New Reality 3: Fear: New Reality, #3

Chapter 1

I t’s okay, baby, Mama’s here. Everything’s going to be fine, Marie said as she rubbed her stomach and winced at the sharp sting in her bladder. She looked at the dank toilet and shivered. Bad enough that she’d had to leave her home in sub-zero conditions, but to have to use a public toilet only twenty minutes after she’d left the estate …

With her hands pressed against either side of the cubicle and the bottoms of her shoes already soaked with piss, Marie tried to balance as she hovered above the bowl—not so easy with an eight-month pregnancy bulge to contend with.

At that moment, the baby snapped out a sharp kick.

Marie instinctively pulled one hand from the cold wall and held her stomach again. There, there, little one, there’s nothing to worry about.

As if in response to Marie’s comfort, the baby settled down.

The public toilet—constructed entirely from metal—stood like an old relic. It represented what used to be the conveniences for the citizens of Nirvana. They only ever got used by estate rats now. It had been so long since they’d been in general use that most of the privileged probably wouldn’t even know what the buildings were if they passed one.

The frigid metal walls had turned the palms of Marie’s hands numb as she continued to press against them for balance. Marie shook as she urinated, mostly into the bowl. To piss without her bottom touching the seat would be a challenge at the best of times; with pains that streaked across her back, swollen ankles, and the balance of a drunkard on a unicycle, these were very far from the best of times. It would have been ideal for Marie to have waited until she got home, but with a little person kneading her bladder with every step she took, she had to piss frequently. Hell, she’d probably need to go again in about twenty minutes’ time.

Once she’d stood straight, Marie pulled her trousers up. The bottoms of them sat cold and damp against her ankles from where they’d soaked up some of the moisture from the floor.

After she’d done up the first button, Marie left the other three to keep the waist open wide. None of her clothes fit her anymore, but she couldn’t afford new ones. Gina already gave her too much; she daren’t ask for anything else. If only she had sewing skills to modify the clothes herself.

Marie tested her trousers by tugging them down. The legs clung to her thighs. They should remain up; they’d best do anyway. She then looked into the toilet bowl. Accentuated by her pregnant nose, the muddy reek of human shit drove Marie’s tongue to the roof of her mouth, and she heaved. A mix of yellow toilet roll, brown excrement, and red homemade sanitary towels clogged the bowl. The place clearly hadn’t been cleaned in a long time, and unless someone did it of their volition, it would be a lot longer still before that changed. The state didn’t waste money on the needs of the estate rats.

Marie held her breath as she leaned over the bowl and reached for the flush. Wet with something—a liquid that, fortunately, had no colour when Marie looked at the tips of her fingers—she pressed it and pulled her hand away.

Nothing happened. Of course it didn’t.

When Marie stepped out of the toilet cubicle and into the main block, she found another woman from the estate waiting outside. She glared at Marie as if to accuse her of the state of the entire place, and she bashed into her as she shoved her way past.

The metal door slammed against the metal frame with a loud clang, and the bolt slid across with a sharp click.

Marie’s skin itched just from being in the place. If she could have showered at that moment, she would have. Marie held her hand out with her palm facing the floor, and looked down at it in the poor light. The back of it had turned red from the dye in the water, and her skin had now taken on the colour of clay. An unavoidable side effect of showering on the estate, but if it got the feel of the toilets off her—not that she had the option of a shower right then anyway. A hand wash in the same dyed water would have to do.

To get to both the sink and the exit, Marie had to walk through a wide puddle of human waste. The gentle splash of her feet echoed in the hard-walled place, and she disturbed the stale reek of piss. Despite her best efforts to breathe through her mouth, the fetid ammonia reek damn near choked her.

The feeling of damp from the flush still clung to Marie’s fingertips. When she pressed the button on the sink marked ‘Water’, Marie plunged her hands into the hole and flinched in anticipation of an icy blast.

But none came.

She pressed the button again and shoved her hands inside once more.

Still nothing.

Fuck!

Several presses later—to the point where the tip of her finger stung from the repeated action—and Marie stared at the dry space with a sigh. Of course they didn’t have any water; estate rats weren’t worth the expense to provide them with running water.

After she’d rubbed her hands against her trousers, Marie hugged herself tight as she stepped out of the toilet block and into the bitter cold outside.

Chapter 2

Once outside in the overcrowded street, Marie dug her hands into her pockets and dipped her head into the bitter wind. With her shoulders lifted to her ears, she scowled as she stared at the ground in front of her. Not only did her hunched form serve as the best way to stay warm, but it helped protect her bump as best as she could. If she had to head-butt a few people to stop them crashing into her, then so be it.

Most pedestrians on Marie’s side of the road adopted the same defeated pose. The crowd of red-skinned and openly hostile people had been Marie’s life since the Nirvana government had deemed her unsuitable for mixing it up with the privileged.

