The Census

The Census

Misery grates through me like razors floating softly down my throat. I feel the hunger burning inside me, burning me alive. This is not different than it normally is. Not different at all.

Beside me Bollen lies on by the clay floor of the thatch-roofed hut, facing the wall, body wracked with fever. I don't know if he will make it or not. Sometimes people make it. Sometimes they don't.

Bollen is kind, with a bright smile and a sparkle in his sad, dark eyes. He is good with children and easy to make laugh. But like all of us, he carries deep grief inside of himself.

The rest of the room is filled with fifteen other people, all crammed together, all leaning on one another. We are all varying degrees of sick, but not enough for it to be life-threatening. We are all hungrier than we should be. We are all weary and overworked and full of grief. The room is bare, except for the little clay stove beside the window.

But none of that is new. We are always in such a state of affairs.

What is new is that all the people who were away working in the city are back. The children are back. The factory labourers are back. The construction workers are back. The people locked away in the high rise apartments of the rich are back. And the whole village is full to bursting.

But this is not a happy occasion, as glad as we all are to be united. There is a sense of danger in the air. A heavy, suffocating sense of oppression. We have to get these next few days right. We have to get them right and we have to be ready.

We are preparing ourselves for the census. The one day every three years where clean, well-dressed researchers with high degrees come into our little village to tell the government and all the other well-dressed, well-fed academics what we think and feel and do.

What we say to them could make or break us.

That's why Emmaline is talking to us about what the rich people want to hear from us. She knows what she's talking about. She knows how to behave around the rich people. She knows how to stay safe.

She knows all this because she has to spend her life as a servant for the comfortable and and well-housed. And it's a dangerous job. One where your mind and body always have to be on high alert. One where you have to smile through your pain and lie through your teeth. But it's a job that taught her well.

"They expect gratitude from us," Emmaline is telling all of us gathered on the floor of this bare hut. "They get very angry if you don't show them gratitude." Her voice is oddly calm. Unnervingly thoughtful. Unbearably kind.

I think about everything I have to be grateful for. My people. My relationships. The sky. The earth. The sun. The moon. The stars. All those things were given to me by God and God alone.

I think about all the things I have to be miserable for. The hunger. The unending work. The people that die every year, too young for death and too worn down to be useful anymore. The long days under the bright hot sun in the fields without enough water breaks. All this misery is directly due to the comfortable people in their high apartments.

But we can't tell them that. And I know exactly why.

"Why do we have to be grateful?" A young child named Dannenne asks, their voice heavy with darkness and their eyes wide with curiosity. Dannenne is cute. They're thoughtful. They do well in school, even though their school barely teaches them anything, as all the kids often complain. At least they're going to school. I didn't go.

"Because, Dannenne," Emmaline starts, "they give us jobs and they buy our crops and that gives us the money to live." There is something dark and rueful in her tone.

"But I don't like living," the young child complains. Their voice carries tones of weariness that no child's voice should have. But they're weary. Too weary, already, of this worrisome life.

"No-one does," a young man named Dellson agrees. "But we have to anyways. It's just the way things are." He echoes his sentiment. But with the terrible resignation that comes with experience.

"Maybe one day things will be different," a woman named Laycia suggests, cradling her cooing baby in her arms and leaning against her friend Asilla. She has to stay strong. For her baby. She tries to give her strength to the rest of us.

Bollen coughs, and I stroke his back to help him feel better. It's a horrible, dry, cracked sound. It chills me to the bone.

"Anyways," Emmaline continues, "there's nothing that the well-to-do hate more than poor people who complain. The well-off say that they provide us with so much. They give us jobs and business and whatnot. So if we complain it really annoys them. They say that if we're not happy with our lot they could stop providing for us. They could take it away." There is something terrified under the solemnity of her words.

My breath freezes in my chest. I knew that this was the case already. That the cushy wanted our loyalty and our devotion as well as our work and our suffering. But hearing it like this sends chills up my spine.

"And say that you're happy with the way things are," Emmaline warns us. "If they ever catch even a hint that you're unsatisfied, they will hate it. And they will hurt you for it." Her dark, dark eyes makes the blood in my heart swirl with fear. Not directed towards her. But towards those who she warns us about.

