Running Scared

The sirens are calling.

Shrieking through the streets, echoing up the staircase, shaking my soul from the core, jolting me out of a restless slumber. It panics me, that siren, because I know what it means and what I am expected to do next - what I will be forced to witness next.

I waste no time, flinging myself out of bed with such force that I topple over. I ignore the scrapes on my knees and scramble to get up again, yanking off the clothes I wear to bed and pulling on anything within an arm's length. One thing I make sure of is that I dress for warmth. My hand grabs a scarf at the last minute and then I'm out of the door, wide awake despite the ungodly hour.

Grahame bursts out into the corridor when I do, his eyes large, round and bloodshot. We're suspended in that moment, gaping at each from across the hallway. We both know what is coming and we fear what we will see.

A cluster of people trample past us in a frenzy, breaking the spell and planting us firmly back on this planet, in this city. We have a united objective this morning: get to The Court, now.

Grahame stays with me on the stairs, refusing to be budged aside by any other person and I feel immensely grateful to him for that. Even though the stairs are encased in darkness, a few of us are carrying candles so I take to focusing on just him, noticing any little detail that will keep my mind from straying to terrible things.

I'm drawn to his scar first, being the most conspicuous feature about him. This doesn't do well with keeping my thoughts pleasant because I start to wonder how he got it; was it unintentional or did someone purposely put it there? Did that person carve into his face for a reason? Did they put it there as a permanent reminder of something, so that every time he looked into the mirror he would remember and recoil? There's an itch that won't go away with this, a feeling of abhorrence when I think about someone hurting him. He seems too innocent, too childlike really, for anyone to vengefully attack him. He has a naive curiosity about the world and maybe that's his problem.

We turn a corner in the stairs and I force myself to pick up on anything mundane. There's a clump of hair at the back of his head longer then the rest, his cheeks puff out constantly because he keeps blowing air out of his mouth, that he seems to have dressed in a similar fashion as me; clearly without thinking and at a grab-and-go rate, except without the foresight of being exposed to the weather for a long period. All he has on is a heavy knit jumper and jeans that are far too large for his wiry frame and I wish I'd brought out another scarf for him.

We make it to the ground floor and I'm glad because the sirens are starting to give me a headache. It is still dark outside, we're up even earlier than when we wake for breakfast. It must be at least four in the morning. I can see the soft glow in the sky, a sign of the rising sun but it is still at least an hour away. They do this to show us we are at their disposal. Day or night, if the sirens wail, we must obey.

And the rain, too. It lashes down on us as soon as we step outside, each drop cutting into my face, soaking me through to my skin within minutes. At least I have a coat on, unlike Grahame in his jumper. We blend seamlessly with the steady queue that marches towards The Court, bumping our hands against each other because anything more than this feeble contact will expose us. It doesn't stop me from considering gripping his fingers in my own every time I feel the back of his hand glance off mine.

We hear it then, a sound so bone-chilling that it can contend with even the rising and falling of that ghastly siren and my will power over grabbing Grahame's hand very nearly caves. The sounds battle against one another, fighting to be heard more and I want to press my hands over my ears so that I can just block it all out. Anything to stop the screams of the woman.

"No, no, noooo."

Because when the sirens play, you know there will be only one outcome. Death is looming and we are expected to show up at The Court for a public execution.

We arrive at the stone yard, heavily fortified with Enforcers, most holding guns and registers. Every building has an Enforcer responsible for making note of attendance during executions because it is law for us to show up and see our fellow citizens hanged until dead. It's used as a deterrent and, given our basic human instinct to dying and our already sky-high fear of everything, it works. The atmosphere adds to it all nicely; the sides of the unlucky buildings situated beside The Court soar above us, closing us in, making us feel as if we're inside our own little prison. The effect is startlingly claustrophobic. You can taste the apprehension in the air, just being here.

Then there's the matter of the gallows. They're something else entirely. Strategically placed dead center of the yard, it makes the ideal place for a crowd to gather around and yet still afford a decent view of a hanging no matter where you are in The Court.

I don't even look over at them. Grahame and I stand with the rest of our building's occupants, our faces aimed at the ground, and patiently wait for our names to be called, like we're back in class at the orphanage. We're not the closest to the gallows but we're certainly not the furthest.

Our Enforcer starts reeling off the list of names in a shout.

"Bennet, Charles."

"Present."

"Banks, Bridget."

"Present."

And so it goes. Grahame's name passes, he calls out 'present' as clearly as he can over the rain and the sirens and the screaming. I wait for my turn, trying to mimic Grahame's flat tone and instead come up with one containing more than hint of distress because I'm scared that the Enforcer won't hear me. He nods though and I relax my shoulders, shake my arms out. Grahame's hand bumps into mine.

The sirens are shut off. My stomach drops.

