Heartland

HEARTLAND

She walks gracefully toward the podium, her smile a perfect mix of genuine and cynical. The tail on her white skirt must be at least six feet long. Her white turtle-neck shirt makes her neck look long and sturdy, adding to her regality. Her pale skin is almost indistinguishable from her outfit. Only two things stand out in her frame. One, her golden curls, which reach down to her lower back. And two, resting against her chest and shining in the light coming from above, the golden heart-shaped locket.

She looks around the atrium, its floor and seats the color of blood. She nods, acknowledging her in-person audience made up of politicians, former presidents, and this year's presidential candidates. When she's ready to address those not watching her in person, she looks directly at the camera. When her mouth opens, before she gets her first word out, my body goes both hot and cold. “I stand here today, as your president,” she says. Her voice sends shivers down my spine.

I remember that day like it was yesterday.

Just over five years ago, my daughter was a presidential candidate. Like many from the Arteries, she dreamed of earning her place in the Heartland. It isn’t easy. The odds are stacked against people like us, condemned to the Arteries ever since the world changed. In the human body, the arteries exist to serve the heart. And so, in this new world, the Arteries exist to serve the Heartland.

The easiest way to get out of the Arteries, and to take your family along, is to win the presidency. So my daughter put her name in the ballot, and was one of the so-called lucky few chosen to compete. And she did. She put up one hell of a fight. She’s the pride of the town, now. The closest we’ve had to being able to call one of our own “president”. She was runner up. I wish she had not competed.

Up on the Heartland, in the Biome Arena in the Central Park - named after a park in a city in another country that no longer exists - they competed. Eight presidential candidates, four male and four female, one candidate in each starting point; North, South, West, North-East, North-West, South-East and South-West. My daughter was in the Eastern starting point.

At the center of the arena, the former president stood and gave his speech. He looked just like he does today, sitting in that blood-red room. His bald head is shiny, his glasses a translucent blue. His pants are dark gray, and he’s wearing a navy blue button-up under a black vest. Resting on his chest was the golden heart-shaped locket. He took it off and hung it on the Central Tree, which stands tall in a circular dirt mound, accompanied by a small metal bench.

“You’ve heard this speech many times,” he said. “So I’ll keep it short. It’s been five years since I grabbed this symbol of life. It’s time to let it find a new home by someone else’s heart. You know the rules. Whoever manages to hold on to the locket for eight uninterrupted hours is the new president of Hara. If you are the last one left standing, you are the new president of Hara. As always, anything goes.” He sat on the bench, legs crossed, and began to read his book. I still remember its title. “The Spirit Play”.

Each contestant was followed by a camera. In the East, my daughter moved swiftly through her biome, which mimics a white-sand beach. She was dressed normally in a t-shirt and sweatpants. Her hair was a tangled mess of brown, and her bone structure was easy to see through her skin. She was so skinny compared to some of the other candidates, but looked like just about anyone else from our Artery.

The first opponent she encountered was a man from the Heartland. He was about six feet tall and built like an ox. I thought that would be the end of my Arelis. But she was smart, and he was dumb and cocky. In the end, she led him to taking a fall he couldn't get up from.

Thalia, who won and became our current president, had taken out three others by the time Arelis got to her. My son, Aurelio, was so excited. He was sure that his sister would win. How could she not? Thalia must’ve been exhausted. For a while, even I believed it. I suppose that made the truth harder to accept when my daughter’s bloody head hit the ground. My son and I watched in disbelief. We felt so numb that we didn’t even cry until the next morning. As the last one standing, Thalia won by default. She held onto that locket for far longer than eight hours.

That following morning, my son and I sobbed. “When did this world become so cruel?” I asked. But it was a silly thing to ask, knowing that my son didn’t know the answer. But I did. I was six years old when the world changed, sixty one years ago. Metal rained from space, and most of the Earth died in the storm. This island became the world, at least as far as we know. Most of the world burned, and most of what didn’t burn is underwater. Our small island became much smaller, what once were our high peaks now just above sea level.

It took decades to rebuild, and there was no order. Chaos ruled, and the surviving elites seized the opportunity like they always did. Foreigners, mostly. The ones that used to come for their summer vacations. They claimed the resulting high ground and named it the Heartland. The less fortunate would live in the outskirts, with fewer resources and more prone to unfavorable weather and flooding. But those living in the Heartland needed the ones from the Arteries to do the work, so they played their part. They got them - us - electricity, then the radio signals, then TV. By then our island country’s name was gone, and instead we just called it Jara, which is about a third of the region’s original name. It’s Hara now, because that’s what the people living in the Heartland chose to call it.

