Just two days before the dinner, my Aunt told me to be in a particular room at a specific time; I assumed it was another appointment to taste and choose a cake or help decide on a tablecloth. It was, however, perhaps what we can consider my third lover: the tailor. Well, not the tailor himself, a stylish but ageing man with long whiskers; it was not him I fell in love with but his swift tape measure, fluid drawings and most importantly, his vision of me.

During the day, I had taken to wearing my pyjamas or a few of my Uncle's old clothes: a shirt, and a loose pair of trousers, all dwarfing my soft frame with their boxy, masculine edges. I had gotten quite used to seeing non-regulation clothing in my time with my Aunt and Uncle, but my mind hadn't moved to the place where I would have some of my own. Probably on purpose, I hadn't considered what would happen when the time came for me to move out of my safe little place and back into the world.

"What would the young sir like to wear?" asked the tiny, mousey little man with a wrinkly smile and the most exceptionally tailored suit I had ever seen, even on my Uncle. A million things jumped to my mind making my eyes glow with hunger. Suddenly, I felt ready to emerge, colours, fabrics, patterns, and shapes, I was ready to expand my vision of myself, and I wanted to do it dressed. Yet none of these things made it to my lips. My desire to emerge triggered in me a deep sense of shame and unworthiness; who did I think I was to be imagining myself in such things? I was squishy and dirty and damp around the edges; no amount of clever stitching would ever change that. And so I told him, a sense of betrayed misery crawling up from my stomach, "I don't know, I don't mind, whatever is easiest, please I don't want anything special or to waste money that isn't mine." He looked at my Aunt, and she looked at him; a twinkle passed between them. Were they laughing at me?

"Okay, not to worry then, young sir. Might I make a few suggestions?" Despondently I nodded, thinking I had blown my chance at facing whatever sick fate awaited me at the dinner dressed to kill (or be killed). He acquired a large bound book from his assistant, and from it, he pulled two squares of fabric, bright pink and bright yellow, "These are both fabrics on sale. Rest assured, you won't break any budgets with these!"

Next, he pulled a garish floral print from his book with a gauzy white fabric overlaid, something I could only imagine on a little girl.

"These are so complimentary, don't you think?" he said smiling, "and not so special?"

Last he pulled out the exact fabric of my old military uniform, my heart sank. I could only reasonably choose that utility grey.

"So what do you think? We could make you a nice set out of these, nothing special, no bother and no expense!"

The silence in the room was heavy; I felt hot salty tears fill my eyes and held them there from spilling down my cheeks with the sheer power of my will; I had not yet learnt to laugh at myself. I could see into the sample book, full to overflowing with so many different shades and textures of fabric, but they were lost to me now. Just as I prepared to pronounce my choice, My Aunt jumped in, startling me a little, "Those are all lovely, but we can look in the book, can't we? If you really like those we can come back to them but it won't hurt to look will it?"

I sat down to look, relief and shame mingling in my churning stomach. How could I possibly let them clothe me as well as everything else they had done for me? I felt the shame of my dependency and the shame of wanting more for myself.

My Aunt and the tailor worked as a team. Only afterwards did I realise I had been skilfully manoeuvred.Seeing my embarrassment, they had slowly drawn out my true preferences. By the next afternoon, I would have a beautiful suit in blue-black, made from the softest, lightest wool-felt, drawn at the waist by a light blue silk cord, and with a matching undershirt displayed by the deep V in the jacket.

I saw myself come to life in pencil and ink as the tailor sketched my image, transformed, I looked like a person. Obvious to you and to me now, but at the time, the idea of my humanity was still new; it was tantalising. My Aunt also ordered a pair of light, pliable shoes in a deep sea blue that would peep out stylishly from underneath the wide leg of my new trousers. I had never seen the sea, but the colour enchanted me and only enriched my fantasies. That night I slept poorly, but out of excitement, not fear. Who wouldn't prefer to face his death (or even worse- humiliation) looking like his dream self?

