Paranoia 2
second chapter
My nails clicked as I tapped them on the desk, and I spared them a look. They were getting too long again; I'd have to cut them short, blunt and almost bleeding. If I keep them too long, they will break with all the writing and typing I do, not to mention get in the way of holding my pen. Sometimes they press into my skin, seeking blood. My body is vampiric that way. Or would it be cannabalistic?
The professor's droning voice caught my attention again, and once again I tried to concentrate on his words. Marcy made this so much easier, Marcy who knew exactly how to explain to me and never failed to sit next to me. But now Marcy is gone. The last time I saw Marcy, in the flesh, was two days ago, in this classroom, sitting in that now empty seat and writing clear neat notes in a presise hand. Now I have to make do with my own scratching hand, clawing the letters out of the air and pressing them into the paper. I could have gotten myself a slim shiney laptop, or one of those keyboards with memory, to flash my hands over. But my money is for other things, and so I sit with my paper and pen.
In class, one of the surest way to identify an activist or a supporter is the materials a person uses for taking notes. We refuse to use the popular gadgets of the time, instead preferring the old, reliable method of recycled paper and non-toxic ink. Head and shoulders hunched over the little folding desk, I scratch my silent rejection for all the world, or at least the class, to see. The class ends, and I am still here.
I managed to dance with the administration and got two classes in a row in the same lecture room. Marcy had been unable to keep up with the steps, and laughingly declined to receive instruction from me. It's okay, ever pratical Marcy had said, I don't need that class anyways. I take it because I'm curious, not because I need it. I am usually alone in the class, with other students giving me a one seat gap between me and them. I think that they think my pen and paper will rub off on them and infect them with the desire to be bold and be truly different. Most students remind me of secondary school, the time of adolescence, where we were not quite adults and not quite children, and now we have just come into adulthood when we have just gotten used to adolescence. We're not sure our flimpsy wings will hold us when we fly.
However, independence suits me nicely, and I've barely felt the uncertainty and wobbly legs by peers often do. I have always been promised. They have no such security, and so they keep their distance. Usually. The person who sat down beside me obviously didn't feel that way. And he looked at me, his eyes looking straight at me as I glance at his face, at the intruder in my space, the alien in my world. He looks at me, and tries to pierce my soul. He looks at me.
“You usually sit with Marcy,” he stated, as if it were a truthful fact, like birds fly and pigs don't. I could hardly deny it, and so agreed. He used the name Marcy, his lips smoothing the name into something like Mercy, the way Marcy liked it to be pronounced. I felt a spark of jealousy; he could speak Marcy's name while I stubbled over it into something strange. I turned it into a joke, I know mercy.
Something in his laugh reminded me of Marcy, a carefree and light with no harm feelings. No wait, there was a difference; his held a sharp splitter of steel, carefully cradled in thick satin. And I wonder, is it tempered, or is it a brittle metal, to shatter when it finally strikes in its first battle.
“You know Marcy, and yet you sit alone.” I have always sat alone, and saw no reason why I should be asked about it, or any reason why I should change my habits. “Come sit with us sometime. This is a time where we should stand together.” I have never actually stood. I suppose that he took me for a supporter, a quiet activist who signs the petitions and goes on the walks and rallies, and in other words provides the support for a movement. He did not know the nature of our relationship, but then few do, including me.
I'm pretty sure that I showed reluctance, and yet he continued. “What are you doing after class? Are you busy?” After class? I ride the bus, losing myself on the circuits and routes until I felt the words on the page starting to make sense and coming back in a free fall to my physical body, after I had replaced the dust and dirt of the world in my veins with the flow of air and clouds and washed myself clean in the water before it falls into rain. I don't tell people about that, they like to give me those little pills that make it harder to think for myself.
And yet, I found myself surrounded by students in the busy cafeteria, at a round table full of people I remembered from meets and study groups and vaguely from the occassional march. They were being open with their concern, discussing the likelihood of Marcy being released. I doubted that would happen, the patrolmen don't like making mistakes. Oh, but these people of Marcy's, they still had the innocent arrogance of adolescence, believing in their own invulerability. Marcy still lived to them. They didn't realize that very few were returned after a raid.
