The pitter-patter of rain is loudest at night. Europe lays open like broken glass, the crevices filling up with the drops. A long time ago, many people inhabited the continent, but death stains and the reek of decay is too persistent.
Pedants worried over what would happen; the rain was too much, it would drown everything out. But it is hard to capture emptiness, so the rain is persistent too.
In the dark, the silence is most eerie, but it is not noticeable because all the ones to notice it are bones and half-fleshed faces in dirt. Some animals are rumoured to still live underground, in little diggings and covered holes that filtered the radiation from the mistakes of the past few years. There is no evidence for this belief; it is only a hope and there is no difference between hope and faith within the lines of life and death.
A small, green house is now a bleached white, the trees surrounding it are also stripped of their colour, just long white sticks with no leaves or birds nests. The house had collapsed in on itself, rubble littered in the middle while two exterior walls stood in stark defence of all the things beneath them. It is in this house Arthur Kirkland grew up. It is in this house that Arthur Kirkland became the man he was fated to be.
That isn't to suggest that if he had, perhaps, lived in one of the last houses to surrender to the sick smell of dust and flying debris, he wouldn't be the person he is now. But his little fingers gripped his mother's arm too tight as his house fell, he pulled her body in front of him when the roof cracked and dirt streamed in, and even after she was limp and no more a person than a statement, he used her as a shield to make it to safety.
He was the only survivor of his family, and he was too young to shed tears. Too young to remorse over the heartless way he acted, but not young enough to forget the blight of dirtiness that lived inside of him. So he grew up, not understanding why he felt such hatred towards himself but still doing so.
And in the government's temporary safe house, bright red to contrast with the new monochrome world, he dreamt of complex things. Complex things that turned into ideas and ideas that turned into plans on stolen paper. He was a smart, clever boy, and with his knowledge he could help a growing generation. But he didn't see it that way. Because Arthur Kirkland would be a great man, but that is not the same as being a good man.
In the early sunrise of an American region, there is no rain. Just light streaming in from the window, that leaves a soft glow on the bed. The house is a warm fuzz. The smell of eggs and bitter coffee drift up in little steam tufts, lingering delightfully as everything around them rushes. A dog laps up crumbs around the marble island, his thick tongue leaving trails of slick wetness on the ground. Two people will slip before it is cleaned up.
Mrs Jones delights in her milky cappuccino, jolts of caffeine work their way slowly through her body before she is able to properly scold the pet and prepare her sons.
"Don't cause a fuss today, Alfred, you can't get held back in class again." It is an unnecessary warning; his mother had been stressed about the event for days.
"Gosh, I will be on my best behaviour," Alfred sighed as his mother tried to smooth down his cowlick with a slick hand.
"And Matthew, Matthew, dear, please talk. Let's hear it." She edged him on, and slowly his pink lips opened in a timid gesture.
"Alright." He whispered, then looked over at his brother, waiting for his reaction. It was a wide grin that worked its way through Matthew's chest and left him excited, too.
"Okay, I'll walk you to the bridge, one moment." Mrs Jones went upstairs for a moment, and returned with three thin paper masks to wear over their mouths as they walked. Alfred used to complain, it felt so silly to have the elastic straps fastened around his ears and hear his own words spoken muffled and clumsy. But he saw what happened to the eldest German brother when he went and dared to venture and breathe fresh air without the small filter. A black craft, owned by the government, took him away for a while, and when he came back he coughed and stared blankly at walls.
His neighbour's son, a musician, would sit with him in the sunny after light of day and produce minute, unsure sounds from an old piano. No one was sure if he even heard music, he just continued to cough in rhythm of the flittering ash outside. The walk towards the bridge wasn't very long, about half a mile but interesting signs and small, plastic flowers guided the way and it felt even shorter.
The bridge itself was large, made of imposing black metal with twinkling silver wires crossed about in an exaggerated fashion to spell out the letters U-S-A on the sides above the bridge. Below was black pond, it bubbled unnaturally, a stench rising with each gasp of air it expelled. Their mother couldn't cross the bridge, she stood on cemented sidewalk, its cracks and pebbles glorified in the sharp gaze of Alfred's.
