21st Century Slave

- No. No. No. You bafoon! You did the calculus wrong! How is the plane supposed to fly with varying circuits in the navigation systems? We need one without the 7-key limit. – cried M. If there’s one thing she hates, it’s when a job is half done. What’s the point in doing the job then? She made all the calculations on the prototype, and now when it’s time to show the higher ups what they made, an uneducated simpleton can’t even do his chores right. Doesn’t matter, she’ll do it herself. She went out of the office and proceeded down the hallway, her secretary had been waiting for her.
- Miss M? Miss! Can I have a moment please? –
- Yes, yes, just make it quick. –
- Well, besides the four o’clock meeting in room number one, Lockheed is wondering –
- Yes, I know – M cut the poor girl short with a hissing voice – the schematics are done, they can have their little toy shown to them in a year or so. Oh yeah, the materials for the new airliners have been bought and checked. Tell our customers production is about to begin. Go. –
Money, money, money. I thought aviators cared about the planes and look at them now. Constructing toys for money and killing people. I’m the one who’s supposed worry about the numbers. M’s mind wasn’t nearly as scrambled as it was supposed to. The numbers, tech-no-logical mumbo jumbo and other similar intellectual assailants weren’t even a challenge. But then the phone started ringing. It was her father. Time, time is the challenge. Damn the idiot who put only 24 hours in a day. He asked if she was coming to visit this Sunday, come over for some pie. But she couldn’t, not with the Lockheed arrangement so close. That’s it, maybe it’s time for a break.
She fled the company building, leaving only instructions for the rest of the day. She drove in her getaway car to her parents’. Nobody was home nor was anyone answering the phone. How strange. What will she do now? What is it she could do? She didn’t even know what free time is. Books! That’s what. She hasn’t done that in ages. So she decided to go to a bookshop. The bookshop was right next to the central square, but it was packed. A huge commotion was unraveling before her, to her utter dismay. Curious she gave a glance at a nearby poster. A writer’s picture was on it. He looked familiar, yet she couldn’t remember who he was. Seems he had written a bestseller, and is now doing a promotion of his new book. Oh well, what the hell, she’ll take a look at the other books while standing in the line. Fortunately the ridiculous procession was at an end and the line wasn’t as big as she had thought. In a few minutes she was at the writer’s table.
- Well hello again, what can I do for you? – he asked with a gentle smile. How strange.
- Yes, yes. Where can I pay for… wait. “Again.?” –
- Hah! I knew it. I knew you would forget. –
- Forget what? Look, I’m in a hurry and... –
- You always were, that’s your problem. Tell me, airplanes? Right? – He looked down at his table and took a deep breath. – Very well. Ten years ago, ring any bells? –
M looked at the writer as if she had received a revelation. She realized something. She is almost thirty, but she wasn’t alive ten years ago.
- So? – asked the writer curiously. – Having flashbacks yet? –
- I… I wasn’t… I don’t know where I was ten years ago. –
- What do you mean? – The writer was now confused. For a second M thought he was about to quit. But then he stood up.
- Listen, M. I’ll meet you outside in five minutes. Be there or be… well not there!-
This doesn’t make any sense. Who is he? The writer vanished into the back room as abruptly as he had appeared in her life. M paid for the book and went out of the bookshop. Maybe I should just leave, but he looks so strange. And he smiled all the time. Unique, yes. That’s what…
- Alright, let’s go! – Said the writer cheerfully. His steps were quick and long, almost as if he’s hopping to his destination. After a few passed meters he suddenly turned to M.
- Wait, do you have a car? – he was still smiling.
- Yes, I do. But where are we going? – asked M. The writer could feel a trace of ire in her question. She was impatient, but was it in a good way or a bad way?
- C’mon, I want to show you something. This place we went to a couple of times.-
- Oh, alright. I parked in the nearby garage. –
The garage was only two minutes away. They proceeded down an elevator. The writer leaned against the elevator wall and started laughing.
-What? What is it? – asked M. To her own surprise she was smiling as well.