However, their presence here relieved me. There had been no purge, and only Marcy was taken. It was thought that the movement was dead with the cutting of the head. It is a risk, for there might be someone who can fill the gap. I wondered whether any of Marcy's people had the strength of stand in Marcy's stead. It would be interesting to see who tried.
I am not a vicious person, nor a jealous person, or a very judgemental person. Arrogance may be a fault I still harbour, and I will not let a weak puppet inherit Marcy's position. I may not have been an active part of this movement, but I know the effects. Marcy's memory will not be tainted.
“You act as if Marcy is dead,” a sharp girl, indeed, to notice how I refered to Marcy in the past. Simply, Marcy is dead to me. Although publicly her case will be debated and protested and might bring some change, Marcy will not stand in front of me again, or sit with me in class, giggling over the hidden meanings in the professor's words. An activist taken in a public raid disappears. No one on the outside has ever seen any of them again, other than in pictures. This is a fact that all of us in the leadership have acknowledged, and is a reality that we are willing to risk. These soft people of Marcy's court still cling to the belief that bad things do not happen to good people. To them, Marcy's arrest is a step to increase awareness of their cause.
Finally, the question comes. I have not introduced myself to them, including the one who sought me out in class. So I tell them my carefully constructed name, the alias codename for the outer circle, leaving my other name secret. Part of the problem that the patrolmen have is that we never use our real names, using alias's that lead to other alias's in a system that makes us partially safe, and differs us from the simple lone stumbler that is snatched up in the jaws of authority. However, my codenames are particular, recognised by any leader in a group. If any of them had known anything, they would have apologised and let me sit silently for as long as I pleased. They did not.
They asked the second question, the one that usually is considered rude and shows how close to the social sphere they still cling. I have had many people try to guess and question and define my gender, my work, my purpose to life. There are a few theories about any one of my alias, and I don't care. I don't see how any of it is anyone's business but my own. I refuse to be defined and limited by words, and I refuse to define and limit anyone else with labels. They are merely descriptive, not who I am. And I tell them so.
Marcy would have laughed in the faces, but then, Marcy always did understand at least in part my reasoning. A name is just a name, Marcy would tell these people, for us to keep each other apart and to know who we are addressing. Except for those true names, that mean nothing but what you are. Those are the ones you keep in your heart, never to leave your lips. I would have said that most people don't even know their true names, as it is was keeps you from being lost inside, and so it is sacred. Marcy would have asked me what kind of drugs I'm on.
I don't take any drugs, or any medication unless I'm sick with something. So none of those pills the doctors seem so keen on giving for most problems. Marcy understood that, but liked to joke about it. I don't usually mind, as long as it's obviously a joke coming from a friend. I wonder whether I have too few friends, sometimes on those nights where I sit in front of my screen, monitoring the chatter of people on the channels and the movements of the crowds, and the wanderings of the patrolmen.
These people, they only think that they knew Marcy. I cannot acknowledge any claim any of them have. Despite our brief encounters, we shared a relationship that outdates theirs. It is pure. But they insist on their questions, who I am, where I'm from, what I do, my thoughts. My thoughts are the last thing they would really want to know, but they want to know anyways. What can I tell them?
Then, half a second of insight and enlightenment: they're looking for a new leader, and they're looking for one in me! I almost burst out laughing. I don't. But I do interrupt, and stand. I will not be a puppet leader for them, nor will I take Marcy's place. It would disrespect a good honest name. Marcy is the one to work in the spotlight, I am the one that works in the shadows. No, it would be no good for me to take part in their cause, not now, with the sharp pain of memory so clear and fresh.
I leave, walking silently and calmly to the door. As I do, I spot a camera in the corner, faithfully recording the innocent movements of students and the suspiciousness of myself. I raise my eyes and start directly into the lens, as if daring the person behind the screen, the singular eye that never tires. I move my lips, mouthing a word, two words, three. While the person watching may see the event, according to the archive, this meeting never happened. At least, I can shield the poor simple fools for a little while, before they are sought out like Marcy. I'll give them time, to regroup and think and maybe stand strong in Marcy's name, remember what Marcy had done for them. For Marcy's sake, I do this.