"I don't understand, Mam." He whispered, knowing she wouldn't hear. They both waved and turned to walk to school in their usual silence. But it was broken by a classmate running up to them, their excited footsteps giving her away before she even spoke.
"Hey, Al." She punched him in the shoulder before nodding at Matthew.
"Uh, hello Eli." Alfred turned to face her when she spoke, his voice quieter than usual because of the filter.
"I didn't expect you to be nervous," she said, her dark green eyes squinted in examination. "Your palms are shaking, your words aren't biting, and worst of all-" She leaned in too close and mocked a deep sniff, "I can smell your sweat through my mask!" Then she dashed off, her sneakers pounding on the bridge as she went to speak to the Italian brothers, leaving Alfred in a bit of a daze.
"She's crazy, why would I be nervous?" Even as he spoke, his eyes were wide.
"Al, we have Mam, she won't let anything bad happen." Matthew tried to be comforting, but it was a lie.
She didn't do anything but cry and smash their small, glass plates on the floor when their dad was taken away. Alfred supposed he'd come back, but waiting was hard when you had nothing to guarantee a result.
The end of the bridge was nearing, school was almost in sight. It wasn't a very large building, hardly any of those existed anymore. After the first attack, there hadn't been much time for people to start rebuilding before more threats came. It was made of a dark brown material, tough as diamonds and found in underground Persian lands. America had seized control of Iran, Iraq, Turkey, and Syria nearly centuries ago in the early 2000s.
The lands were barren reminders of waste and greed. But no one was there to be reminded, and history repeated itself. Class started with the pledge, "I swear myself to this land, the United Sovereignty of America, if in times of need my countries calls, myself I'll give to it. Under one President I abide by all that is asked." The class sat down, staring at the teacher, waiting for him to start lessons.
"You may all remove your filters." And the class did so, in one uniformed movement, their hands reaching over their ears- right, left- and pulling back the elastic straps before pushing the thin paper into their desks, ready for use at the end of the day.
"Jones, Williams, Hedervary, and Zwingli, to the front of the room." The four students listened, the soles of their shoes clicking on the ground, drawing out each step.
"These three families have been chosen to host the refugees from Europe. Be kind and appreciative, but also wary. If any of them start to act strange, inform a teacher immediately."
It was uncomfortable being prodded in front of everyone, he didn't want to be demoralised like that in front of the class. But Alfred couldn't think of anything to say. So he went and sat back down.
At lunch, he wolfed down his eggs and warm grain bread, and finished it off with the room temperature cow milk. It felt too watery in his mouth, but after a while he was used to it.
"I'm so sick of eggs." Eli moaned, her head slamming melodramatically on the table.
"I'll eat them, then." Alfred reached over and took her ceramic plate off the tin and finished the yellow clumps.
"Of course you will." She grinned halfheartedly.
The same thing happened almost everyday, whether it was over eggs or leafy greens depended on the nutritionalist planners of the school.
"Will the other kids come to school with you guys?" The nicer of the Italian brothers asked after lunch was over and they stood in line waiting to get scanned so they could re-enter the classroom.
"No way, you know the rules about that!" It was unheard of for someone not born in the region to attend its schools. Visitors, foreigners, or families who moved because of a job change were not allowed to use the public services provided by the region.
"Maybe out west in the Goldenlake Region, they let stuff like that slide, but not here. Not in Imperial. We don't mix with those unworthy." Basch muttered. He was in front of the group, and narrowed his eyes at the small Italian. "Stop talking nonsense."
Then he walked through the wide arc, and the lights above turned green. The gate in front of him opened and he walked back to class without turning back again.
It was quiet when they got home. There was only a faint buzz from in the living room.
"Hello?" Alfred yelled, disposing of his filter for the day, too annoyed to even want to go and sit outside. Somedays, when he wasn't, he'd appreciate the soft, planted turf and the cool breeze that came from the black waters.