Of course. Those who were alright in the status quo wouldn't want us to show any ill feelings towards it. Not even a hint of anything that could be construed as or lead to anger against the way things are. Anger against a system that took much from us and took little from them.

"Always pretend to be hopeful," Emmaline goes on, ensuring that we're all listening to her weighted, indispensable words. "Because if they think that we are hopeful, they will think that we are complacent."

"Just, tell them what you think they want to hear," an older woman named Auburnee tells us. "Tell them what would rock the boat least." She carries a sense of simple conspiracy in the way she talks. In the way her eyes flicker with the barest hint of a flame.

"But won't it help us if they know how miserable we are?" A preteen girl named Sailee asks. "Won't it make them change?" Her voice is deep and thoughtful and curious. She carries with her the illogical hope that so often gets us through hardship.

"They'll never change," I reply. "Not really. They won't make things better for us. All we can do is try to avoid their anger."

"Have we ever tried making them change?" Sailee asks.

"They know we have not even barely enough to get by," another young girl, Mila, states, resentment in her voice. "They know they have parties and fun and new dresses and all kinds of nonsense. They don't care about the unfairness though. Why should they care about us?" There is a sharp, serrated edge of anger to her. And I wish it had somewhere to go.

"Exactly," a young adult named Karell states, "they don't care. And they won't care. The best thing to do is to tell them what they want to hear."

"To keep us safe," four-year-old Lethey declares. There is still brightness in her voice. Still happiness. But there is also a piercing sort of fear. A fear she soaks up from all the grief and the poverty and the need. I wish I could sooth away all her fears.

"Yes," I agree.

Bollen coughs again. And I think about how very not safe we are. But still, we have to cling to any shreds of safety we can get and we need to cling to them hard.

"And so we have to appear content. Grateful. Loyal." Emmaline's voice rings through the room. She speaks so calmly and surely, despite having been through so much hardship. Despite still going through so much hardship.

"Even if they don't care," an older man named Gray tells us, "we care. We care about each other. And we are together. That is our power. And we have to keep it hidden." He cradles his baby daughter in his lap. I worry about that child. She'll almost inevitably have to grow up without her father. He's not as young as he used to be. Though his tired, worn-down eyes still flicker with as much spirit as before.

"Exactly," a teenager named Ruthia declares. "We cannot let them know our power. We have superior numbers. They know we have superior numbers. They cannot know that we're united. They cannot know that we support each other." There is something bright and shiny and unwavering deep, deep down in her tone. It gives me hope. It gives me strength. We have each other. We have strength.

"Because then we're a threat to their power," Laycia adds. "And we are a threat to their power. But we can't have them knowing that."

"So don't let them know how much you care about your people," a man named Jamis tells us all, "pretend your relationships are strained. Pretend you let age and gender and all those other things divide you." His words are soft and reserved. We have to quiet ourselves to hear them properly. Janis has always been on the shyer side, as far as I know. But when he has something important to say he says it.

I let out a small giggle, even though I know that this tense, solemn room is not the place for it. The idea of my people being divided, the idea of letting my people divide themselves, is just too hilarious to not laugh at.

It's absurd.

We all know we're suffering, though sometimes in different ways. We all know we're slowly dying. The last thing we would do is turn around and make it even harder for any one of us to live.

Everyone looks at me silently. Not rebukingly. Just curiously.

"What's so funny?" Dellson asks me softly. His expression is concerned.

"The thought of us hating each other," I reply, too lightly for the day.

"That is funny," Auburnee replies. Something sparkles in her eyes.

The children are talking to each other. The children always talk to each other, talk to individual adults, talk to themselves. The children are adorable. I love hanging out with them, talking with them, being with them.

"Are you going to be brave for the researchers?" Mila asks me. Her wide, large eyes look into mine like the sun shining through the clouds.

"If I get picked, Mila, Of course am. And I'm sure you'll be very brave as well. But it's okay if you're scared. There's nothing wrong with being scared. It doesn't make you any less brave." I try to put as much strength and as much kindness into my reply as I can.

