Living

Day by long day, I survive. It is much easier when I see Clara. We go to the gardens in the afternoon, taking refuge under the trees from the boiling sun. She is only herself when we are truly alone. If anyone is seen, she turns instantly back to the perfect doll, statue-like and serene. However, alone, she sprawls onto the grass, quite undignified, and speaks openly about everything. I ask her about this one afternoon. She has drawn her skirts up past her knees, complaining of the heat.

"I do not want to die," she says simply, playing with a heavy necklace that is draped about her neck.

Nervously, I laugh, but she looks at me, and I instantly stop.

"Surely you jest," I suggest half-heartedly. At this remark, she sits up and looks at me sternly.

"Christine, have I taught you nothing? We are married to powerful men. The most powerful men. They do not hesitate. They do not care. I would much rather prefer living to dying. If ever they found out about what I know and believe, I would be gone before anyone would realize."

She is quiet for a little while and finally resumes her position on the grass.

"Where did you come to realize this?" I ask. "That the Oligarchy is not what it seems?"

"Living among it has taught me," she says, "but it was my mother who opened my eyes first."

"Your mother?" The only thing my mother ever said about the Oligarchy was the divine power that it had, the grandeur and the respect it deserved, and the rights that they had to govern the people. It seems strange that a mother would tell her children something against the government. Clara sat up once again.

"My mother was not born here," she says quietly. "Not all people are like this – not everyone is under the rule of the Oligarchy. My mother came from a free place; she never mentioned where. She knew what it was like to live and speak how you wished without fear of punishment. But she was found by my father when she was nineteen. He forged papers and married her."

I knew she was thinking, and I was silent while she sat.

"When I was younger, I considered escaping to that place," she finally continues. "But she never told me where it was, or if it even still exists. I never even tried. I simply sat and wished. I…I could be free right now, but I will never know, because I never tried." Her voice was shaking, but her eyes were dry and her brow set. Then, slowly, she stood up, saying, "We should return."

As a faithful citizen under the rule of the Oligarchy, it is my duty to turn her in, to speak to Raoul of her insubordination and beliefs. But I will not. I will never be able to. Clara is my only friend. She speaks to me like an equal, someone to be confided in, and I cannot give that up now that I know what it feels like. And…I don't care very much. If she truly thinks what she does, I cannot change her, so why should I worry about converting her to the Oligarchy when I'm not sure I believe it myself?

The next night, Raoul does not come. I wait for a very long time and finally fall asleep. He does not come for another two nights, and I start to feel much better. But when he does come back, it only succeeds in making me morose and irritable once again. I do not know which I prefer: the fleeting happiness and crushing disappointment, or the continual, persistent discomfort.

I dine with Raoul, Clara, and her husband two or three times a week. It is always bothersome. I wear the dresses I loathe (those who lead me to the dining hall never let me leave in something different) and sit stiffly for thirty minutes to an hour at times. The only consolation is the fact that Clara and I are usually able to escape to the gardens for an hour or so.

One night, I hesitantly ask Raoul if I am able to play the piano – with permission, of course. He pauses by the door and looks back. I swallow and instantly regret saying anything at all.

"Of course," he says. "Whenever it pleases you."

It is as if a ray of sunshine pierces through dismal storm clouds. I play the next day, ignoring lunch and reveling in the familiar feeling of smooth ivory under my fingers. I do not play very well. I have much more talent with my voice, but I am still too shy here to display it without being asked, so I continue with my instrumental happiness.

One afternoon, I sit down to the piano. The sky outside is rainy and gray, and I am silent for a moment before I begin. The rumbling of the thunder creates a kind of thrill in the pit of my stomach. As I place my fingers on the keys, a shriek echoes around the house. For a very long while, I am completely still, listening, tense and alert. A dull thud sounds somewhere above me, followed by a distinct sob that is muffled. It does not take me long to distinguish the voice under the cries of pain.

I leap to my feet and run out in the hall. "Clara!" I say, finding a staircase and hurrying upstairs. "Clara!" She must have fallen, or perhaps someone was hurting her! The last thought spurs me on, and I try to find the room in which she is, but there are so many, and the cries seem to be coming from every single room. As I hurry down a hallway, someone steps out of a door and catches my wrist. I do not look for a moment and only struggle, saying angrily, "Let go of me! Let me go!"

When I turn, I see it is Raoul and fall still immediately.

"Come with me," he says. His voice is softer than it has ever been. I have no choice but to follow him, but I stupidly burst out,

"Clara is hurt! I can hear her crying. Does someone know? Is she being helped?"

There is a long pause, and Raoul says, "Yes, someone knows. She will be fine."

But I do not see Clara for two days. This in and of itself is not unusual; however, I am very anxious about her and I want to know that she is well. When I do see her, it is during dinner, and we do not speak, although I am practically aching to know what has happened to her. Finally, as soon as we are outside, I turn to her and open my mouth.

"Not here," she says quietly and quickly, and we make our way to the usual bench. The dying sun illuminates Clara's flawless skin, and she sits down, her lips pressed together tightly.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" I ask desperately. She looks, as always, perfect. Her expression, however, is strange as she looks at me.

"You do not know?" Her voice is incredulous, and I flush dully. With a sigh, she looks at the sunset and says, "Usually it isn't bad enough to make me cry out. It is only once or twice a month. He needs someone to release his anger on." She laughs bitterly. "And there I sit, unable to retaliate."

And it comes to me, horrible realization. I stare, unable to offer anything except my horrified gaze.

"Raoul has not started?" she questions, but she knows the answer. "He will. Soon."

"But why do you let him hurt you?" I grope desperately for some kind of light. "Why don't you react?"

"You know the answer to that, Christine." She sounds angry. "It is simply better to endure the few minutes of pain than to die."

As we go back toward the house, we are silent. I wonder if it is better to feel how I am feeling or to not feel anything at all.