There’s something to be said about listening to the radio in the evening. Its scratchy dulcet tones filled the room with a quiet nuance and made the otherwise unbearable silence so much more palatable.
Three years, six months, and twenty-four days had passed since my darling Dale last set foot inside this home.
Sixty four days since his last letter.
No news was good news, I supposed. From the sound of his last letter, things should be winding down anyway. Spring was in full swing, as were the tribunals.
Bastards the lot of them.
I took another sip from the glass in my hand. Back in the “before times”, I used to get on Dale’s case about his penchant for imbibing, and encouraged him to perhaps consider cutting the particular habit once the rationing started. But instead, fearing for his quality of life, he had hoarded several cases beneath the stairs. Dale would come home, give me a kiss, slip out of his boots and goggles, then fill a glass. When his number came up I remember him telling me to save at least a bottle for his return. I scoffed at the time, but as the lonely days came and went…I found myself taking solace in his old routine.
Factory work was hard. Harder still when the shelling wouldn’t stop.
Another sip, another sigh.
I leaned over and twisted a dial. I had heard this particular piece played live in the “before times” and the gramophone recording just didn’t do it justice. Perhaps once this was all over Dale and I would dress up and go see the Symphony perform again. It had been quite a while since I had worn a dress. The flowing fabric was liable to get caught in the machinery so I had hemmed back Dale’s old pants and wore those instead.
Had to hand it to the men. Pockets were a stroke of genius and I do not believe I could ever go back. If my mother (bless her soul) would have seen me now she’d be beside herself.
“A true lady does not shamelessly highlight her legs!” she would cry. “Drinking whisky? How uncouth!”
Heavens only knew what she’d have to say about that new trend. Shorts above the knee? Oh she’d have swooned and perished right then and there. I giggled into my glass, then swore loudly when I spilled a bit on my shirt. Yet another example of how unlady-like I had become. I could still hear my mother’s shrill echoes in the back of my mind as I unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it aside to wear again tomorrow. No point in washing it. It was more grease stain than fabric at this point.
I attempted to hum along to the bouncy brass and crooning trebles filling the room as I reclined in brassiere and pantaloons, but couldn’t quite get comfortable. I pondered briefly what the bother was, but quickly determined the culprit. I doffed the offensive bit of wire and padding. The curtains were drawn and I was upstairs anyway. No one would see, and the girls were suffocating. As the cool air caressed my skin, I sighed for the umpteenth time that evening.
My stomach churned and politely inquired whether any food would be accompanying its beverage. So much for relaxing. Now that I was half-nude it wouldn’t do to head back downstairs and I didn’t plan on getting dressed again. Quite the lucky thing that I had done this many a time before and was prepared. I lifted the handle of the breadbox tucked at my bedside and riffled through its contents. A can of heavily processed ham substitute made its way into my grasp followed by a still mostly soft dark loaf.
Twisting the key about the bottom of the can (or was it the top?) I released its contents. Pale pink “meat” glistened and its distinctive salty odor made my mouth water. I bit into the thing, ripping off a chunk then did the same to the molasses loaf. Truly a meal fit for a queen.
I take my time devouring my hardly nutritious dinner. (Oh shut up, mother dear, you’re dead and I’m a grown woman!) When the final bite was swallowed and washed down with the remainder of my glass, I glanced over at the clock. Eleven. Dale’s day must just be getting started, seeing that he was quite literally on the other side of the globe. I wondered what he would be eating for his breakfast. Likely something better than my dinner considering they had cooks that traveled with them. But then again, perhaps not. He had often complained about the tardiness of the supply lines in his letters. Alas, there was nothing that I could at the present to help either of our situations. He was too far away, and I was too exhausted to care.
Static was the only thing playing now. A part of me wanted to shut the radio off, but even the white noise was better than true silence. Instead, I merely turned the volume down and collapsed into bed. The sheets had seen better days, seeing as I was a failure of a true lady and didn’t do the washing up nearly as often as was proper. (Mother dear, if you’ve the energy to natter on as you are, be a dear and do the laundry for your tired daughter?)
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Sleep came quickly.
Whisky was better than any lullaby.
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“...a solemn h—. General Va—--- informs me that the —-y has eva—-ed New —- City…”
I blinked groggily and haphazardly attempted to cover my immodesty. Truly, who would sneak up on a defenseless woman in her own bedroom? Taking stock of the empty room, I winced at the motes of sunlight peeking through the crack in the curtains.