"I know," she replies confidently. And it's great to hear her confidence. In a world where everything will try to take her confidence from her, it's great to hear that she has it now.

"We need to talk about politics," a man named Jereki starts. "Because there will definitely be questions about politics in the interviews." His eyes are serious and pragmatic, flashing anxiously with purpose. But still they are like water flowing over rocks.

<->

"What is there to say?" A woman named Kaylena asks. "Just say we support one of the two parties that are powerful and that's that." She's strong. She's thoughtful. She's right. It's what we must do. Pledge allegiance with our fingers crossed to the status quo.

"Fck  both those parties," Bollen states, straining to speak. He has to say it anyways. He has to say these words. And he's right. Both parties are the exact same elitist right-wing bullshit but we have to vote for one of the two anyways. We always have to vote for one of the two. None of the smaller, better, still terrible parties that also run.

"But what about Rached Zanviv?" The ever-thoughtful woman Asilla brings up what's probably on everyone's minds. "If we're asked about her, I think we should say we don't know anything." At the mention of the name, her voice lights up. But still she keeps it even, smooth. Though I can tell that she has to fight for it.

Rached Zanviv. The star falling to earth. Of course we know about her. A budding politician from our ranks. A young woman who has left the comfortable shaking with fear. We know about her. Of course we all know about her. But we're not allowed to say we do.

Bollen coughs again. And I go out to give him a twig of arkena to suck on, to maybe take the sharpest edges off of his sickness.

"That would make sense," a young woman named Jaylee says. "There's no way we should know about her. Unless word got around. /Which it didn't/." She smiles conspirationally at that last sentence. I can tell that she feels a certain sort of joy at tricking the comfortable. Though I muse that we all do.

"Yes," Karell agrees, "/it couldn't've./"

"I live in the city. I've seen the way the contented ones rally around their favoured parties. They love them. They're powerful. Terrifying. Almost violent."

There is silence at Jereki's words.

"So I think that covers everything," Ruthia begins, "unless anyone has anything more to add."

"Does everyone agree to the plan?" Mila asks. And we do. We all agree. We never make any plans without all agreeing. But it's ever so easy to agree. It feels as if the whole community is just different parts of the same mind.

Everyone rises and files out of the room to go check on the state of affairs with the people in the other houses. Gray stays with Bollen.

——-

I'm sitting by the clay stove, with my best friend Havan. He's cutting onions while I'm stirring the rice. It's a a strange moment of something that's like the faintest shadow of peace. What's strange about this moment is that it's happening during the census. The time where everyone is on edge.

"What are you thinking?" Havan asks me.

"Oh. Just that I like sitting here with you. It almost like it's not census week."

"Oh you're so sweet. I like sitting with you too. I always like spending time with you."

"Me too."

"Imagine this as just a holiday. A few days where all the people can gather together."

"Oh I wish I could. But when I think of how we're all together I think of why we're all together and then I get sad."

"That's unfortunate. It's not your fault though."

"I know. How about you? Can you keep the dread from your mind?"

"Of course not. But we live with what we have."

"I do suppose we do."

We both whip our heads around, sensing danger. The door to the room, a rickety little thing of straw, is pulled open. In step two women dressed in sequinned dresses that swirl with fireworks of colour.

They are beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. With shining dark hair and and smooth fresh skin and rounded nails painted pretty colours. They are still dark like maple tree bark. But they are much lighter than those of us who work under the sun. Their painted lips do not smile. They gaze cooly and seriously around the room.

"We're looking for a Miss Nanette Woblegreen to do an interview with for the census." I look up at them, masking my shock and fear. They picked me. I didn't think they'd pick me. Of course, there was always the option of it happening. But it always felt a bit unreal.

Well it's all too real now.

"It's me," I reply, getting up.

"Come with us." I follow behind them as they lead me out of the room filled with my people, who are all meticulously trying to look unbothered and trying not to look at me as I make my way out.

We walk all the way down the street and out of the neighbourhood. They take me to a large van with writing on the side. There are two large, windowed doors at the rear end of it. They unlock the doors and I follow them in.