Now, the woman's shuddering moans are the only sound in The Court. I still can't see her, she must be waiting at the bottom of the steps of the gallows. The rest of us stand soberly, so silent and remorseful although we are not the ones forcing this woman into a noose. I can spot Stanley stood among his fellow residents of 45, swaying a little but respectfully hanging his head. None of us want to be here, none of us want to be apart of this nameless woman's death because you can guarantee, they do not want us all to know her. A name and a face, a chance to mourn.

It starts. Her being shoved onto the gallows, center stage, hands bound and hair so bedraggled that I can only imagine how long she has been kept in prison for. The Enforcers guarding her, guns at the ready, though this is unnecessary. No one will try to help. The executioner, dressed in the customary black, face covered but you can still see the slither of his mouth set in a hard line. The woman sobbing harder even as the noose is secured around her neck. A beating of drum, relentless, a countdown to the end of her life.

"Please! Please! It won't happen again - take the child, I don't want it. Please. Just let me live, give me another chance!"

Boom.

"Please - "

Boom.

"No, no. No, no, no."

Boom.

And I tear away from the scene unfolding before me, latch onto the closest, and perhaps only, source of comfort I can find. Grahame doesn't let me look away again, he wordlessly understands from the undoubtedly unhinged expression on my face and holds my gaze in his own. It's hard with the rain water pouring into my eyes but I try and find something in that darkest-part-of-the-ocean blue that will distract me from the horror happening just a few feet away. Even as we burn into each others skulls, I know we're thinking the same thing: this will be me if we don't do something fast.

The drumming stops, the woman's cries are cut off, replaced with the sounds of gagging. I've seen this enough times to put an image to the choking. I push myself further into Grahame's eyes, imagine myself to be swimming in them.

Then it's all over, just like that. We're excused but not before they take down the body and dump it unceremoniously into a body bag. They will burn it, far away from here, a building that is said to be the last before the wilderness. A building that only the dead and a handful of the living see.

We have time before breakfast so there is nowhere else to go except back to our rooms. The worst part is that we do not struggle to eat after seeing a woman die. The circle of life. After the climb up the stairs, Grahame shoots me a look and it's as if I hear him speaking to me.

"Come to my room when the coast is clear."

I wait for the last footsteps to fade, the final door to slam shut and scurry out of my room and to his door. I haven't even changed out of my wet clothes. It only takes one tap and he practically wrenches the door out of its frame. His hand closes down over my upper-arm and I'm dragged in, released for a split-second so he can kick the door shut then I'm enveloped in a bear hug, his face buried in the niche of my neck, his hot breath against my skin.

It doesn't take as long as it should for me to respond. I coil my arms around his torso, rub his back in what I hope is a soothing way, murmur encouragements in his ear. How is it so easy to touch him without flinching, without the terror of being watched?

When he pulls back, I see. Grahame is tortured. His eyes are black, that knitted jumper heavy and hanging from his shoulders, making him appear small and shrunken, his hair partly plastered down, partly spiked up at angles. Like a child. He doesn't seem aware of the water we are dripping all over his floor.

"How long do you think it'll take for your belly to start showing?" Grahame says, his voice hollow.

Between us, I would say our knowledge of pregnancy is scarce at best. Still, I press a hand against my stomach, feel the slight swell of it and admit to myself that it's already begun. This body isn't my own any more; it's alien, this curve in my abdomen. I hate it.

"I don't know," I whisper. My voice sounds hoarse even to my own ears. "It's been just over two months. It can't be much longer. I can feel it already."

Five minutes pass where we regard each other, as if a brilliant plan of escape will formulate if we leave it long enough, as if talking will scare an idea away. Grahame starts to shiver.

"Sorry but, um...would it be okay - do you...?" he begins, teeth softly chattering.

"Do I, what?"

"Uh - I mean, is it alright? I meant to say do you mind if I...?" he trails off, lifting the hem of his jumper up hopefully. It instantly clicks and my face flames.

He's asking my permission so that he can take it off.

"Oh, Jesus. Grahame - you don't have to ask!" I blurt out and even as I'm saying the words, I know what I've inadvertently made it sound like. It makes it seem as if I want his shirt off. I wave my hands frantically, back-peddling.

"What I should have said is you don't have to ask because it's your home. I didn't mean I wanted you to take it off - not that I find seeing your chest so appalling. Just - god, do what you want." I babble, wanting to fall through the floor. I'm not sure why I'm so embarrassed about it, I've already seen him naked. He's only taking his jumper off.

This is when he starts to laugh. The first and last time I heard him laugh was just before he got drunk off illegal alcohol. It was free, unchecked. Now, it's slightly restrained, with an edge of madness about it. I'm bewildered at first, then angry because I think he's laughing at me, but then I realise. It's the sheer absurdity of everything. We just watched a woman die and now we're acting awkward over him baring his chest. Since when did our priorities become so inconsequential? How did we go from fretting over my own imminent death to being bashful at the removal of a garment?

So I join in with him, careful to keep it quiet enough so that neighbours won't hear. Hysteria tinged with trepidation.

Because the whole god damn world is so messed up.