“...declare that we must repay the debt that which we owe our allies. Only by our ceaseless devotion to the responsibilities which lie ahead of us shall humanity prevail in this most dark of hours.”
Ah.
The radio. I left it on last night.
Wait.
Most dark of hours?
I half stumbled, half crawled out of bed and twisted the volume knob to listen in closer.
“We will not give up, we will not surrender. Only by coming together as one united front will we be able to repel these foul invaders from outside of our planet! As Consulate of the United Nations of Earth, I hereby declare that the draft has now been expanded. Women between the ages of sixteen and thirty will now be required to register at their nearest polling center. Exceptions will be made in the event of young children still in need of breastfeeding, or those without a reliable caretaker to maintain the household.”
Well, wasn’t that just grand?
“As a second declaration, the UNE will be lifting the restrictions on privately owned firearms…”
I unplugged the radio. The silly little thing had invaded my dreams now! Dale had all but said that the war was coming to an end in his last missive. They had pushed back the…ah…ah…what were they called? I shook my head then fell back onto my pillow. Didn’t matter. Everything would go back to normal once I woke up for real this time.
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I awoke this time to the sound of urgent banging. As I rolled over and muttered sweet expletives at whomever it was at my door I found my head in a vise and my hair an absolute disaster. Perhaps if I stayed in bed the rude individual at my front door would go away. But the banging became more insistent. I let loose another string of curses as I rolled out of bed and made my way down the stairs.
“Millia! Millia! I know you’re home! You have some explaining to do, young lady!”
My jaw clamped itself into an unbidden grimace as the voice alerted me to the percussive nuisance’s true nature. Madame Gilifried, my altogether too nosy neighbor.
I sang out in a much sweeter tone than my inner voice. “Co~ming Madame!”
Three latches and a deadbolt later, I opened the front door and greeted the old biddy who was presently darkening my doorstep. “How may I help you this fine morning, Madame Gilifried?”
With a gasp, the woman pushed me inside and slammed the door behind us. “Oh for heaven’s sake! You’re indecent! Think of the children! And I say, it most certainly is not morning!”
A muted flush seeped into my cheeks. I seemed to have forgotten my state of dress.
“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon young lady!” How the Madame managed to sound as clucky and chicken-like as she did was quite the mystery. “Haven’t you heard the news?”
I tilted my head to the side as her words barely registered in my brain. “Forgive me, Madame, but what news? What do you mean two? Two in the morning? It’s far too bright out for that.”
The look I was graced with would have withered even the most hardy of plants. “Oh, how this generation has fallen. Clear the muck from your ears and listen clearly. The Ahraxians have evaporated New York City! Over a million people are dead! Consulate Beckham has expanded the draft and you, young lady, were supposed to have registered by now.”
I blink ever so slowly.
Ahraxians.
New York City.
Draft.
“Oh.” is the first thing that comes out of my mouth.
“OH? All you can say is oh?!” Nevermind clucky. Madame’s voice was more shrill than the lunch whistle. “If the Consulate gives an order, you are expected to follow it! Your foreman rang me earlier to tell me to be on the lookout for you. You didn’t show up to work, so he was worried you skipped town to avoid the draft!”
With my head still spinning, I walked to the cabinet under the stairs and withdrew the final bottle. Madame Gilifried followed me much like a mother hen, still screeching away. “I told him that you were not so much of a coward and that I would ensure that you made it to the polling center.”
I cracked the seal on the bottle. If I was going to be drafted, then there would be no point in leaving this behind. The state would likely possess and reassign my home seeing as both occupants would be no longer present. I didn’t care for much else in it, and I sincerely doubted that I would be allowed to return once I signed my name on that dratted sheet of paper. Dale never came back after registering…so why would I?
I began draining the bottle of its fiery contents, deliberately tuning out the ceaseless screeching of the woman who would likely be the first to lay claim to my home. (Truly, did she never run out of breath?) The Madame had always expressed her jealousy of the view, and she was being rather zealous in her insistence that I be going to the polling station. I continued to ignore her as I walked back upstairs to my bedroom and collected what I needed. One brassiere, one shirt, one pair of boots, one photo of my darling Dale, and one older but still serviceable set of Hardy and Bartley’s Magnificent AetherVisors.
What was that Mother, dear?
Yes, these mechanical spectacles are quite unladylike. No, I frankly do not give a fuck.
I grab the last molasses loaf and can of engineered pork product on my way out. Probably the last good meal I’d have in a while.