A Good Citizen

Molly liked to start her day by cleaning her apartment, like any good citizen would. She was alone in the house, now. Then again, Molly always remembered being alone.

It would be only a few hours before her shift at the store started, so she would have to be a good efficient citizen and finish cleaning on time. She went to the broom closet to get her cleaning supplies: a feather duster, a mop, and a bucket of water. Clean homes make good citizens, she mentally recited to herself. Had she a spouse or a child the work would be quicker, but this was her lot in life. Good citizens do not complain, she thought further. She took her equipment and set it by the door without so much as a sigh.

She dusted all her shelves and her few pieces of furniture. Her apartment was rather austere, but this was purposeful. Frugality and contentedness are qualities of a good citizen, she recited. Though, of her few belongings, she focused her cleaning on her most prized possession: a simple framed photo of her mother in a wedding gown seated next to a man in what appeared to be a military uniform. Though she was gone, she had warm memories of her mother and her serene face was a source of calm, a memory preserved beneath the thin glass. Yet, the man in the uniform was always a source of mystery for her. She had no recollection of who he was, merely a phantom familiarity just beyond her memory’s reach. Her curiosity was abated by a burn mark in the photo which obscured his face and military rank. She always thought the mutilation was the result of some kitchen accident. However, she knew it was never good to dwell on such mysteries. Good citizens ask no questions, after all.

Satisfied with her work so far, she took her mop and began cleaning the floor. She set her chairs and table against the wall and mopped her living room. With wide strokes, her mop soaked up dirt and crumbs from the last day’s messes. Suddenly, under where her dining table was, her mop hit a snag in the floorboards. She put the mop to the side, confused. This is strange, she thought, has this always been there? She knelt and felt for the snag. Her fingernails scraped along the hardwood until she felt the edge of a warped board. Suddenly, an instinct took hold of her; she lifted the board.

The board was not nailed in like the rest. She lifted the board, curious to see why it was loose. Sunlight poured into the void underneath, revealing an ornate mahogany box resting on a support beam. Molly’s eyes widened with shock. She never knew this box was here, yet it seemed oddly familiar. Its metal clasp glittered in the sunlight, beckoning her. Molly’s hackles rose with an odd uneasiness. Good citizens do not hide things, she thought warily. Despite her better judgement, she took the box into her lap. Her fingers felt the gilded clasp on the front, it was unlocked. As strange as the box’s presence was, there was some unplaceable feeling deep inside her that she could not ignore, a warm familiar feeling that sung a sweet siren song in her innermost thoughts. She opened the box.

She cocked her head sideways in mild confusion as she scanned the box’s contents. Inside were three crudely folded scraps of paper and a heart-shaped locket. Someone went to great lengths to hide something so mundane, she thought. She grabbed the locket first, feeling the smooth metal in her palm. As she gently undid the clasp, the locket opened into two heart-shaped halves, each with its own picture. One was unmistakably her mother, hers was an all-too-familiar face. The other was a man in a military uniform. She had never seen his face before, yet some minute thought tugged at the back of her brain. She looked over to the picture frame and studied the image, then held the image of the man in the locket up for comparison. He seemed to have the exact same profile and build as the man in the picture. This puzzled Molly for only for the briefest moment, but a sudden realization turned her face pale. Dad? She broke in a sweat, her fingers wrapping themselves in terror around the box. Good citizens do not hide things. How can I see that picture on my wall every day and not recognize my own father? Good citizens ask no questions. Was my father a good citizen? Good citizens ask no questions. He had to be. He is my father, I am a good citizen, therefore he was. Good citizens don’t hide things. Her knuckles turned white in their grip of the box; tears of confusion welled in her eyes.

Her hands began trembling, but she could not remove them from the box. Something drove her further, a need for answers, a need for resolution, a need for understanding. She peeled her hands from the box and took out the papers, studying them. To her surprise, they were notes written in a messy and hurried script:

My Rose,

My leave was canceled. The fighting is strong here, and they need everyone we have. I don’t know when I’ll be home. They told us the war would only be for a few weeks until the uprising was put down, but it’s been two months now. With any luck, I will be home in time to see our child born. What is a good name, you think? Josephine? Anna? Claudette? You were always better at this sort of thing than me. Well, whatever name you decide, it’ll probably be better than whatever I can come up with. All I care about is being home to see you. The Major is calling me over, so I don’t have long. I hope I can write again soon.