My nails clicked as I tapped them on the desk, and I spared them a look. They were getting too long again; I'd have to cut them short, blunt and almost bleeding. If I keep them too long, they will break with all the writing and typing I do, not to mention get in the way of holding my pen. Sometimes they press into my skin, seeking blood. My body is vampiric that way. Or would it be cannabalistic?
The professor's droning voice caught my attention again, and once again I tried to concentrate on his words. Marcy made this so much easier, Marcy who knew exactly how to explain to me and never failed to sit next to me. But now Marcy is gone. The last time I saw Marcy, in the flesh, was two days ago, in this classroom, sitting in that now empty seat and writing clear neat notes in a presise hand. Now I have to make do with my own scratching hand, clawing the letters out of the air and pressing them into the paper. I could have gotten myself a slim shiney laptop, or one of those keyboards with memory, to flash my hands over. But my money is for other things, and so I sit with my paper and pen.
In class, one of the surest way to identify an activist or a supporter is the materials a person uses for taking notes. We refuse to use the popular gadgets of the time, instead preferring the old, reliable method of recycled paper and non-toxic ink. Head and shoulders hunched over the little folding desk, I scratch my silent rejection for all the world, or at least the class, to see. The class ends, and I am still here.
I managed to dance with the administration and got two classes in a row in the same lecture room. Marcy had been unable to keep up with the steps, and laughingly declined to receive instruction from me. It's okay, ever pratical Marcy had said, I don't need that class anyways. I take it because I'm curious, not because I need it. I am usually alone in the class, with other students giving me a one seat gap between me and them. I think that they think my pen and paper will rub off on them and infect them with the desire to be bold and be truly different. Most students remind me of secondary school, the time of adolescence, where we were not quite adults and not quite children, and now we have just come into adulthood when we have just gotten used to adolescence. We're not sure our flimpsy wings will hold us when we fly.
However, independence suits me nicely, and I've barely felt the uncertainty and wobbly legs by peers often do. I have always been promised. They have no such security, and so they keep their distance. Usually. The person who sat down beside me obviously didn't feel that way. And he looked at me, his eyes looking straight at me as I glance at his face, at the intruder in my space, the alien in my world. He looks at me, and tries to pierce my soul. He looks at me.
“You usually sit with Marcy,” he stated, as if it were a truthful fact, like birds fly and pigs don't. I could hardly deny it, and so agreed. He used the name Marcy, his lips smoothing the name into something like Mercy, the way Marcy liked it to be pronounced. I felt a spark of jealousy; he could speak Marcy's name while I stubbled over it into something strange. I turned it into a joke, I know mercy.
Something in his laugh reminded me of Marcy, a carefree and light with no harm feelings. No wait, there was a difference; his held a sharp splitter of steel, carefully cradled in thick satin. And I wonder, is it tempered, or is it a brittle metal, to shatter when it finally strikes in its first battle.
“You know Marcy, and yet you sit alone.” I have always sat alone, and saw no reason why I should be asked about it, or any reason why I should change my habits. “Come sit with us sometime. This is a time where we should stand together.” I have never actually stood. I suppose that he took me for a supporter, a quiet activist who signs the petitions and goes on the walks and rallies, and in other words provides the support for a movement. He did not know the nature of our relationship, but then few do, including me.
I'm pretty sure that I showed reluctance, and yet he continued. “What are you doing after class? Are you busy?” After class? I ride the bus, losing myself on the circuits and routes until I felt the words on the page starting to make sense and coming back in a free fall to my physical body, after I had replaced the dust and dirt of the world in my veins with the flow of air and clouds and washed myself clean in the water before it falls into rain. I don't tell people about that, they like to give me those little pills that make it harder to think for myself.
And yet, I found myself surrounded by students in the busy cafeteria, at a round table full of people I remembered from meets and study groups and vaguely from the occassional march. They were being open with their concern, discussing the likelihood of Marcy being released. I doubted that would happen, the patrolmen don't like making mistakes. Oh, but these people of Marcy's, they still had the innocent arrogance of adolescence, believing in their own invulerability. Marcy still lived to them. They didn't realize that very few were returned after a raid.
