and other transgressions taking place in the southern region. Tales of entire townships losing power due to their ignorant suspicion of the directorate were presented with a downcast worrisome face. Due to the months-long municipal water shortage, and the residents sourcing from unfiltered streams, the spread of dysentery was uncontrollable in the south as they refused outside help. Crime, sickness, and death ruled the southern region. Madam Speaker reminded everyone of what could happen when processes are not trusted. She grimly shook her head as she said, “Ignorance is the bane of all. Let us be prudent and wise so that peace remains our anthem!”

Again, Farren fingered the locket as she thought about her mother. Before the techno-crash of ’37, her mother was all she had. They spoke to each other daily and sent virtual hugs. Farren drove down for in person visits once a month. How she missed those days. Her poor mother must be ailing terribly, if not dead by now.

If only she could slip in her car and drive with the wind blowing through her hair as she complained about sky-rocketing gas prices. All cars were abandoned now. Most had computerized parts when the techno-crash happened, so the parts were no longer active. The older vehicles that did not boast of modern technology eventually ran out of fuel. North Province created a place to store the useless vehicles, and those who did not release the vehicles to the directorate had hefty fines imposed upon them. Good paying jobs pummeled when technology crashed; the citizens had little choice but to release their most prized possessions.

Farren’s grandfather left an old farm truck for her when he passed away. It was not registered with the state, it probably never had been registered. For whatever reason, Farren had yet to determine other than a gut feeling, why she drove the truck into her basement and hid it under an old sheet of steel the day before Madam Speaker called for all private automobiles to be submitted to the directorate. Citizens would rely on public transportation. The option of riding bicycles or walking faded away decades ago when the air was deemed unsafe for outdoor activities that lasted longer than 10-15 minutes. Even nature seemed to scream for clean air. Oddly, there were a few green trees and a scant number of birds, but nothing or nobody seemed to flourish.

Farren’s neighbors who had once thrived from sharing fresh vegetables from their gardens (Greane Vegetables, a play of words with their surname) were now happy to eat the dried rations provided by the directorate on the last day of every month. It was excruciatingly heart-breaking to witness her fellow citizens worship the North Province leaders with abandon. Everyone feared hunger and homelessness if they thought for themselves. Everyone except Farren. She was great at pretending, but how much longer she could carry on the charade was questionable. She knew that if she did not gratefully show up for updates on world affairs and distribution of rations, she would disappear just as her beloved best friend Michael disappeared the year prior. Michael was careless in speaking out loud about his disdain for the modern society in which they found themselves. Farren tried to warn him, but he did not heed to her admonitions.

She could never forget the day when the directorate representative arrived to woefully explain that Michael had been walking the prior evening without something to filter the thick pollution. He had expired in mid-stride. The city keepers had no choice but to bury the poor soul. Did they not realize that Michael only walked during the lunch hour? He was always in bed by 7:30 PM and never up until 9:00 AM or later as he was so distraught.

Farren carried her thought process a bit further than she had in the past. If the directorate did not realize that Michael only walked mid-day, were all citizens truly under surveillance? A knock at the door frightened her. Before her hand reached the old-fashioned dead lock bolt, the visitor knocked louder with more urgency. When the door opened, she recognized Mrs. Greane without her usual smile. Mrs. Greane quickly shut the door and led Farren to the restroom and turned on the shower. She pulled Farren in the shower and began to whisper frantically. “They’re on their way, Farren. They know about the truck. Run! Run while you can!”

“But…” Farren was shocked and confused. What was happening? How did Mrs. Greane know about the truck? How did she know they were on their way?

“Farren! There is no time to waste. Go now. Head South. It is not destitute. You will find freedom there.”

“What about you? What about your husband?”

“Go. I will be fine. Please, go.”

Without more hesitation, Farren fled to the basement with adrenaline pumping. She removed the steel and said a quick prayer before trying to start the old truck. After a few useless attempts, Farren tried one more time. Amazingly, the vehicle fired to life, and she plowed through the basement door, up the hill. The truck sped through roadblocks and other barriers.

Finally, after three hours of unbridled fear and watching the fuel gauge move closer to the ominous E, armed guards dressed in suits of yellow (the southern region’s color of freedom) appeared. What sounded like fireworks pierced her ears as she heard a man yelling, “Get down! Farren, Get down!”

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The familiar heart shaped locket felt cold and warm at the same time in Katy’s palm. The metal, cold. The memories, warm. She worried as she paced the sterile environment of the hospital. Would Farren ever see the beautiful locket again? Would she ever see her mother again? Just as her thoughts wondered back to the day when her beautiful baby girl was born, she heard her child’s voice.

Farren’s eyes fluttered open. The gunfire had stopped. Had she heard Michael’s voice? She reached up to her neck, and as she realized her prized possession was gone, she began to weep as she whispered, “Oh, mother, I am so sorry.”

Katy leaned toward her daughter and gently touched her brow as she said, “Awe, don’t cry, I am here.” She watched as her cherished daughter’s face moved from shock to relief.

“Mother? Michael. I heard Michael.”

“Sweetheart, there was nobody with you.”

Farren was certain she had heard Michael’s voice tell her to get down. Was it her imagination? Was it an angel? Was it the spirit of Michael? Even though she would like to believe her best friend saved her life, these questions would haunt her for years to come.

After three more days in the hospital, Farren was ecstatic to go home with her mother. Together, Farren and Katy worked tirelessly in hopes of one day freeing others who remained in Northern Province.

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Note From Author:

There may be great loss around us, but where there is hope, there is life; where there is life, there is hope.