This Is Not a Threat (Almost Finished)

[OneSilentRose]

Part 1

My story was like a secret that I wanted everyone to know but could never tell. Even if I tried, say, over a cup of lukewarm coffee amidst a hundred million other faceless nobodies, my tale would never reach the fruition of its end. Not that my words mean anything to this world's deaf canvas of decadence. The Nameless Ones never listened: always watching, never taking notice. All I ever wanted to do was make Them proud. But that was before my incident; of which I am sure you are unfamiliar with. Fear not, for as painful as these words rise from my chest, they carry with them the weight of my ruin.

The first night that I noticed, truly noticed, mind you, that things had fallen farther than I ever imagined, was the night before the entire world was to witness the inauguration of the newest Ail Mother. Mother Warren was to be dethroned, her six-year term now fulfilled, and the soon-to-be-Mother Ash would take her place in the throne. A truly monumental moment if ever I heard of one. And yet, I couldn't seem to muster the willpower to care.

I was sitting alone on the dock, overlooking the abyssal blue nothingness that sprawled out beneath me. The bay was impossibly void of all conceivable noise that night, save for the aimless chime of a lone buoy in the distance contorting the silence of the darkness; the sound dissipating just as suddenly as it rang, taking with it the lonely souls of all those unfortunate enough to hear its cries. Even the waters, tame as a tranquilized infant, bore no audible confession to their current. The entire scene savored of an inconceivable vacancy, painted down by an artist completely inept at his profession. The paint was there, but there was no color. No life. Only silence...and cold.

Pulling closer my deep purple cloak, I reached into my tin lunchbox, rusting away with the seasons, and retrieved an apple; the only food I had left from work today. Soap production, to me, never seemed like the exact definition of hard labor. That was, of course, before I had started producing it. Creating a good quality bar of soap takes a lot more skill and finesse than I would have ever imagined the profession demanded. Yet there I was, six years later, still working the same job in the same factory for the same wages: nothing. At least, the pay wasn't comparable to anything else I could find. In fact, this was the only job I could find. So who am I to complain?

The apple was far too ripe. It crunched in a very dissatisfying manner between my incisors. No longer interested, I chucked the bitter fruit aimlessly into the bay, without even realizing it.

Plop!

A thick, heavy splash confirmed the position of the apple, the only true sound I had heard all night. That one, insignificant noise seemed to awaken me from whatever trance-like state I was in at the time. No sooner had the apple sploshed into the river, an entire world of sounds and noises bombarded my eardrums.

The busy fracas of the Interoads behind me was muffled against the mechanic hustle and bustle of the towering industrial skyscrapers surrounding me; immense testaments to this materialistic world, growing ever more ominous each day. The wind danced throughout the city, its petrified cries chilling my frame to the very core; my bones seemed to be freezing beneath my frigid porcelain exterior. Exerting much more effort than seemed necessary, I lifted myself up off the dock, the damp wood stinging my fleshy red hands. My unfortunate joints creaked beneath the climate. My shoes were drenched. And my toes were numb. Slowly, I allowed my lungs to engorge themselves with the chilled midnight air. Midnight?

I exhaled, my breath exiting my throat much faster than it had entered my swollen cavity. I had lost all traces of time. How long had I been sitting here? Two hours? Three? Longer? Regardless, it was time to go. Parting ways with my thinking grounds, I somberly retraced my steps uphill back to the parking lot. Awaiting me there was my cheap-a**, run down Hover from back in the 70's. This thing was well over ten years old. And here it is, 2382. Why hadn't I gotten a new one yet?

Oh, right. I made soap for a living.

The interior of my crappy transportation was just as magnificent as the inside of my boots. And it smelled pretty much the same. The thing creaked to life like a dormant animal awakening from a season long hibernation, pumping gas through its fragile mechanisms. It must have taken me at least five minutes to even turn the blasted thing on. I cranked up the radio. Nothing on the news but the inauguration of Mother Ash tomorrow. Or today, I suppose, since it's now somewhere around 12:16.