However, their presence here relieved me. There had been no purge, and only Marcy was taken. It was thought that the movement was dead with the cutting of the head. It is a risk, for there might be someone who can fill the gap. I wondered whether any of Marcy's people had the strength of stand in Marcy's stead. It would be interesting to see who tried.
I am not a vicious person, nor a jealous person, or a very judgemental person. Arrogance may be a fault I still harbour, and I will not let a weak puppet inherit Marcy's position. I may not have been an active part of this movement, but I know the effects. Marcy's memory will not be tainted.
“You act as if Marcy is dead,” a sharp girl, indeed, to notice how I refered to Marcy in the past. Simply, Marcy is dead to me. Although publicly her case will be debated and protested and might bring some change, Marcy will not stand in front of me again, or sit with me in class, giggling over the hidden meanings in the professor's words. An activist taken in a public raid disappears. No one on the outside has ever seen any of them again, other than in pictures. This is a fact that all of us in the leadership have acknowledged, and is a reality that we are willing to risk. These soft people of Marcy's court still cling to the belief that bad things do not happen to good people. To them, Marcy's arrest is a step to increase awareness of their cause.
Finally, the question comes. I have not introduced myself to them, including the one who sought me out in class. So I tell them my carefully constructed name, the alias codename for the outer circle, leaving my other name secret. Part of the problem that the patrolmen have is that we never use our real names, using alias's that lead to other alias's in a system that makes us partially safe, and differs us from the simple lone stumbler that is snatched up in the jaws of authority. However, my codenames are particular, recognised by any leader in a group. If any of them had known anything, they would have apologised and let me sit silently for as long as I pleased. They did not.
They asked the second question, the one that usually is considered rude and shows how close to the social sphere they still cling. I have had many people try to guess and question and define my gender, my work, my purpose to life. There are a few theories about any one of my alias, and I don't care. I don't see how any of it is anyone's business but my own. I refuse to be defined and limited by words, and I refuse to define and limit anyone else with labels. They are merely descriptive, not who I am. And I tell them so.
Marcy would have laughed in the faces, but then, Marcy always did understand at least in part my reasoning. A name is just a name, Marcy would tell these people, for us to keep each other apart and to know who we are addressing. Except for those true names, that mean nothing but what you are. Those are the ones you keep in your heart, never to leave your lips. I would have said that most people don't even know their true names, as it is was keeps you from being lost inside, and so it is sacred. Marcy would have asked me what kind of drugs I'm on.
I don't take any drugs, or any medication unless I'm sick with something. So none of those pills the doctors seem so keen on giving for most problems. Marcy understood that, but liked to joke about it. I don't usually mind, as long as it's obviously a joke coming from a friend. I wonder whether I have too few friends, sometimes on those nights where I sit in front of my screen, monitoring the chatter of people on the channels and the movements of the crowds, and the wanderings of the patrolmen.
These people, they only think that they knew Marcy. I cannot acknowledge any claim any of them have. Despite our brief encounters, we shared a relationship that outdates theirs. It is pure. But they insist on their questions, who I am, where I'm from, what I do, my thoughts. My thoughts are the last thing they would really want to know, but they want to know anyways. What can I tell them?
Then, half a second of insight and enlightenment: they're looking for a new leader, and they're looking for one in me! I almost burst out laughing. I don't. But I do interrupt, and stand. I will not be a puppet leader for them, nor will I take Marcy's place. It would disrespect a good honest name. Marcy is the one to work in the spotlight, I am the one that works in the shadows. No, it would be no good for me to take part in their cause, not now, with the sharp pain of memory so clear and fresh.
I leave, walking silently and calmly to the door. As I do, I spot a camera in the corner, faithfully recording the innocent movements of students and the suspiciousness of myself. I raise my eyes and start directly into the lens, as if daring the person behind the screen, the singular eye that never tires. I move my lips, mouthing a word, two words, three. While the person watching may see the event, according to the archive, this meeting never happened. At least, I can shield the poor simple fools for a little while, before they are sought out like Marcy. I'll give them time, to regroup and think and maybe stand strong in Marcy's name, remember what Marcy had done for them. For Marcy's sake, I do this.