They needed to give us something to look forward to, so that we kept working for them. And the poor always need to hold on to some kind of hope. And miracles are not a thing anyone believes in any more. Religion died with the rest of the world. So a chance to earn a place in the Heartland for them and their family was all there was. Knowing that the odds would favor them, the Heartlanders created the presidential elections as they are now.

Noo one from the Arteries has ever won.

I listen to President Thalia’s speech, cringing as her lips flap and words spill out. My heart skips a beat with each of her syllables. “And now, you will meet this year’s presidential candidates,” she says. Four men and four women stand and line up in front of her, the men to the left and the women to the right. Three of the men are clearly from the Heartland, wearing very fancy clothes and obviously well nourished. The fourth man looks strong, but his clothes are less impressive and his hair is a brown mess. Two of the women look like they got their clothes from the president’s closet, while the other two look like my daughter did five years ago.

The first man walks up to the president. “What is your name,” she asks him.

“Anthony,” he responds. His voice is deep, matching his frame and, my guess, six feet in height.

The first woman candidate walks up and introduces herself. Her name is Jillian. Her voice sounds young, but there are many wrinkles on her face. I wonder if they’re caused by stress, but what kind of stress could a woman from the Heartland have? Did she spend nights pondering which fancy dress would be best to wear for her introduction to this small world of ours?

The second man approaches the president flamboyantly and introduces himself as Charles. He’s followed by Maria, who has a very determined look on her face. The third man somehow trips on his short walk to the podium, and this makes me giggle for just a second. He introduces himself as Antonio. The third woman is tall and strong. I recognize her from the Arteries. Alisa easily stands out.

The fourth man, the one from the Arteries, is next. He has a kind face. There is longing in his eyes, and sorrow. He also looks more determined than any of the other presidential candidates, but his voice is soft. The room spins around me slowly when he says his name. “Aurelio.” My Aurelio.

The fourth woman says her name, but I can’t hear it. My ears are ringing as my own son’s name echoes in my mind. Aurelio. Will my son be the new pride of the town? The thought of losing him the same way I lost my Arelis…

They’re all clapping in the atrium. I know there’s people clapping in their homes, too. Cheering. The elections are the only form of entertainment nowadays, and they only happen every half decade. So many birds killed with one stone. A president is elected, fewer mouths to feed, and the equivalent of what used to be known as The Olympics. When the clapping stops, so does the video feed.

I go to bed without dinner, because my appetite is gone. I go through most of the night without sleep, because my peace is gone. I fall asleep eventually, exhaustion getting the best of me. In the morning, I don’t eat, and quickly realize that I slept longer than I wanted to. But there’s still room for coffee. The best things somehow survived the apocalypse; coffee, mango, avocado, and rice, among others.

And birds, of course, with their wings, letting them visit the remaining bodies of land. Growing up I heard stories of people flying on planes. But there’s nowhere to land them, as far as anyone knows. And even if there was, there’s no fuel to power them.

The presidential race has already started when I turn on the TV. I flip to the channel that’s focusing on my son, and almost drop my mug. My son is in the middle of a fight. His opponent is Antonio. They are by a river, the terrain muddy and rocky. Aurelio has the advantage; the people up in the Heartland don’t venture near the rivers often. Antonio trips, not knowing where to place his feet. He falls, and Aurelio does the rest with a rock. I’m not a fan of seeing my son murder someone, but I’m glad that he gets to live at least a little while longer.

A thought occurs to me. How many are still alive? I flip channels to see footage for the other candidates. Four are black screens, meaning that those candidates are already dead. I switch to Charles’ screen just in time to see him get punched to death by Anthony. Only three left now, including my son. Aurelio, Anthony, and Alisa. Funny, all their names start with the same letter.

I flip channels back and forth. Aurelio and Alisa move stealthily, and they find Anthony at the same time. They look at each other and nod in agreement. Their assault is relentless, and Anthony doesn’t stand a chance.

Alisa and Aurelio are the only ones left. A man and a woman from the Arteries. The people from the Heartland must be fuming.

My son has now gotten as close as my daughter did before she died. My heart is racing.

Things can only go two ways from here. And either way, one thing is certain.

My son is the pride of the town.