Most of the buildings on the estate rat’s side of the road stood empty. On the opposite side though, cafés, restaurants, and jewellery shops glistened in the winter sun as they positively buzzed with commerce. All of the business’ front windows were outfitted with huge sheets of glass. They shone like jewels from the excess of Christmas decorations. With only three weeks until Saint Nick visited the worthy, the privileged were clearly in full swing with the preparations.

What few shops there were on Marie’s side may have had windows, but ugly steel shutters had been dragged down in front of them and clamped to the ground. It seemed like the shop owners were ready for a riot at any moment.

A child—who looked no more than about five years old—stopped in front of Marie and looked up at the woman with her. Why are there so many pretty lights on the other side of the road, Mama?

The mother looked around as if nervous to speak, and then replied in a whisper. "They celebrate something called Christmas over there. It’s a holiday for the wealthy where they spend a lot of money in fancy shops and eat more food than they need to."

"Christmas sounds fun."

Despite the red tinge of her skin, the mother turned a deeper shade of crimson and pulled on her daughter’s hand as she led her away.

The heavy weight of depression tugged on Marie’s frame and she remained rooted to the spot. The rushing people around her tutted; she ignored them and watched the innocent girl who didn’t know Christmas walk away. To stand still surrounded Marie with the reek of dirt and the stench of poor hygiene that characterised the estate.

At that moment, one of the huge billboards on Marie’s side of the road sprang to life. It lit the dull day up like a flare. The boards had been positioned on Marie’s side to give the privileged a better view of them. Let the estate rats crane their necks; the advertisers had nothing for them anyway. The familiar and cheesy music blared out of it. As if the cold hadn’t locked enough tension through Marie’s body, she now had to listen to a news report from Hank Manifesto. The prospect of it wound her so tight she felt brittle.

Along with everyone else, Marie looked up at the screen, and a sharp pain ran along the base of her neck. To make matters worse, she not only had to look at the orange face of Nirvana’s star news reporter, but she also had to see the reddened mug of their Prime Minister too. The egghead of a man stood board straight with a grip on each lapel of his suit jacket. Sporting a blue tie—blue being the colour of his political party—and a smug grin, he stood pleased as punch, as if his very existence were a God damn miracle. He waited for the music to stop before he turned to Hank Manifesto to let him speak first.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we interrupt the day’s news cycle to give you a few words of inspiration from our prime minister, Mr Dickwad Cumonspoon.

The pearly white grin of Nirvana’s Prime Minister widened. Giddy with his magnificence, he nodded at Hank. Why, thank you. The man stepped toward the camera. I just want to pass on a few words of inspiration to the good, hardworking citizens of Nirvana.

Marie watched as the other side of the road whooped and hollered. They jumped and danced around, overjoyed with their self-entitled greatness.

As you know, Dickwad Cumonspoon continued, "we’re at war in this city. Thirty-five percent of Nirvana’s citizens live off the state. He banged a table in front of him with a closed fist. Each thud beat out the syllable of his next sentence. Thirty-five percent! He stood up again and straightened his back. That’s money that’s being taken away from our schools and hospitals. It’s money that we’re throwing down the drain because those from the estate are too lazy to do something about it. When we came into power, we promised you that the people from the estate wouldn’t be able to continue getting something for nothing. People have to take responsibility for themselves. It pays to work, and we’re in this together. But that goes both ways. If we’re prepared to put you in a home when times get hard, we expect you to work harder to get out of that home, and hand it back afterwards. Just because some of Nirvana’s citizens think a free ride is a lifestyle choice, that doesn’t mean it is. And it certainly won’t be anymore. It’s not okay to get pregnant so the state can house you, but human rights laws dictate that we have to do it. There will be a referendum so we can give you, the people of Nirvana, a choice to leave the union … but we’ll talk about that closer to the time. This public service announcement is to reassure you that we, the Trojans, will make sure nobody gets government handouts anymore."

Pumped from his rousing speech, egghead Cumonspoon beamed with a broad smile and stepped back from the camera. The privileged on the opposite side of the road continued to celebrate as if they’d just watched their favourite sport’s team win a major trophy.

Marie watched Hank Manifesto step forward. Hopefully, he’d fuck off any second now so she could go about her day. Their Prime Minister talked about life on the estates like they lived in paradise. And from the look of the people on the opposite side of the road, they felt the same way. Why wouldn’t they? That’s all the media and the band of fuckwits that ran the city had told them.

Despite what the pompous prick on the screen had said, once you slip into the poverty trap in Nirvana, death seemed to be the only clear path out. Some, like Frankie, got lucky, but not many. Within just a few weeks, your skin took on the red hue that marked you out as someone from the estate, and your chances of gainful employment fell through the floor. With so little money coming in, most people from the estate could afford to eat and nothing more. If they took a week to search for a job, they’d have to spend the family’s food budget to do it. It seemed that once you stepped onto the estate, you grew roots.