-Your Captain

My Rose,

It has been months since I’ve held your hand, felt your touch. I’m glad to hear our baby girl was born strong and healthy. Molly, a much better name than the ones I came up with. As I said, you were always better at naming things. Send a picture of you both if you can, it reminds me of what I’m fighting for. I miss you every day. They say we’ll be home by New Years, so I hope to see you then. I can’t wait to hold you and our daughter in my arms and never let you go.

They tell me that we are not supposed to write about the war effort in case our messages get intercepted. What I can tell you is that I am fine, both inside and out. I miss you more than you can know. Give Molly a kiss for me.

-Your Captain

My Rose,

It’s over, we are finished. The war is lost, and this is the last letter they will let me send. They are taking me, where I don’t know. They talk about reeducation and showing us the horrors of the “Old Regime.” Maybe, in time, they will let me come home. I hope they will. Until our next meeting, I will keep the picture of you and Molly you sent in the pocket over my heart. I love you more than you can know.

-Your Captain

Molly was in tears. She remembered. She remembered her mother raising her during the war. She remembered her worry-worn face. The sounds of airplanes and bombardment echoed in her mind. The war… was there a war? Good citizens ask no questions. Was I always alone? I am alone now. Where was he taken? Perhaps he is out there! I don’t have to be alone! Good citizens are content… With a sudden realization, Molly’s face turned white. Good citizens are content. She held the locket close to her heart with a yearning. Good citizens are content… I can’t be alone any longer. Without hesitation she shoved the locket and letters back into the box, shutting it fast with an audible snap. She hid the box back under the floorboard, laying the plank down carefully as though it had never been moved at all. As the warm tears flowed down her face, she backed into the corner of the room and placed her hand to her throat. She could not breathe. Good citizens do not hide things, she recited in shock.

Good citizens must go to work, she remembered. Swallowing her fear, she put her cleaning supplies away and placed her furniture back. She dried her tears and did her best to act normal: chin up, eyes forward, shoulders back, expressionless. She left her home and walked down the street. She tried not to think about what she had just seen, but it was impossible now. Her will was the only thing keeping the tears at bay. I am a good citizen.

Multitudes of people were also on the street for the noon shift change. All kept their eyes forward with blank expressions. Good citizens. She saw a large, heavy banner hung over the street. The image was a shadowy hunched-over figure, its only discernable features being a shifty wide-brimmed hat and dubious white eyes accompanying the slogan in bright yellow letters “Deviants are everywhere. Stay vigilant, Citizens. Report suspicious behavior.” She passed by another banner that said, “Working citizens are good citizens. Your Regime thanks you.”

Close to Molly’s workplace was an antiques shop. It was empty now... it had always been empty, its entrance having been boarded up. Shame, they might have been able to give me information on that locket. That locket, the one with her parents’ pictures, she could not erase from her mind. That feeling burned in her thoughts once more. Good citizens must go to work. A tear welled in her eye. I must know. I must find him. I can’t be alone anymore. She knew that the Regime kept a record of all good citizens. Surely, they would know where her father lived. She stood at a t-intersection in the road. Her work was to the left, the Regime archival building was to the right. Good citizens must work. She had to know. Her father was out there, somewhere. Molly went to the archives and gave work no further thought.

The entry hall of the archives was an expansive room filled with dozens of secretaries typing adamantly at computers. Being good citizens busy at work, none ever looked up to acknowledge Molly’s presence. She instead found a sign that led her to the Registry of Citizens. There she would find what she sought.

The room she entered was astonishingly smaller, its sole occupant being an old man at a desk. He slowly clacked away at an old computer, his eyes lethargically darting from left to right as he scanned endless lines of text.

“Hello, citizen.” Molly said.

The old man, as though just woken from sleep, said “Hello, citizen.”

“I am looking to find the name and address of a fellow citizen.” Molly stated.

“I see, any known relations?” The man asked.

“Myself, he is my father.” She replied.

“I see… What is your name?” He inquired.

“Molly Clark, ID 87-6009.” She replied.

The old man typed it in with some more lethargic clacking. The light from his screen suddenly flashed a new color; his eyes widened, and his face turned pale. He did his best to hide a look of panic, but ultimately failed. “I’m sorry, miss, I can’t help you… not unless the geese returned in the winter…”

“…and the chicken hunted the fox.” Molly responded without hesitation.

The old man turned his head back and forth, steeling his nerves with a careful breath, then he reached under his desk and flipped a switch, “Tell no one else, you will meet a man in a trench coat and blue gloves at the intersection of Main and Elm. Godspeed.” He flipped the switch again. “Sorry I can’t help you, citizen.”

