shiver (FEATURED) | ✓

oo9

vance

Two days pass in the usual rhythm, on the usual schedule. And then, on the second day, it is Jonathan who steps up instead of Malcolm (who is absent) and takes over the meeting, starting off with an explanation about how Malcolm is currently busy getting ready for a speech that will be held later this afternoon to the public of what was once the city of Prague. I can't say I'm not annoyed that he's her right-winged man, that he is the authority we must turn to when Malcolm is absent. I would prefer Malcolm over him any day- the fact that he stands at the top of the podium today, in this glass-walled council room only reminds me that he is my father and thus, traditionally, 'the boss of me.'

I do not know what the matter with me is. I'm growing irritable, the only person I willingly talk to is Adamík, and this sudden repulsive attitude towards any higher form is troubling. What if somebody notices? All of us know the punishment for neglect of the government, for rebellion, for rule-breaking. They call it the Passing. It is a ritual I would rather not describe in detail. But we all know it, we all know what it is; every member of this society above eight years of age knows and comprehends exactly what the Passing is. Everyone is afraid of it, and rightly, too, it would seem, since there is no God afterwards to turn to, and it is horrific.

It is perfect.

It is what is necessary to maintain this society. It. Is. Perfect. It is an accumulation of what never was, and thus it will continue to disregard the ancient ways, the ways before the ice and the snow, the ways of the ancient cultures that we no longer speak of.

Anyways. I will save further discussion of this for later. For now, I will come back to what is present, to what is happening.

"The speech will be held precisely at 13:15 today," Jonathan explains. "All of you are expected to attend, as it will cover numerous important things. You are also expected to dress suitably for the occasion. Five mirror minutes will be permitted for a checking of appearance prior to leaving your apartments." He pauses for a moment, and lets that sink in. "Their usage is not obligatory," he adds on. "Each of you will be seated in the usual room, and will be expected to take notes on whatever Malcolm says. It is important, in order to ensure your job security, and also to take with you home, in order to bring forth ideas to the meeting that will occur after the speech, this meaning tomorrow. You will work from home for the remainder of the evening, afterwards. Any questions concerning clarity of the speech or any pressing ideas can be sent to either myself or Commander Henrison, before being passed on to Malcolm, once reviewed. All of you have our contact details programmed into your screens."

I watch the rise and then abrupt fall of his chest as he takes in a deep breath, exhales, and then waits for someone to say something. Nobody does.

"Any questions?" He asks, clearly annoyed that he has to prompt us to say something, as though his speech isn't enough.

No response comes to that either- he takes that as a no, and sighs. "The venue will be the Square. You may go. Be there early and prepared. I will see you then."

Our ritual of packing up commences. As I go to leave, returning Adamík's 'see you later,' I feel a heavy hand come to rest upon my shoulder- and, despite myself, I flinch.

"Vance."

"Jonathan," I reply, coldly, although his tone is mild, as though rage and spite and irritation have all abandoned it. I dislike it. Tremendously, because this is not him speaking to me, it's someone else.

"Father," he answers.

I spin around, and his hand drops to his side. My eyes are dark- at least, that's what they feel like. Simply put, I'm the furious one now. "You want forgiveness, do you?" I snap, with more poison in my voice than I would have otherwise liked. In the moment, however, it suits me just fine.

"Please, Vance. I am still your father, wether you like it or not, and I thought-"

"That since we work together, we might as well be friends." I finish his sentence for him without smiling. "How sweet," I say flatly.

He sighs. "I'm sorry I struck you," he finally says. My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, and I can't think of another moment where I've been so angry at him.

"Out of all the things you could apologise for, and you choose striking me the other day?" I answer, my eyes narrowing at him in a look of pure disgust. "And you don't even spare a thought for Keira or Julie."

"That was an unfortunate accident," he answers flatly. "You cannot possibly blame me-"

I know I'm getting ahead of myself, but I can't stop it. All this rage and this grief that I've kept bottled up for the past several years come pouring out. "Yes, I can. They die, and you call it 'an unfortunate accident?' They die, because of you, and that is what you say? Your own granddaughter!" I snap, as he opens his mouth to say something, although I'm not interested in what he has to say anymore. "She was eleven. Eleven. Is masking murder with an accident your way of forgiving yourself, or is it simply because you're a heartless bastard?" I seethe. My voice mustn't crack. It can't. I can't be weak in front of him, not anymore. "Right. Right. So, you don't call killing your family murder, and then you ask me to call you father? You must be mad." I draw in a breath, and shake my head.

"It was an accident, and you know it," he answers.

"It was not an accident!" I almost yell at him.

His expression is now cold, and I know I've said something wrong. "Watch your mouth, son, or you may never be able to join your family beneath the ice," he says without tone.

I swallow thickly. He has won again, and I am furious at myself for allowing this to happen. I submit to his stare- unwillingly, but I must. "It was an accident," I finally say, in a monotone.

"Say it again, and then you will go and prepare yourself for this afternoon."

"It was an accident," I say.

"Again!" He shouts at me. I can see the veins popping out in his neck, the jugular bulging as every muscle is strained.

Shattered, I reply with a single, monotonous phrase, that goes against everything I have ever believed in.

"It was an accident."