The Shifting Tides of Class

The day the currency crashed, the lives of the rich fell to the whims of the poor. The first person to notice the money had gone was Marjorie Johanssen of Miami, she had been attempting a transfer at the exact moment the balances hit zero. Within seconds a chorus of confused mutterings were uttered across the nation, as the seconds ticked into minutes, confusion boiled over into panic. Wall Street erupted, people spilled from their cubicles seeking answers only to return laden with more questions. The New York police department had been sceptical in the beginning, the first phone call was labelled a scam and the second- moments later- the same. Their irritation grew as the third and fourth calls came in quick succession echoing the claim, 'somebody has stolen all of my money.' Between 12.02pm and 12.05pm they received such an unfathomable influx of calls that the chief made the executive decision to pull the cords from the walls in order to try and gain some quiet and clarity. Exactly 11 minutes and 27 seconds after the crash, the President was pointing fingers and promising retaliation. The news rippled across the country within the hour, people sighed and cooed their condolences before realising they too had been hit.

By the early evening the streets were swarming with protests, the rich in all of their finery screamed of injustice. They paraded around their glass towers and steel marvels, chanting their outrage while the homeless watched, cloaked in shadows, with a morbid curiosity. If anyone had deigned to glance in their direction they would have found their faces unreadable, perhaps even sympathetic but lean a little closer and you would see that their minds were abuzz with the possibilities.

Few slept on that first night, the President managed to sate the minority with her promises of solution and retribution. Most however, saw the sweat that beaded on her forehead, the wary darting of her eyes and her hands, that gripped the lectern throughout, white knuckled to hide their trembling.

The following day China was hit, by lunch time, Russia too. Accusations bounced across the globe without supporting evidence, armies reluctantly gathered and readied themselves for the inevitable. On the 6th day the final country, Chad, was hit, the little money the residents held hit zero. People scrambled around their homes in search of coins and cash which had long been declared redundant, only to find it held no value in the world.

While the wealthy still clung to their smart phones and tablets, the poor knew the keys to survival. They knew of strife and fighting for their lives, they weren’t reeling from their losses as they had never been in a position to lose. They could see where the world was turning, as they had already lived there for years. This world wasn’t new to them, it was their world; their bodies were accustomed to days without food, electricity, hygiene and the modern comforts of man. So when the rolling black outs began they leapt at the opportunity to seize the status they had always been denied.

It started with setting up residence in the supermarkets, grocery stores, meat factories and before long they had seized control of the farms and weapon stores. By the time the others had realised what they must do, it was already too late. They pleaded with the government to intervene but the few who were not preparing for war either lacked incentive or were gripped by fear, realising they were hopelessly outnumbered.

Those with any sense joined the Amish en masse but their size and influence had irrevocable consequences on the community and soon the Amish who had sought to aid were doomed alongside everyone else. For many, suicide was the only choice. Bodies piled in the street with no one willing to clear them away. When it became clear the Sanitation Department had decided they weren’t willing to work for free, the few who’s faith hadn’t wavered shouldered the responsibility of dragging the bodies to their temples. Spring was young but the stench still quickly desecrated the Churches, Mosques and Synagogues. The religious were forced on to the streets they had laboured to clear, only to find more lost souls lining the tarmac. Their faith dwindled, most stepped back and allowed nature to take her fill.

Those with anything to trade flocked to the poor at their new outposts, desperate to give anything for a bite to eat or some shelter. Suddenly the people who had been shooed from looking in the shop windows were having all valuables imaginable thrust in their faces. Jewellery, technology, clothing, art, ornaments and they revelled in the fresh feeling of power. It was during one such interaction that Hano had become the owner of a locket she had longed for since she first laid eyes upon it. The previous owner, Jen, knew nothing of Hano, as far as she was concerned the trade had been their first encounter. But for almost 2 years Hano and Jen had ridden the same bus, 5 days a week. Jen would always be amongst the small crowd catching the 7.06 from Futura West, the third stop after leaving the depot and the first opportunity for Hano to rise from her hiding place beneath the seats and blend with the other commuters. Hano knew her dislike of Jen was undeserved and unfair but that didn’t make it go away. She would watch her each morning, thoughtlessly combing her fingers through glossy hair while immersed in brand new text books, the silver heart glistening against her collarbone. Hano even knew how Jen came to be the owner of the heart, she had heard her discussing it on the phone. A gift, from Jen’s father; an anatomically correct, solid sliver heart, containing a photo of the two of them at it’s core, to congratulate Jen for passing her cardiology exam. Hano had thought bitterly at the time how she had no parents to congratulate her nor a reason to be congratulated if she had. The two would exit the bus at the same stop and then walk in opposite directions, Jen to the Medical Centre, Hano to the Advancing Technology sector. It was not wasted on her, how fortunate she was to have mutual interests with the majority of the of the other commuters, allowing her to slip by the driver unnoticed when the bus arrived at the college.