Good citizens do not hide things? Molly pondered the thought. Good citizens ask no questions. Molly nodded and left.

She sped along the sidewalk away from the archives back toward downtown. What had she just done, she wondered? Was that old man a deviant? He seemed like a deviant to her. Good citizens ask no questions. If good citizens ask no questions, how do I know he is a deviant? What does a deviant look like? As she fumbled with these thoughts, her feet carried her to her rendezvous at Main and Elm. And the chicken hunts the fox? What does that even mean? Her confusion over the matter was pushed to the back of her mind as she arrived at her destination. Other matters were more pressing. She spotted her contact across the street and approached him, nearly swallowing her tongue. Why am I doing this? I cannot be alone anymore. He is close, I can feel it. She found herself standing in front of the man in the trench coat, bewildered and tongue-tied.

“Hello, citizen.” The man said with feigned apathy.

Molly’s bewilderment passed as quickly as it came as she willed herself to respond, “The old man in the archives sent me. He says you know where my father is.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly, a keen concern emerging in his expression, “Shh… not out here. The devil is in the wind. Follow me.”

She followed him around innumerable corners and alleys. She did not fully trust this man, but he did not seem quite like a deviant. He doesn’t have the hat. And he is handsome. All deviants are ugly. Still, she did not know why they did not take an open route like a good citizen. The man opened a manhole cover and allowed her to step down.

After an hour of trudging through muck like a deviant, they arrived at a humongous underground cistern. It was filled with many people, tents, and sources of artificial light. Good citizens don’t hide things, Molly thought. They walked past people warming themselves at flaming barrels and tending to all manner of weaponry.

“Welcome to the Resistance. My name is Allan. You are looking for your father?”

“Yes.”

“So am I. So are most of us, actually. We’re searching for fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers… so many were lost after the war. Whomever they didn’t kill, they sent to their prisons. We’ve all lost someone.”

“Wait a minute! War? Prisons? They? Who?”

“The Regime! You honestly don’t know, do you? I know they forced everyone to forget, but… forget it. You are here now. We will teach you what they’ve made you forget, and we’ll find your father.”

Molly stared at him, trying to make sense of things. Good citizens do not hide things. Yet, the Regime is hiding something, why else would these people be down here? Good citizens ask no questions. But if that were true, why is the Regime asking us to do things for which we have no answer? A good citizen is a working citizen, but what are we working toward? War, prisons, fathers, Resistance... The instant reality of it all made Molly sick. The very things she beheld, the words she heard, felt so surreal. Suddenly, the truths that had always been true felt so wrong. Molly felt naked and smothered at the same time.

Allan felt compassion for Molly, hers was a face he had seen too many times: the world the Regime fabricated was falling around her. The only thing he knew to do was comfort her and get her back to normal, in proper shape to fight the Regime. He held her hand, she gave it willingly.

“Look… what is your name?” He asked.

“Molly.” She replied.

“Molly. You are a strong woman to have made it this far. This burden would have broken most people, it often has.” He said.

“I… can’t… breathe! I feel so alone.” Molly replied.

Allan took a moment to search for the proper words, and looked kindly into Molly’s eyes saying, “But you aren’t alone! You have us. You have me. Our Captain, he escaped the prisons after the end of the war. I was like you until he opened my eyes. I’ve been where you are. He showed me that the world you and I grew up in was just a lie made by the Regime to close our eyes to the truth. I will be there for you, so will all of us, just trust me. So long as you have us, you will never be alone. In time, the wounds will heal, and you will finally see.”

The honest look in his eyes told her all it needed to. “Not… alone… Could we sit awhile?”

“Of course.” He said calmly.

He led her to an outer cluster of tents where he showed her a small ramshackle tent made from an old blue tarpaulin. Inside were a handful of men and women gathered on tattered couches around a burning barrel.

Allan made the introduction, “Everyone, this is Molly. She’s new here. She’s been through one tough day, it’s her first apart from the Regime. Molly, these are my friends.”

The group all made their hellos and offered Molly and Allan a spot to sit by the fire. Molly was hesitant at first, but the others seemed to accept her readily. One man, who was stirring a pot of soup over the barrel, confided his story in sympathy:

“They had taken my sister away some years ago,” he said, “all they told my mother was that she was selected for resettlement and education. My mother was proud, thinking her daughter was going to be trained for the Regime Ministry. My sister, though, something on her face told me she was terrified. The men who came for her allowed us no good-byes or even questions as to where she was going. They just took her and left. The Registry refused to tell me where she was resettled, but the Resistance found me and showed me the prison they kept her in. We broke her out, but the Regime didn’t leave much of her left. She died soon after. So now, I’m here, fighting with the people who helped me save her from her torment.”

