Kassy Tayler: Remnants of Tomorrow

I go to the water closet and bathe. Ellen is consistent in her routine, so I know I have a few hours before she arrives with my next meal. I want to be ready when she arrives. I hope that surprise at my appearance will catch her off guard and possibly lead her to revealing some answers.

I take a hard look in the mirror before I dress. The scratches on my face and the bruises on my body have faded, but the memories of the people I killed have not, nor will they ever, even though it was either them or me. I have a scar on my forehead from my fall on the pavement and another on my upper arm where I was creased by a bullet. I cannot hide them, nor do I want too. They were hard earned.

The first time my father saw me, he called me by my mother’s name. I have been told my entire life that I look like her. I have dark brown hair that is hard to tame, and my eyes behind the shine are brown also. I do not know if I look like her or not, as she died when I was born and I never saw her. I can only hope that the next time my father looks upon me he sees her once again.

Because right now that is the only weapon I have to use against him.

I was right. My appearance catches Ellen off guard. I stand at the window when she comes in with my tray. I found some pins in a drawer and used them to put my hair up but a few curls escape my best efforts. I turn at the opening of the door, and Ellen stops in her tracks when she sees me. Her eyes narrow and her body tenses even more than usual. I see her as one of the explosives that my grandfather worked with. She is primed and just needs a single spark to make her explode.

She rushes to the table, drops the tray with a loud crash and rushes from the room, slamming the door and rattling the lock as she goes. I stand there for a moment, looking at the locked door. I am not sure what it was I expected. Maybe deep inside I hoped I’d be set free. I know that wouldn’t happen just because I put on a dress and fixed my hair, but something has to change eventually. I’m just hoping to expedite it.

I can’t help but laugh a bit at my thoughts. I want more than to get out of this room. I want to change everything. I sit down to eat since I did not have breakfast. I know what hunger is and know we all would have starved if the Hatfields had not arrived in their airship when they did.

I take no more than two bites when there is a rap on my door. This is the first time anyone has bothered to knock, and I look at it in shocked silence for a moment.

“I am to escort you to Sir Meredith,” Findley says.

“Am I in trouble?” I ask with mock innocence.

“There’s only one way to find out,” he replies. “Go ahead and finish your meal.”

I quickly finish my meal and try not to smile as I step into the hall before Findley. This is what I wanted. I do not consider putting on the dress giving my father what he wants. I consider it a way to get what I want. Meeting with my father is the first step.

Findley opens the door to the staircase. We go up a flight of stairs. I have to carry the tail of my dress to keep from tripping over it. While the dress fits me well, neither pair of the shoes in the wardrobe appealed to me, especially since they had heels that seemed dangerous and unwieldy. So I still wear my boots and each footstep echoes loudly in the stairwell. We go through a door, and I recognize from my first visit here the hallway that leads to my father’s office. The only thing that’s changed is the number of guards accompanying me.

The beautiful paintings along the hallway capture my attention just as they did the first time I was here. What would Dr. Stewart, the scientist who travels with the Hatfields, have to say about them? Would he recognize the different artists’ names? Their beauty affects me strongly this time, because I know what it is like outside now. I’ve seen the grandeur of the world. It’s a scary place out there, but it is also beautiful beyond words when you take the time to look at it. I am afraid I didn’t take enough time to appreciate it when I had the chance.

Findley raps on the door and opens it immediately upon hearing my father’s response. He waves me through and I hear it close behind me.

My father sits at his beautifully carved wood desk with his head down and his eyes on a paper in his hand. An oil lamp casts a soft glow around him where before he had bright light provided by the coal power of the dome. Sacrifices have been made everywhere it seems.

I know it is his intention to intimidate me. Instead of waiting for him to notice me, I walk to one of the windows. I gratefully inhale the fresh scent of the potted plants that sit on either side of the floor-to-ceiling glass. I saw nothing like these plants when I was outside, but after hearing about the world and the different regions from Dr. Stewart, I realize they must come from some place other than England. How ingenious that the creators of our world sought to preserve them also. Someone besides my father has to be responsible for keeping them alive. I cannot imagine him giving tender care to any living thing.

The window I look out holds the same view as I see from mine, so there is nothing different to look at; still I am, as always, drawn to the light and the busy people who now fill the streets, going about their business as if nothing has changed.

I see my father’s reflection in the window yet I ignore him, as he ignores me. I have to admit that he is a handsome man, with his black hair and dark-as-coal eyes. I know this is a test of wills, and I can wait him out now that I am here. He will feel smug because he thinks he has broken me. He will find that I am as stubborn as he is about what I feel to be right.

I catch my reflection in the window. The lighting is much different here than it is in my room, or maybe it is the fact that I have time to study my face now where before I was rushing about. I nearly do not recognize the girl who looks back at me. The angles of my jaw are leaner, as if I’ve lost the softness of my youth since the night Zan fixed my hair. My neck seems longer and the bones of my clavicle more pronounced. The rosy glow of my skin from the days spent in the sun has already faded in the two weeks since I’ve been removed from its presence, and the pale hue of my face makes my eyes darker and larger. I look older. I feel much older now, and possibly wiser. I hope I am wise enough to have the coming battle of wits with my father.

I look past my face to my father’s reflection. He looks at me, then at the clock in the tall standing case beside the door. I hear its ponderous ticktock and wonder how much more time he will allow before he speaks to me. He bends his head back to the papers on his desk as if he has all the time in the world. I imagine to him he does. When will he admit that the time inside the dome is running out?

What made my mother love him? I cannot bear to think that she did not love him. How else did I come to be if not from love? I may not know my father well, I may not know him at all, but I cannot believe my mother did not love him or think that she loved him.

An insistent voice rises in my mind. Is he any better than a filcher? He may not actually be a part of capturing young women and boys and trading them to the rovers for weapons. But he certainly is an instrument of its occurrence. Yet he would deny his role in it because he is not the sort to get his hands dirty. He sits in his office and makes decisions and hobnobs with the royals he protects because he’s on their level. My mother was not, thus he discarded her. For my father, it is all about the means to an end. But I would like to think that he had some feelings for my mother, and that he regretted setting her aside.

“She wore that dress,” he says. I’ve been so caught up in my own thoughts that I did not realize that he was watching me once more. He sits back in his chair and stares at my back until I turn around to look at him. A wry smile crosses his face. “I find it interesting that, of all the things in that wardrobe, you chose to put on that dress.”