Dignity in Death
New Beginnings, New Sentences
“I have heard of great hardships for men who were to live like this.” The first words muttered on the silenced trip to the small flat which Vivien resided, were by the criminal. She felt pressured to respond, though she wished him to be little more than a canine that she fed and allowed shelter but paid little attention to. She knew that wasn’t how it could be done, life was too complicated for this and human beings were too passionate for empathy. It seemed that society was breeding a band of sociopaths, those who had little regard for those around them, those who didn’t care as long as it fit into their own agenda. Vivien would never have understood, the abuse of a man for something as simple as stealing to feed the family. She had heard cases before, of ‘intentional thievery’, in which a housemate would cause the criminal to steal with only the intent to harm, never to nurture. It was unthinkable. For this man, he managed to extract the best possible outcome from the situation placed in. He was able to reside in a home that would be sound and just. He would not be beaten, or abused merely for the sadistic enjoyment of the single woman, though it didn’t necessarily meant that he would be treated humanely either. She wished nothing more than to ignore his existence. If he wasn’t there to begin with, he might just leave.
Vivien ignored the statement and leaned against the car window. Though they were based off of the archaic institution of ‘driving oneself’, it was easily known that cars were nothing more than trains, or buses, but for the private venue. It was perfectly adequate for an average household to own at least one and for work to be completed in them, the automobile was completely convenient. The concept that they were once hand driven was inconceivable to the city and the participants.
“I can tell you’re not like them, is simply what I was trying to convey.”
These words caused her to look up from her tablet and glance at him briefly, in that moment blue irises met green and she looked away swiftly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She didn’t understand why she was defending herself to the man, he was a criminal, a nothing, and she was to treat him like dirt, just as everyone else did. However, there was always something in the back of her mind, which separated her from the rest of the tribal institution they remained in. She was always meant to be something greater than the menial, factorial lives of the middle class British. She was something more.
“I think you do.” He looked at her, and his face was honest. Though she could only bear to look at him from a peripheral sense, she could see that his face was soft, rounded at the edges, and what was a menacing look was to be amiable. She turned away once more, reminding herself that the man before her was gentile, he was an infidel that needed to be reprimanded, not praised or adored.
Vivien closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, it was not the time to lose her patience for they were nearly there. She would walk into her home, where she was comfortable, and she would show him to the spare room, she would then walk to her own room, pick up a book, and continue to read. Vivien owned a rather extensive library of fifty hardcover books, not electric. The pages were soft and yellowing, she held many of the great books of the eras before, though she had far more on her tablet. It was strange, to think of libraries full of books to the brim, as many books as she had on her tablet they had in one large room, it was shocking. How anyone could sit there and read a heavy book, carry it around when it was far more logical to merely download a file and have it available, regardless of length. To process all of that ink and the paper, and make it durable… she found she kept her books for more observing, and knowing the history, than reading. She could find the literature on the internet.
Literature was, and always would be a passion of hers, regardless of what others said about its insignificance in the ‘grand scheme of things’. She, as a journalist, questioned them: What things? She wanted to ask, why are these ‘things’ so important to society? A preconceived notion brought about the fools as they pestered about doing menial jobs, Vivien wanted to be more than what they were, part of her wished to find an escape, but housing a criminal was not what she had thought of.
“Regardless of whether you do or not, that’s not the issue here, here I am only housing you. Don’t expect conversation, only expect food, clothing and shelter,” a promise, fed to him as if it were the greatest insult, wishing that he would evaporate as if he were a glass of warm water, sitting in the evening sun. She wished nothing more than for him to disappear.
She knew he never could.
Five years, held together in shackles that had no business resting meagerly on her wrist. One on hers, one on his, and there was no amount of disagreement, or angry typing, that could cause him to disappear any faster, or her to be any less held down. She was trapped, it wasn’t his fault, however, it wasn’t hers either. She was merely projecting onto this man, who was no more a criminal in her mind than herself. The question remained as to why she treated him so poorly without knowing him.
“Of course, yes ma’am.”
His figure disappeared into the next room and she heard bags dropped carelessly onto the bed, wrinkling the well preserved fabrics there, for when she had a guest. She rarely had guests, and she should have accepted that. He was there, and she couldn’t allow any differently. The least she could have done was apologize.
For a moment, she stared with anticipation chilling through her bones at his room, wishing to go inside, yet as quickly as the longing came, it passed. There would be no fraternizing with the enemy, and there would be no effrontery in her home. She couldn’t risk being anything less than absolutely perfect and she was well aware of what would happen if she wasn’t. There was almost worse reverberations for those who consorted with criminals, even if it was society who required they dwell together. Few understood it, all abided by it.