- Look at you. Wearing a business suit with stripes, a designer bag on your shoulder. And even a cell phone that costs, what? Two thousand? Three maybe? High heels too! The old you would probably declare you a heretic. At one time you wore simple, cute shirts and jeans. I remember how cuddly you were in those shirts. So cute that kissing you would feel like desecration. School bags, sneakers and brightly colored clothes. You looked like a child even though you were eighteen. –
         - Well excuse me – M replied with a slightly sarcastic tone – but I am after all a business woman. I have to wear these. And just so you know I have leisure clothes as well. I wear them… Sometimes. –
         They went out of the elevator and turned right, the writer was surprised to see a silver Porsche sparkling next to M.
- Holy shit! Really? A Porsche, you?! I have a sweet ride but this is just sick. –
- What? I like to treat myself from time to time. I bought this one after signing my first contract with RAF. –
They got into the car and drove out into the street. M put her sunglasses on.
- You look badass. – noticed the writer.
- And you look frightened. – replied M with a sinister voice.
- Me, frightened? Maybe. I remember you could punch well. One time I made a dirty joke about your father, couldn’t feel my arm for an hour afterwards. –
- Alright, cut the crap. Where are we going? – This time M was genuinely irritated. The writer noticed this and started giving her instructions in a serious manner. They reached a parking lot right next to a long forgotten club. It was located next to a bridge, one of the several large, four-tracked bridges that connected the southern part of the city with the northern one. The river that divided the city was obstructed by earthen dikes on both sides. The dikes were wide enough for ten people to walk side by side. It was a popular site for runners and cyclists, and since the river’s ecological rebirth, a popular swimming and sunbathing location as well. The writer and M climbed on one of the dikes. To the writer’s dismay, the banks were crowded with people as it was a warm and sunny summer’s day. M tried to recall if she ever went to this part of the city, but she couldn’t. She had seen the river on pictures and news broadcasts. It seemed so unreal to her that she knew nothing about this place, a popular and lovely place. Moreover because it was in her city, the city she grew up in. Grew up in, what is “growing up”?
         - One time, when we were still together – started the writer – we came here in the middle of winter. The river was still polluted and largely abandoned. The snow was as thick as the fog that surrounded us. And that fog, it made us feel like we were all alone in the universe. Not that we cared, in fact it suited us quite well. We had everything we needed. I remember you jumping down to the bank and merrily hopping around. I approached you and kissed you. You said that you loved me and I answered in kind. You then sat down, but I picked you up in my arms and carried you around. We laughed so hard that eventually, I had to put you down by a tree. That night we barely talked. No words were needed, especially serious ones. We agreed that we would do this again. We never did. –
         M looked down as she imagined the scene. She had to imagine because she couldn’t remember. It sounded lovely and almost like a distant dream, yet she cast it away. She could never do such a silly thing as jump around smiling like a fool, or telling a man she loves him. What rubbish. Come to think of it, something doesn’t add up.
         - When did this happen? – she asked curiously.
         - Twelve years ago. –
No, it couldn’t have. She didn’t exist twelve years ago, but how is she twenty-nine years old then? She reached in her purse and took out her wallet. She checked the birth date on her ID card. To her horror the information was completely wrong. The card said she was only eleven years old.
         - What the hell? This can’t be right! Somebody messed up! – she cried. Even if she gave wrong information to state birocracy, it’s impossible that they would’ve given her the card. By law you had to have at least sixteen years for your own personal ID.
         - What is it? –
         - My card says I’m eleven years old! Impossible! How did I not notice this? –
         The writer started giggling.
         - What are you laughing about? That’s it. This is getting weird. I don’t want any part of this anymore.
         - Do you now? Tell me just one thing, why do you work so hard? Actually don’t, I know why. I remember you telling me that. I want to show you just one more thing, it will explain everything. –
         For curiosity’s sake, M reluctantly agreed. They drove away and across the bridge. The followed the other dike and eventually came to the end of the road. The writer stepped out of the car.