Inside is a cool, air conditioned little room, with two plush seats that have trays in front of them. The researchers get into the seats snd I am left standing in front of them.

"Please, sit down," one of the women insists. I look around the bare room, and then take a seat where I am on the floor.

"We just need some basic information first. What is your name and gender?"

"Nanette Woblegreen, I'm a demigirl."

"That's not a real gender. What's your real gender?" I know I have to give an answer they will be satisfied with. But I just ... I just had to put this out there. I can't stand it when people don't know my gender.

"I'm sorry. I'm a girl. It's just ... it's hard to be a girl sometimes." I quickly cover myself with a lie. A lie that's fully formed. One that was handed down to me by the mothers of my community.

The older women in their sparkly outfits write something down on their papers.

"So do you feel that it's more difficult, being a girl?" They look down their nose at me and I can't help but feel like an insect being scrutinized.

"Yes. It's definitely hard." I keep my answer short, wanting to see how they take it. Wanting to see how they want me to answer. Subtly letting them direct me in the right direction as I wait for their response.

"I can imagine. What, would you say, makes it hard?"

"The men, of course." I try to keep my answers polite but short. Anxiety rushes through me and pounds in my head. But that's good. If makes it all the easier to think. I just have to hide my fear.

"And what do the men do, that's so oppressive?" Their tones are detached. Apathetic. Slightly disgusted.

"The better question would be what don't they do? They're always trying to cause conflicts and start fights. They always find something wrong with you. Something to denounce you for. And they always make more work for us." It's a rehearsed answer. One I know well. One anyone with my anatomy would know well. Those with the opposite anatomy would have a different answer that they also rehearsed as well.

I can feel the floor of the van dig into my thighs. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. My blood rushing in my ears. My breath feels like it's stuck in my chest.

The women are writing in their notebooks, every hair in place. I don't know how to write.

"So who is in your family?" The one with longer hair asks me.

"I have a mother and a father. And two younger brothers." I can't lie about this. They have records of who's related to who. I can - and must - lie about the next part though. "And I have a husband, his name is Lieffen." Lieffen is my neighbour. A great guy. I wouldn't mind raising children with him. But he's just a friend. A friend I court-married for tax benefits. And to make the government believe that we were straight.

I can't let them know about my girlfriend, Lavina.

"And is your husband your first love?"

"I wouldn't say I'm in love with him," I force a chuckle to come out of my parched throat, "I just married him for convenience." This isn't even a lie. I laugh morosely, internally, to myself.

"Alright." They continue writing in their notebooks. I force my breathing to stay even. I force my face to stay blank.

"How is your relationship with your brothers?" The woman with curly hair asks me.

"Honestly, I kind of resent them. As a kid I always had to take care of them. I could never be a kid myself." It's true that I often had to take care of the younger kids while I myself was an older kid, when the adults and teenagers of the neighbourhood were away. But I never resented anyone for that. No-one but the well-off who made all the parents be away at work all day and sometimes late into the night.

"That's understandable. Are they married?"

"Not yet."

One of the women nod. But no-one says anything. I wonder for the briefest moment if I've said something wrong. But no, I can't have. This was an easy question. I only spoke the truth.

"And when you were getting married, was there pressure upon you to do so?"

"Yes." I steel myself to go through dangerous territory again. "There was." And again, this isn't exactly a lie. There was pressure, it was just from entrenched queerphobia, not my community. Of course, I don't let them know this.

"And what is your relationship with your mother?"

"Not very good." The carefully-formed falsehood leaves my lips. "She thinks that just because she's older than me she gets to boss me around." There is power in numbers. There is power in togetherness. They can't know that we have power. Or else they'll retaliate against us.

"And what of your relationship with your father?"

"Oh even worse." I let myself think of my father for a second. He's sick. Has been so for months. He likely won't make it. He's sweet. Self-sacrificing. Full of stories and suffering and inspiration. I can't help it, tears flow out of my eyes. I hope they don't know the true source.

"And why is it so?"

"Oh well he's older than me and he's a man. So he doubly thinks he can tell me what to do."

"I see," the curly-haired one states coldly. "And what is the relationship between your mother and your father?"

