Everything Red

It has begun to tarnish now, and that fact pulls my mouth into a sad line. I trace its intricate designs, remembering all of the times my grandmother recounted the story of how her aunt had passed it down to her and how she knew that I must have it. This little golden heart that sits at my heart holds the same pressure I have felt since the day I came into the world.

I am pulled out of my reverie by a bright light shining through the front windows; the only light in the small suburban house. This is paired with a loud knock at the door. I am immediately taken over with a cocktail of emotions, equal parts fear and anger. I scan the room for any evidence and quickly right myself, before stepping into the small foyer, turning the five deadlocks, and opening the door.

I knew it. My impatient visitor was a Grey Coat brandishing a torch in one hand and a rifle in the other, flanked by two other carbon copies with matching rifles slung over their shoulders. They don’t have a torch though. Torch-holder was obviously the squad leader because he holds the torch. Torch-holder’s face was as chilling as ever. I meet his gaze, like a stupidly brave mouse staring down a cat.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Torch-holder boomed. Ma’am. I struggle to keep myself from laughing in his face. He knows exactly who I am but is pretending not to. “We are here to run a routine check of your premises.”

I do not answer him or move aside, and I do not lower my gaze.

“If you do not allow us inside, we will have to use force.”

Again, I hold my ground. I like to test the new Grey Coats. They’re like toddlers who have been told that they’re big kids now. An unmatched confidence.

This Grey Coat surprises me. Without saying anything more, he points his rifle at me and for a second, I am at peace with him pulling the trigger, but instead he uses it to shove me out of the way. The strength of it making me fall against the wall. The men use this moment to march past me, trudging red dust through the lounge room.

Like usual, they begin overturning everything; flipping lounge cushions, turning over the coffee table, even knocking heirlooms off our mantle. I hate that most. How would someone be able to hide anything under a statue of a praying angel?

“We received information that He was here.”

“Who is He?” I ask, sweetly, even though I know the answer. Probably better than anyone.

Torch-holder is smarter than he looks and ignores this question. Instead, taking a step and knocking our lamp onto the floor. One of the squad members who had ventured into the dining room, appears again and informs Torch-holder that everything is indeed clear, and He is not here. The look on Torch-holder’s face was a picture. Again, like a toddler but one who had his ice-cream splat on the ground in front of him. The realisation that he let go of his prized balloon and it was floating away. Priceless.

“Thank you for your time,” is all he mutters, unable to meet my eyes this time. Before I could blink the squad march their way back out the door, slamming it behind them.

I stand in my dishevelled lounge room of my childhood home for a few moments and let my heartrate slow. I am used to these checks by the Grey Coats, but it never fails to make me sick to my stomach. After a few silent breaths, I follow the military boot trail of muddy red dirt into the foyer and turn the five deadlocks.

It hasn’t always been like this. I remember days that were normal, but those memories are starting to blur. This house and the remaining stuff that has not been destroyed or looted are all that I have to show for it. That and the golden heart at my neck.

I don’t use lights because electricity is hard to come by and I don’t know who is looking in from outside. The only light I can rely on is moonlight, filtered through the large windows that have been stained red by blood and the dirt that now covers everything.

Most of the rooms have been stripped and emptied by the Grey Coats and those who take the rare opportunity when I have my back turned as I am leaving or coming back to shove past me. Frantically, they sprint from room to room trying to find something, anything, that they can trade for food. One time I chased one of these opportunistic bastards and because I know this house like the back of my hand, I was able to cut him off and pounce. I had to use all of the strength I had to get him out the door again. He even tried to grab my golden heart and strangle me with it. That would have been ironic.

I am alone most of the time. Filling my days with what I can. It is better than the alternative. I have never liked the colour grey or the feeling of ruining people’s lives. It just isn’t for me. That’s why my family and I are estranged. For want of a better word. They expected me to assume that life. To make decisions for the starving, the desperate, and the cold. And to keep them starving, desperate, and cold.

Many years ago, the world as we knew it was coming to an end and the green earth was turning red. Everything red. No one knew what to do and our structures crumbled. There was one radical group though. The Grey Coats, as they came to be known. They became legitimised through force, fear, and anger. They believed the only way to live in a dying world was through routine, order, and only ever looking out for oneself. And I had the great misfortune of being the daughter of the founder of the Grey Coats. Something that everyone will not allow me to forget as much as I try.

There are those who fight back against the Grey Coats, simply called the Rogues. They are smaller in number to the Grey Coats and are rarely, if ever, seen. They wear red to camouflage into the surroundings and shadow the Grey Coats’ every move. The most famous of the Rogues and the most wanted by the Grey Coats is Him. No one speaks His name, and no one has seen Him in person. Except for me.

Another knock at the door. This time quicker and quieter. I right myself, turn the five deadlocks, and open the door. There in front of me lies a large pink flower. He is here.