Disclaimer: I don't own the rights of any characters or the story on which this is based. All those rights go to the author of the book The Handmaids Tale: Margaret Atwood. I do, however, own the rights of this idea (in these words) of the alternate ending.
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Silence engulfs me once again. It feels quite ordinary to me now, as though my whole life has been this hushed. It reminds me of the first time I waited in that room, her room, Offred's. Not mine.
The car, sombre black, like those of the Angels, judders along a dusty road that meanders lazily through the rural landscape. With the thought of the room vivid in my mind, I think back to that life, and am surprised how little I remember. Perhaps I had spent more time than I realise at this trailer. Serena Joy, Cora, Rita, Nick, all distant memories. Fading faces.
Further back, the details are clearer. Like her sparkling eyes and her dimpled smile. And his smile, his voice, his every expression; the comforting one, the curious one, the worried one, the reassuring one. I grip these memories desperately. Every passing day feels like losing a part of myself. I don't want to lose them too, even just these images, they are all I have left of them.
A shrill ringing distracts me. A cell phone. A man – I forget his name, the less attachments the better – answers it. His voice is deep and unfamiliar, yet when he speaks, I hear Luke.
I don't bother listening. Words are not important; they are temporary, almost fragile. I gaze out of the tinted windows, across the fields of wildflowers that shimmer in the midday sun. I'd like to believe that those flowers signify hope; they bloom despite the unfortunate world they grow in. I imagine they are predicting what awaits me over the border. But how can I ignore their bent stems and wilting petals? I decide they mean nothing. I can't afford to believe otherwise; I do not have much hope to spare.
The man clears his throat to catch my attention. I watch him speak at me, stare his mouth forming words that I do not understand. He does not expect much of me. I have not talked before. I assume he is telling me my part, to pretend. After what feels like months of studying the guards at the border, we are attempting to flee. The man is my husband and we are tourists.
The car approaches a man at the gate. The man, my husband, hands him our passports. He doesn't turn around. I try my best to not think of the last time I was here. I try not to think of him. Or her. It would make this harder. This felt like betrayal. My betrayal.
I force a smile. The man goes back indoors with the passports.
He looks back at us, talking to another man across a counter. They look at each other and seem to have found the answer they were looking for. One of them lifts the phone.
But this is not what happened.
The man goes indoors. Checks the passports. Returns and approaches us again. I expect him to ask us to get out of the car. But he doesn't. He hands us the passports. When our eyes meet, his are curious. I worry for a moment there that he'll change his mind. He must have read the lie in my eyes. Yet he turns around and the car pulls forward. Silence takes over us again. Protecting something I do not know.
I think back to the room. I wonder whether the new Offred has found it.
Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.
Don't let the bastards grind you down.
I didn't.