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

As the appointed hour approached and the house buzzed like a beehive in early spring, a calm settled around me. I was under the impression that, at some point, the axe would fall; I remember during the previous night, I had woken with the sure knowledge that I would face my father across the dinner table, and although I had grown so much, stood so much taller, my new self was still too fragile to survive. I wasn't sad; I didn't feel any helplessness like you would expect; you see, I had already surpassed even my wildest dreams, done more, seen more, and loved more. Having escaped death once already, I was on borrowed time, and having loved and treasured every second, I was ready to face my real destiny in soft blue-black wool, no less.

The male guests had already arrived. I could hear their laughter: masculine and raucous, sending an electric ripple through the women's quarters, where I helped with last-minute adjustments. The women were not expected to sit in a cupboard like they did at home. They were, however, expected to adhere to rigid expectations of dress and behaviour. A mouth full of pins and clips, I arranged my Aunt and her sisters' drapery within half an inch of perfection. Despite preferring a more simple style for myself, I had become quite adept at pleating and pulling their fabulous garments into newer and more flamboyant shapes and styles. As they admired themselves in the large mirror, I declared them ready to my satisfaction and elegantly led them, Aunty, on my arm, into the dining room where the gentlemen present hushed in awed and respectful silence.

In the bustle of introductions and finding seats, I had time to scan the room; nowhere did I see my father or any of his henchmen, nor did I see any of my brothers; in fact, I recognised no one from The Southern Provincial Authority at all. Instead of feeling happy, however, I felt bereft. Let me assure you, kind reader, that there is only one thing worse than a painful death and that is waiting for it indefinitely. Hands shaking, I began to lower myself down into my seat when the door to the dining room burst open. Surrounded as he was by a haze of bright daylight, I couldn't see his features, but it didn't matter.

At that moment, I knew. I had rehearsed my eyes over his silhouette a thousand times in my dreams. I would recognise it anywhere, at any time, whether crippled by age or sickness, in the brightest of lights or in the darkest of nights. I would know him and only him by the deep burning red that zinged in my ears and a sweet scent of skin and sunshine that perhaps only I could smell. It was the stranger from dinner. I stood there: half up, half down, hovering like a fool, mouth hung open and gawping like the village idiot. If it wasn't for my Uncle reacting spontaneously to the late arrival of his close friend, jumping up and clapping him roughly on the back, perhaps I would have stood there forever. Who knows the ridiculous extent of youthful obsession, what it will make us do or at least make us think that we will do almost anything?

I must admit I appeared quite the simpleton to the urbane guests with whom I shared the table. Unable to concentrate on much except the rapid thudding in my ears, I responded to polite introductions with 'The Standard Phrases of the Handbook', not very fashionable, of course, but it was my first time. I was stuck between staring at my hands in panic and looking up to steal glimpses of him as he sat causal and confident by my Uncle's side.

We were introduced after what seemed like hours; time slowed down, and I smiled tentatively.

"Do you remember me?" he asked me boldly.

So many words jammed into my head they bottlenecked in my mouth; this was it; this was the moment I had been building up to all week, a humiliation after all, a mute idiot! I had to do something, so I merely gestured with trembling fingers at his sleeves rolled up jauntily above the wrist. He laughed, flinging his head back on his neck in a flash of dark curls and white teeth; my Aunt and Uncle looked at me for an explanation, but before the room discovered that I had been uncharacteristically rendered mute, he threw me a golden shining lifeline, "Then you remember your father's bargain. You owe me a weekend of your time!"

Delighted, no, that is not the word for it. Ecstatic. I am beyond happy; it's hard to put into words. It's like the feeling of finally finding your way home after being lost for hours. My heart is filled with joy, and all I can do is smile at him. He responds with a contagious laughter that spreads throughout the entire table. They start talking about boats, lakes, and cabins while I am crying tears on the inside of my face.

Author's Note

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Join the Discussion! What did you think of Chapter Four?

I am so excited to bring you Chapter Four and I really hope that you loved it, but without critique, there is no improvement! So, leave me a comment below (or on my community page) and let me know what you think about the fourth chapter of Beyond The Wasteland. Did you like it? Did you hate it? What would you have done differently? Some readers don't expect a romance storyline in a post-apocalyptic science-fiction novel, what do you think? I say, why not? The truth is that people fall in love wherever they are and whatever the circumstances!