"Boys, I'm in here. Arthur has arrived." They stumbled after her voice, and found her sitting on the worn couch, smiling and sipping tea.
She never drank tea.
Arthur had thick, dark eyebrows that protruded comically from his forehead and reminded Alfred of caterpillars. He forgot about how he was supposed to look people in the eyes, and instead stared at the massive eyebrows.
"Underneath them, you'll find my eyes. They're the polite place to look." Arthur spoke after a few moments. Alfred felt his cheeks grow hot, and he stared at the carpet in shame.
"I'm sorry, just not used to it, is all." Arthur turned; he didn't feel like wasting more time talking to the children.
"Mrs Jones, where will I be sleeping?"
"In Matthew's room, he'll show you up," she smiled bravely, and dared to give Alfred a look, telling him they'd be talking later.
Arthur followed Matthew upstairs. Alfred wondered why his heart was beating so fast, and his palms were sweating. When he talked to his mother later, his words weren't as sharp. Why did the strange boy make him so nervous? Later, he climbed into Matthew's room, planning on asking him what he thought. But his brother slept soundly while their guest sat up in his bed, a small light emitting from his palms as he wrote in pen on a yellowed notepad.
"So, your name is Arthur?" Alfred made his way up onto the bed.
"What are you doing?"
"I like your voice, it sounds different than mine." Alfred ignored the sputtering refusals to instead keep talking. "I'm sorry about earlier, I forget about people being different sometimes, cuz everyone here tries to be the same."
They both blushed at this, then Arthur spoke again. "Why are you in my bed?"
"I don't like falling asleep without talking to someone. What were you writing?" Alfred tried to read the small ink scrawls, but the light wasn't shining anymore and the moon was too far to reflect any light.
"None of your business! Now get out," Arthur tried to push the other out of the bed, but the thick comforter was too hard to move against, and so Alfred stayed.
"Talk to me, until I fall asleep." Arthur looked angry, but the smooth, tan face looked so desperate Arthur decided to humoured him.
"And what is in it for me?" After a thoughtful minute, Alfred's eyes light up.
"A surprise."
"Tell me."
"No." Arthur glared, looking down at the younger boy, whose arms were thin threads and his chest puffed childishly out with baby fat.
"Fine." And Arthur talked until the sun nearly rose. He mentioned his old town, carefully gliding over how he lived, he talked about the first round of bombings, his aspirations, he even mentioned how he loved to cook.
"Goodnight," Alfred said after a pause in the monologue. He closed the distance and gave Arthur a light kiss on the lips. But it felt different than when he'd done it with his mother and brother. It made him warm all over.
"I liked that," Alfred decided. But Arthur's eyes were too wide, and he jumped out of bed towards the hallway. Alfred, tired and clumsily, went after him. In the corner where carpet and cold wood met, Arthur sat in a ball.
"Why'd you do that. It felt weird."
"I dunno, didn't your momma ever do that with you?" Alfred questioned defensively.
"I don't remember, she's dead now." It was quiet while they both mussed over the sentence. Arthur had never told anyone that, and here he was spilling his guts to a stranger. When the American government's police force took him in, he didn't tell his story. Just stared at his bloody hands and kept his bag clutched tightly to him. They wanted to check inside of it, and after a quick battle they did, dismissing it as children's books and strange metal toys. Alfred felt sadness and embarrassment welt up inside of him.
"Well, I'll kiss you again for all the times you missed out." He peppered Arthur's face with joking, wet kisses. They fell asleep in the corner where the beige carpet met the light brown wooden floor; the colour didn't change, just the texture.
When Arthur shivered in his sleep, Alfred scooted closer. He may not have been the cleverest, nor the handsomest, nor the bravest. But he was a good person, something many of the cleverest, handsomest, and bravest will never be.
Well, this is a new story I've been sitting on for a long time! I think I know where I'm going with this...
Uhm, reviews make me happy.
~harponMOO