I think of my mother coming home from work and holding my father's hand as he coughs on his blanket. I think of the sadness, of the love in her eyes. I think of the danger that she's in. I think of how I'm the only one right now who can keep her safe.

"It's strained," I answer. "But it works just fine. They're together to raise us children and they did it, they raised us. So whatever is or isn't between their marriage is successful enough." I gulp down my fear.

"And you had one brother who died when he was young, did you not?"

"Yes." Actually, I had a sister as well. But she died so very young that neither her birth nor her death were recorded.

"And how about friends? Do you have any friends?"

The safest answer to this question is to say that I didn't. To say that I wasn't tied to anyone else in the community. The whole community had agreed. That we needed to present ourselves as isolated, insular units. To avoid even giving them the faintest impression that we were one united front.

"I don't have any friends. I mostly just keep to my family."

"Alright," the straight-haired one replies. Then both the women don't say anything for a while. They spend time writing. Occasionally they check the shiny glass tablets they procured from their dainty purses.

Anxiety buzzes and builds inside me until I think I'm fit to bursting with it. But I keep sitting there. Unmoving. Face blank. Though it's so very difficult to sit here. Unmoving. Face blank. I feel like I will explode into screaming. I don't know how much longer I can take this for.

"So what about work?" The straight-haired woman finally asks. "What do you do for a living?"

"I paint dolls in the doll factory," I reply.

"And how is that? Do you enjoy it?"

"Yes. Very much," I lie. In reality I truly despise work so much. It's so straining and stressful and repetitive. But if they have any indication of discontentment, my whole community will be in trouble. So it's best to play the part of the contented citizen.

"Do you feel satisfied at work?"

"I do. I feel satisfied and complete."

"And what about working makes you feel this way?" The curly-haired one asks, voice uncaring.

Hmm, I wonder what. Is it the painful, mind-numbing repetitiveness? Is it the headaches from noxious paint? Is it the overwhelming, terrifying quotas? Is it the backbreaking speed I must pace myself at? Is it the weariness? The lack of breaks? The overseer looking down my neck? What is it?

"I just love to be busy," I reply. "I love to be doing things. To feel like I'm contributing to society."

"That's admirable." This statement from the straight-haired one is the biggest show of emotion either of them have ever given me. I almost want to scoff. Or to laugh. Or to cry.

"Do you think the hours are too long?" The curly-haired one asks.

I think about how infinitely unending the work days seem. How the hours stretch on and on and on. About how the days go on and on and on, one after another. There is no escape. I ...

"I don't find them too long. The longer to stay away from my family, the better." They seem to be satisfied with that answer

"And do you harbour any resentment towards your employers?"

Do I? /Do I?/ Like the sun shines in the daytime I do. Like the air surrounds us all, I do. Like the earth brings forth life, I do. But I say what I have to say.

"I don't. After all, they give me work. They keep me clothed and fed and housed."

"Good for you." The curly-haired one smiles. "Taking care of yourself." Her cold and disinterested tone does not match the words that come out of her mouth.

I think deeply about every word she says, that either of them say. I analyze them, look for clues into what I should say. It's nerve-wracking but at the same time it's thrilling. I love a good challenge.

"So," the long-haired one begins, "we would like to ask what your future plans are."

"Future plans? I'll just probably have children with my husband. Keep working." I'll probably adopt children if I have them but they don't need to know that.

"That's acceptable," she replies, her mascaraed eyelashes sharp against her face. "How many children are you planning to have?"

"I don't know. I'll have to decide that with my husband. Though that's not a conversation I look forwards to at all."

I keep my answers vague. But vague in such a way that they don't seem vague. I am just a thread in a cloth. I weave a cloth of lies to cover the truth that's inside.

"Now let's talk about religion," the curly one says to me.

"Of course?"

"Do you believe in the gods?"

"Of course I do. They're a big part of my life." Of course I don't tell them about which gods. Of course I don't tell them about our secret gods. This answer isn't even a lie. Technically.

"And if the priests told you to do something for the sake of the gods, would you do it?"

