Violet

Violet

Rae Thomas

Copyright 2014 by Rae
Thomas

Smashwords
Edition

Cover Art by Brad
Jones

I go into the washroom and flip the lock behind
me. I splash some water on my face and look at myself in the
mirror.

My face. The same face I've seen every day since
I woke. Every day that I remember.

I find myself tracing the veins on my left wrist
with the fingers of my right hand. I stop and open the medicine
cabinet. Yes, that’s what I’m looking for.

I pick up the shaving blade from where it sits
on the shelf. I look again to my wrist, but when I return to my
reflection, the image is blurry. The tears have distorted my
vision, and though I was determined not to cry, I am powerless
against them.

Some would say that this is a choice, but what
choice do I really have? I can’t stand living with all the things I
don’t know.

I press the point of the blade into the middle
of my wrist and wince at the pain. Fat tears plop onto the skin of
my forearm. But I do not stop. I pull the razor further, making a
conscious effort to steady my hand against the sobs. There is less
blood than I thought there would be.

At this moment, there is a knock on the door. I
don’t answer immediately, but then I hear his voice.

“Violet?”

I turn toward the door and say, “I’m
coming.”

I am not the type of person whose body gradually
becomes aware of soft daylight filtering in the window, whose limbs
and muscles stretch to rid themselves of sleep, whose eyes softly
flutter open, whose mind becomes aware that rest is no longer
necessary and gets up to greet the day. I am the type of person
whose dreams gradually change into conscious thoughts so seamlessly
that I do not remember waking; I simply come to the realization
that I am awake.

Now that I know that I am awake, I take in my
surroundings, none of which I greet with much familiarity. This is
not alarming. We have only been here a short time. Bed. Nightstand.
Armoire. This house has been equipped with very expensive pieces of
furniture that serve a mostly decorative purpose. They are
minimally functional, but cosmetically give our house the
impression of a place in the country reminiscent of a simpler time.
At least that’s what the brochures say. To me, furniture made so
expensively in an effort to seem inexpensive is contradictory, but
Father seems to be happy here and so I will be happy, too.

I silently leave my room, out through our common
room which shares the design of the rest of the house. A wooden
mantle gnarled and twisted with artificial age hangs above the
fireplace. The fireplace is particularly irritating to me. No one
needs a fireplace. Our atmospheric temperatures are strictly
regulated. Just another purposeless feature. Atop the mantle are
framed photographs placed in chronological order. A young man that
I know to be my father with his arms around a young woman that I
know to be my mother. Big smiles. Soon the pictures include a baby
version of me. Mother cradling me on the day of my birth. Father
holding his hands just out of my reach on the day that I took my
first step. In one family photograph, I stand between Father and
Mother holding a First Place medallion. The pride on my face is
evident. I do not remember that day. As the row of photos
progresses, my mother is no longer present. The photographs of my
father and I continue, though our smiles are never quite as big,
and our eyes are never quite as bright. Still, the resemblance is
uncanny. I am my father’s daughter.

I walk toward the kitchen, passing the wall
adorned with my father’s accomplishments. Medals and plaques for
military bravery as well as for scientific discovery. I placed them
on the wall myself a few days ago. It was meant to be a surprise. I
found the awards in a box, and I felt that hanging them was perhaps
something that my mother would have done. I waited with anxious
anticipation for my father to notice. When he saw them, he said
only, “Where did you find those?” And I replied by saying, “In a
box.” And then he said, “Oh.” And he walked away.

Though my father is a man of few words, his
reaction had still been uncharacteristically distant. My father is
not prideful, but he is not afflicted with false modesty; he knows
that he is a good scientist, but he also understands his
limitations. Perhaps his reaction displayed regret for having
retired from The Vox.

The Vox is our military. My father had enlisted
as a soldier, but his scientific aptitude was soon discovered, and
so he was assigned to the Claro, the Scientific Order of The Vox. I
do not know much about The Vox, only that signs along the roadway
depict men in uniform with the caption
The Vox: The Voice of the
People
.

As I enter the kitchen, I find my father seated
at our incredibly fashionable dining table. Almost without
exception, what is fashionable is also what is considered to be
difficult to attain. At some point in time, people desired to have
everything covered in precious metals and gemstones. Now, thousands
are spent replicating a wood called “pine” and aging it to create a
kitchen table that seems to have been made from an antique barn
door.

“Morning.” I give my father a slight smile as I
sit down next to him where a plate is waiting with my
breakfast.

“Good morning, Violet. Did you sleep well?”

“Well, I slept, which is an improvement, I
suppose.” I have not been sleeping lately.

“You’re just getting used to our new
surroundings. When you become more settled, I’m sure your sleep
will be more restful.”