Fondling with my antenna, I finally found another station. Unfortunately it didn't play anything but that vulgar electronic garbage that the kids love to dance to. I personally can't stomach those big label groups whose names I would be embarrassed to relay. Oddly enough, I'm much more fond of the heavier end of the spectrum. Nothing relaxes me more than a crunching guitar, a thumping bass, and drums pounding out odd time signatures. I've been told I'm rather strange. But what do I really care, anyways?

And so I drove home in musical silence, merging onto Interoad 54, surrounded by the longwinded, incessant culture of Suriv: "The Future Begins Here, In The Land Of Opportunity!" I almost laughed at the slogan of this city's people. Of course, It would carry a touch more humor if it were true. Soap factory.

But I digress.

So, revisiting my first statement about how I had truly noticed how far the world had fallen: I suppose you could say that it was around this time that I began to realize something. Here, on this lonely road back home, surrounded by hundreds more drones rushing to find their way back to wherever they came from, I felt it. It began as this underlying, almost infinitesimal tinge of inescapability. Like I was the only person left here on this entire planet. The Hovers around me were nothing but reflections of my own sad, unfulfilling lifestyle. The wind grew stagnant with my imperfections. This midnight was dead, just like me. I knew that there wasn't really anything I could do but keep driving. Keep drowning out that buzzing in my head. Keep thinking about the good things in life. About how productive I was at work. All that soap.

But no. Nothing would shake this infuriating specimen of doubt from my brain. I wanted to crack myself open, pull out the wires, and live the rest of my sad, pitiful life on autopilot.

I merged once again, onto 753rd. Beneath me, the bay glistened like a tranquil pool of tears. Someone, somewhere, was crying for me. A left onto Interoad 34, I raced along the Efas Bridge. The water below suddenly looked far too enticing. I could feel my arm begin to swerve, the Hover veering off ever so slightly to the left. A pair of blinding headlights accompanied a blaring horn. I was in the way. Poor drone behind me needed to make it back to the hive in time. I repositioned myself on the right side of the road.

Not tonight.

 

[OneSilentRose]

Part 2

I slammed my Hover door shut after taking about six minutes to turn the stupid thing off. Cursing somewhat under my breath, I marched up the center parking lot of my apartment building: Ip Hovah. Swiping my card key, the familiar green click granted me entrance, away from the frigid midnight beyond. The cold linoleum floor reeked of its usual indifference, reflecting the pathetic overhead fluorescent lights. The lobby was empty. Even the clerk’s desk lights were off. I walked to the back of the room, where the elevators were. Strangely, the button had already been pressed to call the elevator down, as if someone had come, but chosen the stairs due to lack of patience. Or perhaps they just felt that they needed a jog.

The elevator’s hollow chime greeted me, the doors sliding open, completely silent. I felt as if I were in a vacuum. I pressed the button for the elevator to take me to the 16th floor, and waited for the doors to close. I was the only one on board tonight. A glance at my watch relayed 12:56. How time flies. Except for here, in this elevator…

I never noticed how much slower these things seem to move when you’re the only one in them. Was I even ascending? Or perhaps the wiring was faulty and I wasn’t moving at all. For all I knew, the entire world was being silently decimated beyond those silver steel doors, and I was just standing here like an idiot, alone in a defective elevator.

I took this time alone, away from the world, to reflect upon my day. More accurately, I reflected upon my night. What had come over me on the bridge? Why did I swerve like that? I shook my head. This wasn’t one of those depression things. It’s probably just another one of those “cry for help” things. And I thought that I had gotten over that.

Maybe the lye was just getting to me. I spend too much time out of my life making soap. And where will I be tomorrow at Mother Ash’s inauguration? Right. Making more soap. Not that I particularly cared about the inauguration. Still. The thought of making soap for the rest of my life, existing only as a statistic on a spreadsheet wasn’t exactly how I had planned on living out my years.