         - You want to know what happened? Follow me. -
For a moment M hesitated, but decided to see this through, no matter what. She stepped outside of the vehicle and joined the writer. Tensions were high and patience was running low. They walked through a strange path for about ten minutes. On their left was a forest and on their right was the dike. They approached a point where the forest was no more and the dike turned to the left, thus obscuring the view what’s in front of them. They climbed up the dike and saw a small lake next to a huge, grassy field filled with yellow dandelions. Only a small portion of land right next to the lake was bare. Slowly, they approached the lake. As they were walking towards it, M suddenly felt her heart racing. This place was supposed to soothe one’s soul, bit it had the opposite effect on her.
         - What is this place? Where are we? -
         The writer silently gazed into the distance. Without looking at her he answered.
- This is where we had a picnic three days before I left town after finishing school. Even though we broke up before the picnic, we sat right here next to each other holding hands, kissing and telling each other how much we meant to each other. At the same time we were desperate yet somehow tranquil. We both knew what was coming: we would probably never see each other again. So I did something no one had ever done before. I asked you to marry me out of dubious motives. At first your reactions were shock and horror, but then I explained myself to you. I didn’t want to marry you or something silly as that. I did that because there was no other way of expressing how much I loved you. To this day I spent every single night wishing you were next to me, but I knew it was impossible. Work was all you ever thought about. When I asked you why you work so hard, lose yourself in mindless labor, you told me you wanted to give something back to your parents who raised you and whom you loved. But in truth you were only hurting them, and me along the way. You see, your parents wanted you to have a good life, to be happy, but to also have someone to share that happiness with. Keeping it all for yourself was selfish at first, but then you lost yourself in your overtly simple life. Get up, work, go to sleep, that was you daily schedule. You worked so hard for so long that you forgot why you were working so hard in the first place. You never needed all the money, you were well of. Your parents grew old watching you waste your life away for a completely wrong cause, no matter how commendable it is. You would always tell me that money doesn’t mean anything to you, but in fact it controlled you. You thought you could make your parents happy by earning a lot, becoming a renowned technician. Yet here they are, disappointed that you still haven’t found true happiness. And what about me? I always loved you, cared for you and shared my everything with you, just so you could throw it away one day. And you did that because you were afraid. Afraid of taking chances, afraid of taking that one leap of faith. That’s why I left, your wrong depiction of the world around you consumed you, pointed you to the wrong directions. Your ideals became twisted bastions of self-destruction that caught others in its wake. Sometimes, you just have to trust people who care about you. -
The magnitude of the writer’s words struck M’s heart and gripped it tightly. At first she just looked on into the distance, trying to contemplate the said words, but then she gave in. She crouched on her knees and started crying. She still couldn’t remember anything. She tried to reason with herself, explain to herself why she was living like this. Slaving herself away to long-forgotten reasons. Her entire world fell apart as she realized the scale of her folly. How foolish of her, to let herself be dragged into a world without care, love or compassion. She felt like a child who did a bad thing and was now sorry. A child, I never was a child. I can’t remember anything. Playing, having fun or just enjoying life. She looked up at the writer who descended on one knee. He held her tightly and for a fleeting moment, the feeling was familiar to M.

*          *          *

3 MONTHS LATER

         - No. No. No. No. I put too much oil on the pan! – cried M as she was putting sliced onions on the burning pan. Her kitchen, otherwise in perfect order, was a mess. The writer entered the kitchen.
         - No, you didn’t – he smiled – it’s supposed to do that. Don’t worry. –
They kissed and he grabbed a knife so he could cut pickles for a French salad.
         - I hate French salad. – he complained.
         - Me too. –
         - Why are we making it then? – asked the writer with confusion in his eyes, yet still carrying a wide smile.
         - I have no idea, just make it. -
         Suddenly the door bell rang.
         - Oh no! They’re here already! Go get the door. – M was in a complete rush, wildly jumping around the kitchen from one corner to the other. Her parents and the writer entered the dining room. – I’ll be there in a minute! – she yelled to the other room. By now the writer must have opened a bottle of fine wine and started talking to her parents. They got along quite well. After fifteen minutes of almost disastrous cooking, dinner turned out to be quite delicious. All four of them sat on the table and started eating. Is this what I have been working for? Meh, who cares. Thought M to herself for a moment, dismissing the thought in a moment’s notice. Now is not the time to think. There is time for everything, and happiness is a time for nothing.