Making a decision distinctly to turn and walk towards her sitting room was the wisest thing the young woman could have done.
She decided that she was saving herself from pain that would evidently arise from associating too strongly with them. She had to be normal, do as the rest did. Becoming an associate of this man, would be the worst thing she could do.
No, she decided, she would not. She would be as the rest were.
“Damn.” Picking up her tablet from the desk, she furiously typed. She would have to revise her actions in the end.
Vivien ignored the statement and leaned against the car window. Though they were based off of the archaic institution of ‘driving oneself’, it was easily known that cars were nothing more than trains, or buses, but for the private venue. It was perfectly adequate for an average household to own at least one and for work to be completed in them, the automobile was completely convenient. The concept that they were once hand driven was inconceivable to the city and the participants.
“I can tell you’re not like them, is simply what I was trying to convey.”
These words caused her to look up from her tablet and glance at him briefly, in that moment blue irises met green and she looked away swiftly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She didn’t understand why she was defending herself to the man, he was a criminal, a nothing, and she was to treat him like dirt, just as everyone else did. However, there was always something in the back of her mind, which separated her from the rest of the tribal institution they remained in. She was always meant to be something greater than the menial, factorial lives of the middle class British. She was something more.
“I think you do.” He looked at her, and his face was honest. Though she could only bear to look at him from a peripheral sense, she could see that his face was soft, rounded at the edges, and what was a menacing look was to be amiable. She turned away once more, reminding herself that the man before her was gentile, he was an infidel that needed to be reprimanded, not praised or adored.
Vivien closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, it was not the time to lose her patience for they were nearly there. She would walk into her home, where she was comfortable, and she would show him to the spare room, she would then walk to her own room, pick up a book, and continue to read. Vivien owned a rather extensive library of fifty hardcover books, not electric. The pages were soft and yellowing, she held many of the great books of the eras before, though she had far more on her tablet. It was strange, to think of libraries full of books to the brim, as many books as she had on her tablet they had in one large room, it was shocking. How anyone could sit there and read a heavy book, carry it around when it was far more logical to merely download a file and have it available, regardless of length. To process all of that ink and the paper, and make it durable… she found she kept her books for more observing, and knowing the history, than reading. She could find the literature on the internet.
Literature was, and always would be a passion of hers, regardless of what others said about its insignificance in the ‘grand scheme of things’. She, as a journalist, questioned them: What things? She wanted to ask, why are these ‘things’ so important to society? A preconceived notion brought about the fools as they pestered about doing menial jobs, Vivien wanted to be more than what they were, part of her wished to find an escape, but housing a criminal was not what she had thought of.
“Regardless of whether you do or not, that’s not the issue here, here I am only housing you. Don’t expect conversation, only expect food, clothing and shelter,” a promise, fed to him as if it were the greatest insult, wishing that he would evaporate as if he were a glass of warm water, sitting in the evening sun. She wished nothing more than for him to disappear.
She knew he never could.
Five years, held together in shackles that had no business resting meagerly on her wrist. One on hers, one on his, and there was no amount of disagreement, or angry typing, that could cause him to disappear any faster, or her to be any less held down. She was trapped, it wasn’t his fault, however, it wasn’t hers either. She was merely projecting onto this man, who was no more a criminal in her mind than herself. The question remained as to why she treated him so poorly without knowing him.
“Of course, yes ma’am.”
His figure disappeared into the next room and she heard bags dropped carelessly onto the bed, wrinkling the well preserved fabrics there, for when she had a guest. She rarely had guests, and she should have accepted that. He was there, and she couldn’t allow any differently. The least she could have done was apologize.
For a moment, she stared with anticipation chilling through her bones at his room, wishing to go inside, yet as quickly as the longing came, it passed. There would be no fraternizing with the enemy, and there would be no effrontery in her home. She couldn’t risk being anything less than absolutely perfect and she was well aware of what would happen if she wasn’t. There was almost worse reverberations for those who consorted with criminals, even if it was society who required they dwell together. Few understood it, all abided by it.
Making a decision distinctly to turn and walk towards her sitting room was the wisest thing the young woman could have done.
She decided that she was saving herself from pain that would evidently arise from associating too strongly with them. She had to be normal, do as the rest did. Becoming an associate of this man, would be the worst thing she could do.
No, she decided, she would not. She would be as the rest were.
“Damn.” Picking up her tablet from the desk, she furiously typed. She would have to revise her actions in the end.