"Of course I would." My heart keeps pounding. Fear keeps rushing through me. But I think I can make it. I've made it so far.

"Do you think the gods help your life or impede it?"

"I have no time for such thoughts. The gods must must be followed no matter what." I keep my face blank. My tone even. I don't let them know about the whirling storm inside.

"Do you believe the priests are right and true about what they teach about the gods? Or do you think there is more that they don't know?" The curly one's tone has a hard, sharp edge to it. It makes my heart pulse fast with fear. Though of course I don't show this. Can't show this.

"Of course they're right," I reply through my fear, trying to soothe her. "They are, after all, educated. They are the most educated on this matter, on the matter of religion, and they should be listened to."

They pause to write. I pause to think. A memory flashes in my mind. Auburnee mocking the priest's deep, slow voice and smug, self-important tone. All of us laughing. I force down my smile.

"We're over halfway done," the straight-haired one tells me. I let out a sign of relief internally. I made it this far. The worst of it is over. I can make it through this. Make it through this and hopefully never be picked again.

"Okay," I reply with false calmness.

"So what are your political views?" The curly-haired one asks coolly.

"I like the Classicals myself. They have strong values." The thought-out lie leaves my lips easily.

"And what are these values that you are so drawn to?" The straight-haired one has a hard edge to her voice.

"Personal freedom. Individualism. Enterprise. Opportunity." I've heard the Classicals speeches when they came to our village. I hated those speeches but I clearly remember the words they brought up again and again. And so I just repeat them.

"Do you favour any smaller parties?" The straight-haired one asks.

"Smaller parties? No. They can't even organize themselves. How would they possibly be able to organize us?" I feign disapproval in my voice. I have to keep my emotions in line with my words after all. At least, outwardly.

"And what of any new up-and-coming parties?" Her question seems especially pointed. I wonder if she knows more than she's letting on.

"Up and coming parties?" I ask.

"Yes. What do you think about the newer parties on the political scene?"

"What new parties? The newest party is what, ten years old." I answer her question with this. And I hope it's a safe answer. Though I don't know if it is. They're really digging in this direction.

"Answer honestly."

What. The fck. What the fck. Terror seizes my heart and I feel as if I can't breathe. Do they know I'm lying? They must know I'm lying. How do they know I'm lying? All the scant bits of protection my community had crash down in front of me.

"What?" Is all I can say.

"You said you didn't know about new parties. Answer the question honestly." The straight-haired one's voice is laced with dismay.

"I'm answering as honestly as I know how to," I say, having collected myself a bit more.

"Okay I'll just get to the point," the straight-haired one states. Her hair is unnaturally straight. There isn't a single wave or curve to it.

"Yes?"

"What are your thoughts on Rached Zanviv?"

"Who?" My heart feels as if it's in my throat. Why do they expect me to know about her?

"The up-and-coming politician, Rached Zanviv." The curly-haired one seems a bit impatient.

"I've never heard about her," I asservate.

"See, we find that hard to believe," the curly-haired one replies.

"Why?" It's almost impossible to keep the terror out of my voice. But I manage it. I have to manage it. My whole community depends on me. Depends on this. My whole community of struggling people the whole world over.

I'm tired of speaking at this point. Tired of the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Tired of the stress. I just want to go home. But I can't. Not now. Not yet.

"You see, one of our interviewees did know about her," the straight-haired one speaks to me. "One of our interviewees from this village." Her words feel like a heavy stone being dropped on my chest.

"Who?" I manage to ask, straining desperately to keep my voice even. I don't know how I'm going to salvage this situation.

"A young Iren McSavee, I'm sure you know about her." The curly one keeps her tone pointedly accusatory. I repress a shudder.

"Her? Oh yes, I do know her. She always has to know everything about everyone." A lie takes shape in my mind. A lie that can perhaps save the whole charade.

"Are you friends?" The curly-haired one asks.

"Friends? No. But she has bugged me from time to time, wanting whatever gossip I could give her. She sure does love gossip. She annoys me. But she definitely has a way of getting anyone to say whatever she wants them to tell her. I try to not pay much attention to her but it's hard not to sometimes."

