𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐀 | 𝐋. 𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐍

𝐈.𝐗𝐈𝐕.𝐢𝐢

In the ten minutes that'd elapsed since they first started eating, nothing much had been exchanged between her and her mother. Verbally, anyway. The tremble of her hand, the flyaways peeking from her braids, the languid manner in which she stared at the tablecloth... Signs of exhaustion, all resulting from years of arduous factory work. There used to be a time where she was much happier, Valé reminisced— when she styled her locks into sophisticated styles, pored over the books she bought from the bookstore on her way back from the university she taught at, and danced with her spouse as soup bubbled on the stove. Manning machines ten hours a day had dulled her into a solemn cast of the woman she once was. In that moment, she asked herself for the nth time that evening: was that even her mother?

And then it happened. 

There was a bang at the door. Her mother sharply raised a finger to her lips, ordering Valé to remain quiet, but the banging on the door had done enough to silence her. Hastily, they wiped the food from their plates—three hours' worth of factory work, Valé estimated—into the garbage, and promptly placed the dishes onto a counter before toeing up to the second level, her mother looking over her shoulder as the banging continued. This did not surprise either of them in the slightest. It'd been going on for the past year, women mysteriously disappearing, whether it be from their homes or during an outing. Her cousin Maria Francisca had vanished during a trip to the grocer five months ago, then Vale's aunt Candelaria did not return from work a couple of weeks following Maria Francisca's disappearance... then some of her classmates from school, including a girl named Zyanya, who was suspended days prior. The similarity? They'd all been declared mentally unfit before their disappearances, whether by their supervisors or their instructors.

Valé had received her diagnosis days ago.

It was when they entered Valé's bedroom on the third level when they finally broke through the door, the sound of clanging steel resounding through the tenement. Her mother ushered Valé into a closet, placing a ringed hand on her the small of her back as she nudged her further inside. As soon as Valé nestled herself into the corner, her mother had joined her, closing the door as she huddled close.

Valé did not dare to look the woman in the eye— she could already imagine the expression in her own mind. Neutral, but reproving at the same time. Displeased that she'd have to work in proximity with one of her kind, an allegedly hyper-fertile young woman who'd grow up to reproduce more hyper-fertile young women, who would then birth more of them, and the cycle continued. It was not only from her perspective but in everyone's— her children's, her father's, her mother's, everyone that surrounded her. The government—the one of her invaders', not her own, as they'd been deposed long ago—had worked to convince the world of the supposed debauchery and corruption of the State, because it was far easier to subject a group of people to atrocity when the rest did not consider them human. To them, they were subjects— not people, subjects. Less deserving of anything, including the pursuit of happiness.

Propaganda worked wonders when it was delivered correctly.

As they traversed the corridor, Valé caught short glimpses of others in the ward, mainly women and girls. They all varied in age, from toddlers who could barely speak, to those nearing menopause. Occasionally, there'd be a man, but as she'd presumed earlier, it'd be a long time before she'd see another one— it was far more advantageous to conscript them and have them serve on the front lines rather than toss them into the Sanatorium, have them fight a war that was not their own, perhaps give them the order to occupy another land.

Just like they had years ago.

The woman jerked her to the right, and they entered the covered bridge that connected the buildings of the Sanatorium. Originally, the bridge had been walled by three glass panels, which regardless of the time of the day, had always stayed clean, not a single handprint or smear to be seen. For obscurement purposes, the glass had been mostly boarded, only allowing slivers of light to guide people to the other side. Like everything else, it'd lost its charm.