She would hold her head high as she strolled through the campus, believing if she did so they would focus only on the confidence she exuded and not the dishevelled appearance of her outfit. Other than the occasional sideward glance and hushed whisper, nobody dared to question her right to be there. Before reaching the entrance to her sector she would loop around the side of the building, slip behind the hedges and lay her bag on the narrow patch of grass beside Mr Wilheim’s lecture hall, where even in winter, the window was ajar. She had done this since being a child, different schools, different classrooms, sneaking into libraries and eventually dormitories to find relevant books for the subjects that interested her. She had been caught a few times in the past, but who could be overly angry with a young girl simply seeking an education? She rarely received more than a slap on the wrist. Some even took pity on her, Mr Wilheim’s predecessor, Mrs Shen had found her in the grips of winter, shivering beneath the windowsill in only a t-shirt and torn jeans, an abundance of detailed notes on her lecture scrawled on the tatty notebook in her lap. Hano really liked Mrs Shen. She had invited her inside, given her something warm to eat and drink and allowed her to use the computers after every class. She had wished Hano luck when she moved to Canada the following Summer, with warmth she told her she had the intelligence and determination to achieve greatness and with a wink had advised her when best to sneak into the computer lab. To think of where Hano would have been, had she been born into a different family, a different life, is truly heart-breaking. One of the most brilliant minds of our generation, reduced to eaves dropping on lessons to learn basic skills and then fishing food from rubbish mounds before a night on the streets. She always helped in our community, would always share what little she found with those more vulnerable, she hated to see people suffer, if she could help in anyway, she would. That’s what hurt the most, to lose such a pure soul.

On the day the missiles were launched there was a mild buzz, nothing compared to how you would imagine it. People weren’t scared any more, most were ready for it, hopeful even, to be reprieved from the daily torture life had become. My mind didn’t wander to the people I loved nor to those that I had lost. I found myself yearning for the things I once despised but were the foundations to my world of normality. I thought of the rush hour traffic din, a symphony of car horns and angry shouts, of seagulls fighting over the discarded food I had hoped for myself, of pedestrians rushing by, ignoring our pleas or worse, stopping to verbally assault us.

For almost a month we had been able to enjoy the feeling of being the upper class, the ones in control. Some of my peers took great satisfaction in denying those who had so easily denied them but I remembered all too well the desperation to even consider inflicting the feeling on anyone else. It was easy to be consumed by the resentment and the negative thoughts on the streets. Hano and I prided ourselves on keeping our heads up, though of course we were hurt from time to time, we pulled each other from the bitterness. I suppose she was better at that than I was.

As the sirens blared, I looked at Hano. Her face was a picture of serenity, the heart glistened where it lay, nestled against her chest.

She never told me what Wilheim did to her, when he found her beneath his window. I knew from reiterated rumours he was detestable. I had warned her. Despite the multitude of hushed campus conversations regarding his antics, he somehow retained his post. That was power.

People around her wailed, some vomited in fear but Hano drifted alone in her peaceful abyss. She moved among the suffering, offering mild comforts as we all awaited death.

Something had already died in Hano, the day he found her.

I don’t think she did it on purpose, I don’t think she intended to bring the world to it’s knees. I think she just needed to prove that she could, not to anyone really, only to herself, or maybe just to him. She never told anyone it was her, but the second the money started to go, I think I knew. I often thought about Mrs Shen, the only other person to see Hano’s true brilliance, I wonder if she knew, if she saw that the attack shone with the hallmarks of Hano’s work. Of course I don’t condone it, but I think I understand it. You’re lead to believe you’re worthless for long enough and you’re either going to give up completely or that little bit of fight you have left kicks in and you prove everyone wrong. Sadly, Hano had much more fight than anyone could have imagined. I don’t think she meant for this, I’m sure it was just supposed to be a lesson in humility that she would rectify when the lesson had been learned. I like to think that at least, and perhaps the opportunity to right her wrongs never presented itself, that can be the only answer. I don’t think this is what she wanted. It can’t be.