Zion

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

Personally, I have never fully taken up enough or screamed sufficiently for anyone to hear. “Keep your head down and don’t rock the boat”, my dad always said. This all changed when Zion was introduced into my timeline. They strutted into the bunker on day 222 of lockdown with everything about them ringing at the perfect decibel and frequency. So perfectly collaborated that it had the calming effect of brown noise. They wore colors I now only vaguely remember from another life, magenta so ripe you could taste it. An insignia of confidence, they nonchalantly plopped down on their cot as dust billowed around them encapsulating the angel hair rays of light that creeped into the room through the only window. Headlights through fog. A lighthouse signal guiding me to my end.

We were put in groups of 30 per bunker, each assigned a cot, a strict latrine time and a laundry list of do’s and don’ts, all of which seemed far reaching. As one of us aged out a new conscript arrived within barely enough time for the previous occupant’s scent to leave their cot. Zion took Lorna’s place. She was an obsequious, thorn thin, pain in everyone’s ass, who somehow tattled her way to graduating early. Someone literally put shit on her nose as she slept once. For weeks they called her brown-noser, until boredom set in and everyone moved onto another victim. Luckily, I was never targeted thanks to dad’s advice, “Blend in, mi amor.” and blend I did. At times, I felt one with the lifeless ashy paint only chosen so as not to awaken or arouse the inhabitants of the walls it was deemed. A color so drab that its only existence is to remind you of the true beauty of others.

I fell asleep that night trying to imagine the taste of Zion’s chartreuse tunic. Tart, granny smith, with an afterthought of sage. My cot vibrated and began to rise to its sitting position at 0545 on the dot, just like every morning for the last 223 days, but this morning felt crisper, more electric. My latrine time is 0600 sharp, so I grabbed my things and headed that way. Missing your time slot results in a very unpleasant “speaking to” from the director. I had never missed my slot and didn’t plan on it anytime soon. “Rinse, lather, repeat” I whispered to myself. I scoff at how this action and phrase align so well with my personal state of being. Right as I was repeating the second time, I was interrupted by the sound of a leaking balloon, “Psst!”. I turned and saw Zion crouched down in the stall behind me picking through their hair like a primate. “Help me get these out”, they whispered with eyes wide and neck protruding. Braided ever so gingerly into their hair, like the cinnamon of a Danish, were several gemstone shaped candies of vibrant hues. Edible diamonds. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sugar and I instantly salivated at the sight. Zion quickly shoved the first one in their mouth, their eyes rolling back in their head as if they were an addict answering a habitual calling. They handed me the second one as some sort of payment for assisting. I froze, mouth agape, until they grabbed it from my hand and shoved it between my lips like a coin into its rightful slot. Rivers of sweetness drowned out everything around me, I would have been happy dying in that moment. I awoke from my fix to see Zion placing the others into a secret pocket they’d sewn into their jacket lapel. Smuggling in contraband was a severely punishable offence but I instantly trusted Zion upon they’re arrival, even without an introduction. I knew they wouldn’t get caught, how could they?