Hard Rain
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Matched
Copyright: Ally Condie
"Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
(…) I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
(…) and it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall … "
- Bob Dylan, "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall"
I've never seen this showing before. My 'vocation' (washing dirty foilware – ha!) keeps me out too late; it's just a coincidence that I'm here now. Sitting right next to Cassia Reyes, with Xander Carrow on the other side. The love of my life and her Match. It's the kind of situation where you either have to laugh or cry. I don't do either.
She smells like the forest. She's holding Xander's hand. I ignore them both; I'm an expert at ignoring things.
I concentrate hard on the showing instead – and wish I hadn't. I knew the Society was heavy on propaganda, but this is ridiculous. Green fields, golden farmlands, white cities, everything all shiny and happy like a child's pictures in First School, except the cinematography is actually pretty good. The camera looks like it's flying over the countryside, soaring and swooping like a bird. Did they shoot those aerial views from a helicopter?
How much did it cost to make this film? More than it would cost to send food and medicine to the Outer Provinces?
And it's 'speak of the devil' – I know they don't believe in the devil in this City, but the existence of one would explain an awful lot. Damn – is that my village? No, but it might as well be – the red sandstone, the rundown houses, the tumbleweeds blowing through the streets. Wow. I didn't think they'd actually show this part of –
"Before the formation of the Society," says the cool female voice doing the narration, "Life for the people of this country was harsh, short and violent. The devastation caused by World War Three … "
Wait. What?
I recognize that place. I know the clothes those people onscreen are wearing, the build of those houses. It's today, it's my home, and they're passing it off as World War fucking Three?
And yes, the bombs. The bombs are falling, little blobs in the sky like hard black raindrops. It was raining when they fell in my home village. The chickens went crazy in their pen; there were feathers everywhere. Funny, the things you remember. I was sleeping; I thought it was a nightmare at first, until Mother yanked me out of bed and rushed me down to the underground shelter. She was in her white sleepclothes and her black hair was wild, like a cloud of smoke. She screamed at me to hurry. She closed the trapdoor on me and went back out to find Father. I just sat there, curled up, listening to the whistles and booms outside. Could have been minutes, could have been hours.
She didn't come back. Neither did Father.
By the time it was quiet, I climbed back out to look for them. And I found them all right. They looked …
They looked just like that man on the bigscreen looks right now. Bloody clothes. Open mouth. Eyes staring at the sky like, I can't believe this is happening to me.
Someone makes a little choking sound. At first I think they're crying; that's when I notice there's a lump in my throat too, and my eyes are blurred. Damn it, since when do I lose control like this? Did anybody see me? I check out of the corner of my eyes and find it's Xander Carrow who made the noise. And he's smiling – smirking at Cassia like this is all some private joke. What does he think, that the death he saw just now was some cheap special effect? Is reality not realistic enough for him?
Does he even have the remotest idea of how unbelievably lucky he is?
Cassia, bless her, doesn't look amused. Instead she looks over at me, almost as if she can sense that there's something wrong. I look away just in time to avoid her eyes. I can't let her see me like this. I've always known she was compassionate and wise, ever since that day I saw her comforting her nervous little brother on the air train steps. But I refuse to be pitied by anyone, including her.