The others nodded with their own sympathy. They all knew that sort of pain. Molly understood the story and began to worry. The letters from her father said he was taken away. If what these people are saying is true, then he most likely ended up in one of those horrible places. She had some spark of hope that he was still alive, however; and resolved to find him whatever the cost.

They lightened the darkened mood with cheerful banter as the soup finished cooking. They shared the meal together and told some happier stories from times past. Molly was pleasantly surprised. Everyone included her and no one called her Citizen, simply Molly. Molly smiled happily. Here, she was not alone. Allan let Molly rest in his arms as she listened to the others chat and carouse.

“Tomorrow,” Allan promised, “I will take you to see the Captain. He fought for the Old Regime, and he lost much for it, too, his entire family. If anyone will know how to help you find your father, it will be him.”

Molly nodded acquiescently. While exhausted from the day’s revelations, she felt hopeful. Tomorrow will be a new day, she reckoned, a day to start fresh and find my father. One by one, her new friends drifted off to sleep. Molly cast one last look to them as she did the same.

Suddenly, a loud bang forced Molly to wake up; guttural war cries echoed off the sewer walls. The other people in the tent, still groggy from the abrupt awakening, leapt into action. Allan quickly sat Molly up.

“They’re here, run!” Allan shouted to Molly before grabbing a rifle, “I’m going to find the captain. We need to leave!”

The other fighters nodded, drawing rifles and pistols from their belongings, “We’ll cover you. And you…” One fighter handed Molly a pistol, giving her the quickest gun lesson possible, “That’s the safety, aim and pull the trigger. Run for the far tunnel, that will lead you away from here to a secluded alleyway. Find us again in two days’ time, you’ll see the signs.”

Everything moved so quickly that Molly had little time to comprehend it all, so she simply nodded, took the weapon, and ran. Flashing gunfire stabbed her eyes and explosions rocked the very ground, yet she ran for her life. She looked back to the chaos to see armored soldiers fighting her friends. She did not see Allan. In that moment, a soldier appeared behind Molly, pinning her against the wall and knocking the pistol from her hand. Molly expected the pain of a knife in her ribs, but the soldier seemed to be trying to immobilize her rather than kill her.

His hand muffled her bewildered screams as he injected a syringe filled with clear liquid into her arm. The soldier spoke mechanically to Molly, “Good work, Citizen.”

Her vision promptly faded, and her thoughts slowed to a trickle. Far away, she heard a muffled voice say, “Commander, operation successful. Asset is prepared for reset.”

Molly liked to start her day by cleaning her apartment, like any good citizen would. She was alone in the house, now. Then again, Molly always remembered being alone.

It would be only a few hours before her shift at the store started, so she would have to be a good efficient citizen and finish cleaning on time. She went to the broom closet to get her cleaning supplies: a feather duster, a mop, and a bucket of water. Clean homes make good citizens, she mentally recited to herself. Had she a spouse or a child the work would be quicker, but this was her lot in life. Good citizens do not complain, she thought further. She took her equipment and set it by the door without so much as a sigh.

She dusted all her shelves and her few pieces of furniture. Her apartment was rather austere, but this was purposeful. Frugality and contentedness are qualities of a good citizen, she recited. Though, of her few belongings, she focused her cleaning on her most prized possession: a simple framed photo of her mother in a wedding gown seated next to a man in what appeared to be a military uniform. Though she was gone, she had warm memories of her mother and her serene face was a source of calm, a memory preserved beneath the thin glass. Yet, the man in the uniform was always a source of mystery for her. She had no recollection of who he was, merely a phantom familiarity just beyond her memory’s reach. Her curiosity was abated by a burn mark in the photo which obscured his face and military rank. She always thought the mutilation was the result of some kitchen accident. However, she knew it was never good to dwell on such mysteries. Good citizens ask no questions, after all.

Satisfied with her work so far, she took her mop and began cleaning the floor. She set her chairs and table against the wall and mopped her living room. With wide strokes, her mop soaked up dirt and crumbs from the last day’s messes. Suddenly, under where her dining table was, her mop hit a snag in the floorboards. She put the mop to the side, confused. This is strange, she thought, has this always been there? She knelt and felt for the snag. Her fingernails scraped along the hardwood until she felt the edge of a warped board. Suddenly, an instinct took hold of her; she lifted the board.