My train of thought was forcefully derailed by the elevator’s abrupt halt; the doors sliding open soundlessly once again. Floor 16. This was my stop. Upon exiting the elevator, I hung a right, making my way down the apartment’s musty, dimly lit corridors. Oddly, the stench of tobacco invaded my nostrils. Smoking was strictly prohibited in Ip Hovah. I passed the laundry alcove and, turning right once more, headed towards my room before I realized something. I had seen someone.

Retracing my steps back to the alcove, I saw a girl smoking a periwinkle platinum cigarette taking out a load of darks. She was about my height, with stringy black hair tied up in a disheveled bun and startling green eyes traced by fine, yet deep black liner. Her lip was pierced on the left side, and highlighted by faded maroon lipstick. She wore only a small black tank top with skinny fit jeans held aloft by a studded belt.

She must have noticed me staring at her because she put down her laundry and shot me a dangerous look. Feeling sufficiently awkward, I faked a cough and diverted my gaze back in the direction of my room. She didn’t stop staring at me until I reached my doorway. I still felt her icy glare on my back as I fumbled for my keys, clumsily unlocking my door at the end of the hall.

I stepped uneasily into my room, sweating out my brief encounter with the Laundromat girl. Exhaling, I tossed my cloak aside, slipped off my damp work boots, socks and jeans, and peeled off my dirty undershirt. Walking into the bathroom, I reached for the shower handle. I needed to clean myself. Retrieving a towel from my closet, I dug around for a bar of soap. I always kept at least half a pack of Mondo brand soap in my drawer. Of course, Mondo was our biggest competitor. What did I care? I hated my job at Lindur. I could never quit though. Point blank, I needed the money. This was my little way of getting back at my company though: my secret little, vengeful pleasure.

No sooner than I began to unwrap my bar of soap came a knock at my door, heavier than the gravity of the entire world, it seemed. I froze. Who could be at my door at 1:14 in the morning? I cautiously set the bar of Mondo soap down on the sink, wrapping a towel around my exposed body. The tension remained, interrupted only by the crunching of my feet on the stale carpet floor. I pressed my ear against the door; my room was not so glamorous as to merit a peephole. Still there was no sound. Both deciding and deciding against myself, I eventually came to the conclusion to answer the door; at least see who’s there. I positioned the chained safety lock in place, and tentatively turned my handle to the left. Through the crack in my door, the Laundromat girl greeted me with a smirk, her cigarette barely hanging to her lips. She carried a basket of laundry under her right arm.

“You wanna tell me why you were starin at me?”

Flustered, I slammed the door in her face, panting in embarrassment. Her words carried hints of a British twang to them, hard-edged and somewhat hoarse due to the tobacco. I closed my eyes. She knocked again.

“Hello! Dude! Open up and answer my question!”

This time I removed the safety lock, opening the door even more cautiously than before.

“Once again, I said: you wanna tell me why you were starin at me?”

She glanced, disapprovingly, at my green bathrobe that may have been a few sizes too small for me. It’s not like I could go get a new one. I make soap for a living for Christ’s sake!

“Umm…about that…look, I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone else out of their rooms this late.”

She didn’t buy it. Removing her cigarette with her free hand, she tongued her lip ring in contemplation. I brushed my curly brown hair away from my face, awaiting her response.

“Here” she said, forcing her laundry into my arms, “ how ‘bout we discuss this over some coffee, eh?” Very sarcastic. Not my favorite person in the world.

And there I was, watching helplessly as a complete stranger tosses me her laundry and strides right into my living room. She examined everything very minimally, obviously unimpressed, before taking a seat on my lounge chair and turning on the Screen. Baffled at what had just happened, I set her laundry down and excused myself into the bathroom. I quickly composed myself, throwing on my raggedy work clothes, damp and frozen from a long night in the cold. Shaking out my hair in an attempt to make myself look somewhat presentable, I cursed my reflection in the mirror for having invited her in.

I stepped back into the living room and made my way to the bar. Where had I put that blasted coffee? All the while, British Laundromat squatter woman was still sitting in my chair, watching some indiscernible wrestling match on my tiny Screen.

