The Others

She drummed on her desk with a lead pencil littered with bite marks. Its tapping was difficult to hear over the sounds of the classroom projector screen; an antique dancing with images of fire and chaos.

At first glance, one may mistake her fidgeting for anxiousness; the teacher at the front of the room was discussing things known to frighten most thirteen year olds. He lectured loudly over the chaotic roar of the projector, giving the class a history lesson that they had heard many times before. Other students flinched at the gunshots echoing over the darkened classroom. Some even turned away. But not her.

Her mind was elsewhere. She continued to drum her pencil, looking out the window occasionally to stare longingly at the gray sky, wondering if someone was out there, tucking a heart shaped locket into her blouse...

More violence echoed from the projector and her ears tuned in momentarily to hear her teacher mention the “Others:” the ones who were the subjects of the reels now winding down on the projector. The lecture was one she had heard many times; describing the maliciousness of these beings and their thirst for death and destruction. Ever since their arrival, the world as she had known it had devolved into a barren, war torn state, militantly controlled now for the safety of her and her classmates.

She once again tuned out the lectures of her teacher and turned her thoughts to her father. Some nights, when he had had too much to drink, he would begin a tirade: echoing the sentiments’ of her teacher’s lecture, but with far more passion. She would sit criss-crossed in front of him on their taupe shag carpet, watching him pace in front of her in a passionate rant. The whiskey in his glass would slosh as his arms whipped and her mother would try to quell his diatribe, fussing that a child needn’t hear about these things. But he went on nonetheless, telling his daughter of the arrival of the Others, who had initially seemed peaceful, before violence slowly ensued and humanity was forced to meet violence with violence. He told her many lives were lost, but the freedoms she had given up were a small price for safety from this inhumane threat.

Her mother would retreat silently to the kitchen, occasionally leaned against the frame of the archway, shaking her head and muttering “at what cost?” Her father would catch a whisper or two, whip around violently, and clamor about how they couldn’t truly know if all the Others had been exterminated. He asserted that until then, they should be grateful for their current lives; lawful, ordered, and safe.

Eventually, class had ended, and the girl rose to don her backpack and head home from school. Dark gray buses were parked in a loop out front of her school, circling a dead patch of grass with a flag pole at its center. Lofted high above the exiting students’ heads were two flags: the regime’s simple red and white flag over one she thought looked silly; busy, with stars and stripes too numerous for her to count in passing.

As she and her classmates filed into the bus, she thought about what school was like before this war with the Others. She was young at the time, but could still cling to one memory- one so distant it almost felt like a dream.

In this memory, she felt mulch kicked up on a playground clinging to her short white socks. She was panting and running, tearing around the corner of a slide. The sun was gleaming above her and sweat stung her eyes, but she kept running. And laughing. She was chasing someone. She once again clutched her necklace as the bus rumbled over the road away from her school.

Eventually, she arrived home. Her gray bus slowed to a stop in front of a series of large communal concrete buildings. She and several other students filed off the bus and into their respective homes. She trudged up the concrete stairs, noting that they were equally as dull as the exterior of her building. Even from the stairwell, she could hear militant groups marching along the roads outside, blaring an occasional siren, no doubt sweeping for any remaining Others in the city. There hadn’t been a raid or confrontation in some months. She wondered if they had truly all been wiped out.

She opened the door to her apartment and her mom greeted her from the other room.She dropped her backpack and slumped on the couch, fiddling again with the locket hanging from her neck as she once again began to feel the beating sun and the crunch of playground mulch beneath her running feet. She heard her mother’s footsteps approaching the living room and she quickly tucked the necklace away.

“Sweetheart,” her mother cooed, “I need you to pick up some things for me at the store.”

The girl paused. Her father would never allow her to walk anywhere alone. But by the looks of it, he wasn’t there. And she wouldn’t dare pass up an opportunity to leave their dismal living quarters, even if only for a brief trip to the run-down corner store a mile away.

She rolled off the couch to her feet, gave a weak grin, and took the shopping list and cash from her mother’s bony hands. She slipped out the apartment door, back to the dull stairs and trudged down, skipping a step every now and then, before pushing open the final door to put her back under the gray afternoon sky.

The sirens and marching of the militant groups were louder now as she walked towards the street. She thought to cover her ears, but feared she’d look too young and someone might approach her, asking what she was doing on the streets alone.

She began her trek towards the corner store, shuffling down the sidewalk with some haste. The air felt thick, perhaps partly from the cans she had seen some soldiers toss into abandoned complexes to smoke any Others’ out of hiding. She stifled a cough and continued to trudge towards the store.

Suddenly, the once tolerable sirens grew to a roar, and she heard jogging footsteps from what seemed like all corners of the streets. She spun, looking for the source of commotion, to see several groups of black-armored militants trotting down the street towards her. They were yelling, barking at one another, with their guns drawn. She had never seen so many in one place. She began to run.

Her feet flew under her as she ran up the street, looking for any exit from the chaos and soldiers who were now picking up speed behind her. Without looking back, she could hear them beginning to kick in doors, toss smoke bombs, and even fire a few rounds into the decrepit buildings that lined the street. Her legs carried her faster.

Ahead, she saw a thin alleyway. She turned into it, continuing her run to a rusted dumpster midway up ahead. The noises were duller now, but she could still hear the running soldiers clamoring about a group of Others rumored to be stashed somewhere nearby. Panting, she slid her small body between the dumpster and the slimy brick wall behind it, thinking she could hide out until the noise died down. Now, out of view, she placed her hands over her ears and squatted down behind the dumpster.

As she did so, her back leaned against the alley wall behind her, and she felt it give way. She stumbled and fell back through what was not a wall, but rather a thin covering. She now sat with her feet still in the alley, but her body and head through an opening in the wall that had just collapsed inward, leaving its cardboard covering crumpled beneath her.

She could tell she was in a room, but it was dark. So incredibly dark. She swung her feet through the opening and slowly stood up, letting her eyes adjust to her new hiding spot. A wailing siren outside made her jump before she turned to face the rest of the room.

Her eyes had adjusted now.

Staring back at her were faces unlike hers. She brought a pale hand to her mouth and clamped it down to stifle a yelp. A group of Others were staring back at her from the opposite wall.

They said nothing, just peering at her with large brown eyes. She stood frozen, awaiting the inevitable lunge toward her to bring her short life to an end.

But they just stared. With their wide eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, she lowered her hand from her mouth.

“We aren’t going to hurt you,” an Other said from the darkened corner of the room.

The girl thought that the voice sounded almost familiar. Somehow, she didn’t feel as scared anymore.

Slowly, the clump of Others shifted ahead of her and she could see a small figure emerging to the front of the group. The figure stepped into a small bit of the broken light peeking into the room, letting the weak rays touch down gently onto her brown skin.

“Do you remember me?” this small Other asked quietly. The young girl stood frozen once more, noting the curly brown hair hanging from each side of the Other’s face. The same curls she had seen bouncing ahead of her as she raced around a playground many years ago.

She swallowed, and wordlessly reached for her necklace. Gripping the heart, she popped the necklace open and turned it to face the Other in front of her. There, nestled in the frame of the locket, was a small image of two young girls; one pale-faced and one dark, hugging and smiling out front of an old school that no longer existed. Her and the Other.

The Other smiled. “I knew you’d remember.”

The first Other placed a hand on the small one’s shoulder and looked to the young girl. “Come, sit,” he said, “you’ve been told many lies and we don’t have much time.”