My father has high hopes that I will embrace our
new life here. So far, his optimism has not been catching. Even so,
I can’t argue that country life seems to have had positive effects
on his appearance. He’s spending more time outdoors since his
retirement, and it shows. In sharp contrast to what was once a
pallid complexion due to long hours spent in his lab, my father has
allowed his facial hair to grow a little. His tanned skin
accentuates the crinkles at the corners of his striking blue eyes,
and his hair has remained dark brown except the wisps of grey that
have appeared at his temples. Members of The Vox traditionally keep
their hair very short, but his has begun to grow shaggy and extends
over the tops of his ears and in the back it just barely brushes
the top of his collar. To a passerby, this might not be the same
man at all. My father looks downright rugged.

He continues, “I really enjoy living out here,
but I can’t get over how different everything is. As a child, you
always wanted to play outside, but you were so disappointed by the
small parks in Summus. Do you remember?”

As soon as he says this, my father steels
himself for my response. I can see the hope in his eyes; I look
down at my hands, no longer hungry.

After a few seconds of silence, my father places
his hand on mine and squeezes gently.

“You know I’m just trying to help you, V.”

I’m still not looking at him.

“If you want to help, just let me move on,” I
say. “I’m tired of trying to remember. That’s why I want to start
my lessons. I’ve fallen far enough behind as it is. We can’t put
our lives on hold, hoping for something that might never
happen.”

There is a little more venom in my voice than I
intended. I can tell that I have wounded him, and I immediately
regret it. As he begins to pull his hand away, I grab it in both of
mine.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it.”

“Violet, I—”

I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I slide
my chair out from under the table, flash him a smile as I put my
plate in the sink and say, “I’ve got to get ready for my lessons. I
don’t want to be late on the first day.”

He smiles sadly but I pretend not to notice; I
kiss him on the top of his head as I walk behind his chair and call
over my shoulder, “I’ll be ready shortly!”

* * *

The ride is silent. My father and I refrain from
speaking often during this drive; we take the time to appreciate
the scenery, which is so different from that of Summus, the city
where my father and I once lived. However, this morning our usual
peaceful silence is full of tension—words that are not being said.
Still, I intend to enjoy the landscape.

Eligo is a large, sprawling area. Houses dot the
countryside and are separated by rolling, vibrant hills with tall,
lush grasses. I always take time to admire the way the daylight
peeks over our horizon, but I particularly enjoy the way the sky
colors begin to change and the swirls eventually fade into a blue
so bright that it can only be matched by the green of the grasses.
Summus is so crowded with buildings that one cannot see much of the
sky from the ground. Besides, from what I understand, people in
Summus do not value things like sky colors the way the residents of
Eligo do.

I know that my father will not tolerate this for
long. He hates feeling tension between us. I know that he will try
to discuss our situation with me, but I don’t want to talk about it
anymore. For the past months, all I’ve done is talk, talk, talk,
and try to remember. Now, I just want to exist the way I am. My
father does not accept this—will not accept this. His stubborn
refusal will lead him to begin a conversation. Awkwardly. He won’t
know what to say, his words will come, but haltingly—he will not
want to upset me as he did in the kitchen. I will feel
uncomfortable. I will give him short, sharp answers that hurt him
even more, and I will hate myself for it. Oh, well. I just need to
bear with it until we arrive; when I go home, we will both pretend
that nothing has happened. We will go back to the way we were
yesterday. This is how our relationship works, and it’s good enough
for me.

The simultaneously unsure yet determined look on
his face tells me that my father is preparing himself to say
something.
Here we go.
However, when my father begins to
speak, he does not follow the pattern that I was expecting.

“I love living in Eligo. After being in the city
for so long, Eligo is such a welcome relief. I can’t tell you how
many times she begged me to find a way out of The Vox—or at least
to apply for a transfer, so we could take you out of the city. But
then she would smile her beautiful smile and crinkle her nose and
laugh because she didn’t want me to feel guilty for loving my job.
The Claro would not condescend to have a lab here, where people are
aware of the beauty of life without being afflicted with a
necessity to know how and why it works. The Claro looks down on
people like this. But I promised her that one day we would move. I
would quit or retire or do whatever I had to do, and we would come
to Eligo.”

Here, my father pauses. He does not usually say
her name; even to whisper it causes him pain. My mother is the only
“she” he ever mentions. I can see several tears making the journey
from his eyes to his chin, but I can also hear in his voice that he
is holding back a lot more. My father loved my mother more than
anything in existence. More than anything. More than science, more
than money, more than me. He loves me, there is no question; he
would lay down his life for mine in a moment. However, I often
wonder if he would rather have lost me to disease than my mother.
After all, they could always have had more children; he will never
have another Tara.

Perhaps this is why my father and I have never
created a functional relationship in the wake of her death. He
keeps me at a distance; I know this. But perhaps I do the same to
him. She was the link between us; we both loved her desperately.
That much is evident from our photos alone. Perhaps I am guilty of
the same crime that I accuse him of; if I could have chosen, which
of my parents would be alive today? Maybe I am lucky that I do not
remember.

As soon as I finish formulating this thought, my
father begins to speak again, but his voice sounds thick with
sadness and regret. “This is what she would want. We need to make
this work for her. She used to tell me that Eligo is a gift that we
have been given, and it’s true. Cerno gave us a new start, a second
chance to do everything right.”