"Stay on topic, girl," the straight-haired one presses.

"I'm not a girl. Anyways, I am on topic. Just let me finish. So," I pause a little moment to think. Just the tiniest moment. So small that it's imperceptible. Whatever words I say next will be critically important. Not just for my village but for all the villages all around the country, probably even the world. "Anyways, she gets all the gossip she can from anywhere she can. She gets people to tell her things. Everything, about our lives.

"She even gets the people who work out in the cities to tell her things. When they're in the village in between jobs. Now who knows what information she got from them? They've been all around the country. Someone surely must know about this lady you are talking to me about. Surely someone must know about her. And if someone knows about her Iren does too."

"And this Iren," the straight-haired one begins cooly, the accusing edge mostly out of her voice, "does she spread the news she's heard to the others?"

"It depends on what kind of news it is," I reply in fake calmness. "If it's about someone doing something wrong or taboo, then she will definitely tell everyone about it. But if it's not something like that, if it's something that doesn't really interest her, she won't tell most people."

"Does politics interest her?" The curly one asks. Her eyes glint hard in the low light of the van.

"No, not really. She probably won't go around telling people about politics."

"Then why would she want to know about it in the first place?" Her words carry a hard shine of accusation that sends chills down to my very bones.

"She wants to know anything new," I reply. "Anything out of the ordinary. Anything that has the potential to maybe be interesting. Even in the political realm. She loves scandals and whatnot. Maybe she thought there was something cool about this new candidate but when she dug around for more info she found that this wasn't the case."

"You said she likes taboo topics," the straight-haired one starts. "Taboos such as what?"

"Oh, you know." I keep my voice nonchalant. I dig through the list of fake taboos in my brain. "If anyone's been drinking, if anyone's been stealing, if anyone's been breaking the law. If anyone's been out alone with someone of the opposite gender who they're not related to. If anyone's been cheating on their husband or wife. Stuff like that."

"I see," the straight one replies.

Neither of them show any emotion. And I make sure to keep my own emotions closely hidden. I wonder if I've gotten myself out of this hole. If I've gotten us all out of this hole. I silently send a prayer of apology Iren's way, I made her out to be such a gossip. I'm sure she'll understand.

"One last question," the straight-haired one states with a sort of disinterest.

"Yes?" I respond, keeping my tone cordial and my eyes at ease.

"Do you believe you are happy in your life?"

"Happy? Overall, yes. I am very happy. I've got enough of everything to get by. I'm well respected enough. I have the sun and the sky and the moon and the stars. I do wish I had different people around me but at the end of the day I'm content."

I hope my answer was convincing enough. I hope they didn't catch even a glimpse of the pain and the rage and the hatred and the love that overflows like molten lava out of the volcano of my heart.

They do not respond. Only write.

They sit there writing and I sit there praying for what seems to be an eternity. I hope that I haven't messed everything up. I hope that I've been able to closely guard our secrets. To closely guard our power.

They finally move out of their seats and unlock the van door for me.

———

I emerge into the sunlight of my village. Into the dirt paths that I love and hate both at the same time. Into the brilliant blue of the sky. The brilliant blue that has acted as a backdrop to so much of my life.

They don't follow me out, and I sigh in relief. Finally, I can breathe again. The hunger and the exhaustion still burns through me but finally I can breathe. Finally I'm returning. I wonder if this is what the people who work in the city feel each time they return to the village.

Lieffen is there waiting for me at the edge of the block. He's the only one who can be here waiting for me. Anyone else is too risky. His face is drawn with anxiety and concern. There is worry sparkling in his eyes.

I feel like I'm dying. But I also feel like I'm catching a glimpse of life. I beam at my lawfully-wedded husband - emphasis on the lawfully part - and he beams at me back.

"How are you, Nanette?" He whisphers to me once we are walking in tandem.

"Not too well. But relieved that it's finally over."

"Did it go well?"

"As well as it could have gone. There were no major problems. Though there is one thing I must discuss with the village."

"Okay. We'll do that then. You were very brave."

"Thanks."

People smile at us secretively as we walk by. The whole village vibrates with community. With spirit.

———

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.