“Haven’t you got anything better than this goofy little Screen? I can hardly see the blood on the mat!” Disregarding her crude remarks, I boiled some water for the coffee. “How’s is that coffee coming, love?” she spat, venomous sarcasm seeping forth from every word. Especially ‘love’.

“The coffee’s gonna take a while. Now may I ask what the hell you think you’re doing just walking into my apartment like this?” Putting out her cigarette on my end table, she flashed me another signature dirty look. What magnificent eyes…

“Well may I ask you, sir what the hell you think you were doing starin me down in the Laundromat? You never know the kinds of creeps wot end up in this sorts of places.” The coffee was almost ready. “You aint one of those children lookers are you?” She began to eye me very uncomfortably. The coffee was ready.

“Look, I don’t know who you think you are, or who you think I am. I was just surprised to see someone doing laundry at this late hour. It’s been kind of an off day for me, ok?” I poured her some coffee. “Cream?” She nodded her disapproval.

We both sat there for a while, drinking our coffee, the broken jaws and anguished cries of the wrestling match providing a soundtrack to our serendipitous evening.

“Amy” she said, arm outstretched.

“Nice to meet you” I said, after a brief moment. I didn’t take her hand.

“Wot, haven’t you got a name?”

“Not one that matters anything in particular to you” I retorted, politely.

“Fair enough,” she said between sips, rolling her eyes, “creepy is wot creepy does.”

I looked her up and down, trying my best to read her signs. Amy. Who was she? Did she live here, on this floor? If so, why hadn’t I seen her before?

“How old are you?” I asked. “You know you aren’t allowed cigs in here.”

She seemed to nearly choke on her coffee. “Whoa, whoa, now, creepah! My age is of no importance to you, ‘sir’.” After a moment of silence, she added “but if you must know, I’m twenty three and perfectly capable of handling myself.”

Fair enough, I told her. I had finished my cup, and offered to rinse hers out as well. She practically shoved her mug in my hands and reached into her pockets, most likely looking for another periwinkle platinum to light up, when her other pocket began to vibrate, quite audibly.

“Cor blimey” she exclaimed, fondling with her pants, retrieving her Mobile. Obviously disappointed, she answered. “Wot do you wont, Alice?”

She was obviously frustrated. I continued to wash the dishes, tossing out the remainder of the coffee. I wasn’t going to need it. I managed to catch bits and pieces of Amy and Alice’s conversation through the water faucet and the wrestling match. Ultimately, however, I didn’t gather much information. She sat back down on my armchair after her short conversation with Alice.

“That wos my...ehm...twin sister, Alice. She’s gripin’ about her laundry.” She retrieved another cigarette from her pocket. “You got a light, dude?” I didn’t. “Ugh, wotever. Thanks for the coffee, love.” She stormed over to the door, reclaiming her laundry basket. “Later.”

I put my dishes down and hurried over to the door. I had to be a good host and see her off properly.

“Wait” I pleaded, “where umm, exactly, do you live?” She threw me an awkward stare that practically screamed ‘creeper’. “I mean…I just haven’t seen you anywhere around here before.”

The briefest flicker of uneasiness flashed across her face. “I live back there,” she said, pointing to the end of the hall, “room number 1756. This is my second week here with Alice.”

My room number was 1742. We lived much closer than I thought. I told her that we should have coffee again sometime, in a more relaxed, neighborly environment. And she should bring Alice, too. She agreed, thanking me for my time and apologizing for the inconvenience: the only genuine thing I think I’ve ever heard her say. She turned away, newly cleaned apparel in hand; an unlit cigarette between her faded red lips, and began the long trek down the 16th floor hallway to room number 1756.

I waved goodbye and closed my door. I really should have gotten a peephole. I made my way back into the bathroom, discarding my filthy garments once again, eager to wind down beneath trickles of steaming hot water. I grabbed the bar of Mondo soap off the bar. What a long day.