Marie relaxed her jaw when sharp pains streaked all the way up to her temples. The orange-faced Hank Manifesto made her toes curl, and she balled her hands into fists. If only she had a rock big enough to smash the huge screen.

Well, well, well, Hank said as he clapped his hands together, "what a rare treat to hear from our wonderful Prime Minister."

When Marie scoffed, several people from the estate turned to look at her. Not to berate her, but more to question the sanity in voicing her disgruntlement. Someone on the other side of the road might hear. Hell, the police could take issue with it and beat the fuck out of her—pregnant or not.

And that’s all for today, Hank said. After he’d shot the audience with his gun-shaped hand, he winked. Stay lucky, viewers, and most of all … stay hardworking.

When the screen turned black, Marie physically deflated. She counted down from ten in her head because she knew it would come. There’d never been a time when it hadn’t, and today’s report had been especially inciting.

It started first with a middle-aged woman, who held the hand of a boy of no more than ten years old. She pointed across the road, her face a tangle of rage, her eyes wide. You waste of space, estate rats.

Another person next to her joined in with an indecipherable jeer.

An old man waved a walking stick. "I’ve worked hard all my life. Why can’t you do the same?"

As Marie turned away from the rage and moved off down the road, the angry voices from the privileged grew louder. It almost turned into white noise; if only it had. Instead, Marie had to listen to the shrill cackle that called across the road to her.

She heard one insult among the many. "Look, that one’s pregnant."

The chaos and unfocused rage narrowed with a laser-like precision on Marie, and the abuse began.

Waste of space.

Drain on the state.

"Bringing another useless life into this world."

The insults came thick and fast, and Marie couldn’t tell who threw them at her. She didn’t try to work it out either.

Whore.

Slut.

Bitch.

Despite the discomfort of her huge bump and swollen ankles, Marie picked her pace up as she walked down the road.

Just a few metres away from the shop she’d intended to visit, Marie made the mistake of looking at the angry mob on the other side again. A group of youths she could handle; they thought they knew everything … give them a few years and they may gain a new perspective on the world and wise up. Except the people on the other side of the road weren’t youths. A sadness cracked Marie’s heart to see it. Fully grown adults, who should have the ability to see through the bullshit propaganda, screamed and shouted at her. Like a bunch of enraged primates, they wound each other up. The telling image for the society she had to live in stared back at her as one frenzied party of twisted hate. Society had no fucking chance with that lot in charge.

Although Marie hadn’t ever been one of them on the other side of the road, she had been a part of the problem. As one of the privileged, she’d had a voice. She’d had an opportunity to stick up for those who couldn’t speak out in society, and she did nothing. Too scared of the consequences, she objected in the privacy of her own home and allowed the bullshit to continue. There may have been a time where it was enough to be conscious of everyone’s plight, but that time had passed. When she’d had her moment of being amongst the privileged, Marie should have been outspoken. She should have been brave. Instead, she chewed Frankie’s ear off about it—like he needed to understand about the widening gap between the rich and poor. No wonder he got tired of her rants. It must have driven him crazy. Just the thought of Frankie twisted pain through Marie’s heart, and she felt a sudden rush of emptiness swill through her. Not only for her loss, but for what he’d told her as he’d died, the suffering he’d felt but had never shared with her before, and for her own past, which she also kept to herself. Both of them had been implicit in each other's denial. Both of them had been rotting from the inside out and lived with it in silence.

After she had shaken her head at the people one last time, Marie ducked into the small shop.

Chapter 3

The tiny shop reeked of cheap spices and margarine. Dusty boxes of powdered milk sat on the shelves next to powdered veg, powdered meat … If Nirvana’s food manufacturers could scrape up the waste of any food product, freeze dry it, and crush it into dust, then they would. The need for cheap sustenance in the city made the food industry infinitely more profitable than it should have been. Surrounded by the cheapest of the cheap products with decade-long shelf-lives, Marie laughed; the dingy place would be the perfect bolt-hole for when the apocalypse hit.

Marie didn’t need twenty minutes to peruse the shop’s stock, but she did need to wait for the mob outside to leave. They’d get bored before she did. They probably had somewhere to go, whereas she went home only when she had to.

Marie saw what she wanted the second she’d walked into the shop; coffee, a luxury item for sure, but freeze-dried, instant, and with a use-by date that meant it would probably outlive her. It sat on the shelf with all the other products. Gina had given Marie a credit card and encouraged her to use it whenever she liked, but she also did most of her shopping for her. She even bought the sachets that went in Jules, but they cost a lot of money, so Marie drank freeze-dried when alone. She probably shouldn’t have coffee at all