Janita Lawrence - Why You Were Taken

Despite being part of the original e-reader generation, they preferred their reading style old-school, and pen and paper to glass or projections. ‘It just feels more real ,’ her mother used to say when Kirsten sighed at her for writing down her shopping lists on the back of old receipts. ‘Smartphones exist for a reason,’ Kirsten would say, showing her over and over how she could have a virtual shopping list, how she could send it to the store and have her groceries picked and delivered for her. Her mother would give her a tight smile, and she would know that she would never win this particular battle. When Cellpurses and then smart watches came on to the market it was just too much for them. They used to wield those old smartphone bricks as if they were something to be proud of, like the burning bras of the 60s. An image of a particularly ugly bra in flames comes to Kirsten’s mind; she doesn’t know where it comes from. One of her university courses? An ancient Fair Lady? Picstream? Webpedia? Flitter? Sometimes she feels as though her brain is a giant, multi-dimensional reflector, filled with the world’s random pictures. Where did they come from? A parallel life? A previous life? Someone else’s life?

The only exception to her parents’ fear of progressive technology was when she had given them a Holograph: a 3D-photo projector loaded with her Somali Pirates pictures. It was before the collection had won any awards. They were so proud of her, kept the projector running on loop, despite its rather macabre content: they had pirates in their lounge for months. The Holograph never moved from the mantelpiece, even when it stopped working.

There, she thinks, there’s a good memory to hold on to, until she remembers that the Holograph was stolen in the burglary, which makes her see the crimson comets again.

She battles to tear open the buff boxtape, cursing herself for not thinking of bringing a pair of scissors, when she finds in the third carton a neat little pocket-knife (Royal Sky). It is, fittingly, a sharp taste, a stab of bitter on her tongue, a hint of cyanide, like chewing an apple seed. She remembers this taste exactly, and gets a poke of nostalgia. Her father would keep this knife in his pocket and bring it out on special occasions: when a bottle of wine needed de-corking at a neighbourhood braai, or a loose thread threatened to unravel a dress. There would always be a calm measured-ness on these occasions. A slow inspection of the problem, a thoughtful diagnosis, and the retrieval of the magical object from the deep recesses of his trousers. A slow opening of the blade, a glint of light when it was revealed, and then at last, the careful incising where it was needed. Never forgetting the cleaning of the tool afterwards, a sleeve-shining of its insignia, and its eventual evaporation. Considered, calculating, careful.

She remembers specifically an occasion when she was battling to free a new baby doll from its suffocating plastic shell. The way he had achingly-slowly dismantled the packaging and kneeled down to hand the toy to her. The way he had looked at her, almost with sadness, as if he had some kind of prescience that she wouldn’t be able to bear children of her own. The memory, before fond and with pretty edges, now stings her with its poignancy. She swallows the hard stone in her throat.

Kirsten was never allowed to touch the knife, it was forbidden. She flicks it open and starts ripping into the boxes.

Seth knows before he opens his eyes that he is late for his grind. He groans and stretches for the Anahita water bottle he keeps next to his swingbed. Switches off his dreamrecorder. A few gulps later he turns on his Sunrise. Throughout the apartment all the curtains open, allowing the morning light to bleach the inside of the rooms, and what feels like the inside of his head. The apartment voice, which he has nicknamed ‘Sandy,’ wishes him a good morning and proceeds to play his Saturday playlist.

It’s his last day at Pharmax so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem if he’s a few hours late. It takes him a while to remember why his head feels like it had been left on a township soccer field: Salvia pills, cocaine drops, ShadowShots, a beautiful girl with sequins for eyes. Having sex with the shining girl behind one of the curtains in the club, but bringing another girl home. Rolo calling them a private cab. Long chestnut- and blonde-striped hair, palest skin, beautiful tits, cosmic blowjob. He yawns and rearranges himself, has another sip of water.

Shit, he thinks, he didn’t even check her ID for her Hi-Vax status.

That was dumb, but lately he’s done worse. He was either getting less paranoid or more self-destructive. Maybe it was the Salvia. Stretching his arms above his head, he makes a verbal note for his Pharmax report. Seth reaches over for his jacket, lying on the floor, and checks the inner pocket. He shakes the white bottle: almost half of the pills gone. He’ll need to top up today before he says his goodbyes.

The stripey-haired hook-up hadn’t been happy when he had asked her to leave at around 3AM but that was pretty much the standard reaction. He had made the night more than worth her while, so he told her to suck it up as he pushed taxi tokens into her hand and closed the door behind her, opening it again just to turf out a lone red boot that smelled of Givenchy and old carpets.

As always, he was surprised by the hurt expression. Honestly, how could she expect him to get a decent night’s sleep with a total stranger in his bed? Some creeps were Fucked Up.

He gets up and wraps his raw silk dressing gown around himself. He doesn’t like walking around the place naked, even though he lives on his own. He finds people doing mundane things in the nude – like eating breakfast – distasteful. Naked is for showering and sex, for God’s sake, not for frying eggs and pressing wapple juice. He switches on the kettle, pours Ethiopian javaberry grounds into his antique espresso maker, and puts it on the gas stove to percolate. While he’s waiting he supercharges his Tile, steams some double-cream milk. Makes seedtoast with almond butter and wolfs it down. Makes some more, and takes it to his tablet along with his mug of fragrant coffee. Just as he had hoped, a small green rabbit blinks on his screen. Someone from Alba is online and bumps him. He types in his password, ‘52Hz,’ to gain access to the thread.

LL> Hey SD. You ready?

He takes a sip of his coffee, dusts crumbs off his fingertips, and types a reply:

SD>> Hello my favourite cyberstalker. Yebo. Starting/F on Monday.

LL> U happy/brief?

SD>> As always.

LL> U did a good job/Pharmax.

SD>> There was nothing 2 do.

Out of nowhere, his left thumb starts tingling. He examines it, rubs it on the top of his thigh, and carries on typing.

SD>> They had nothing for us.

LL> Clean corporate? Thought those went/way/rhinos.

SD>> Me 2. But they R squeaky. Apart/drugging up country & making lds $$ off vuln & desperate.

LL>Hey, we all need 2 earn/living.

SD>> Sure. Any news re anything else? Heard about/stupid politician/pool?

LL> Criminal.

SD>> : )

LL> Sure there are lots of those at F.

SD>> Criminals or pools?

LL> Both. If u find 1 have/swim for me. Haven’t swum since/kid.

SD>> Me neither. Probably have heated springs & shit in there. I’ll do/fucking backstroke 4 U. YOLO!

LL> LOLZ! LFD. YOLO FOMO FML.

SD>> Congrats on Tabula Rasa bust. Excellent work. Mind-5.

LL> Going 2 break story next week.

SD>> They’ll make good miners/farmers/etc at the PLC.

LL> Ha! Can U imagine? 1 day a botox billionaire, the next you’re lubing up a cow.