Everyone is supposed to have purpose in their life. I lost mine when I was twenty-five, right after graduating from college. Of course, there is the purpose of being daughter and sister to loved ones but none on a personal level. Now, I'm thirty-three and I have no idea what the hell I'm doing as the clock is ticking in the background, counting away my youth.
I once knew what my purpose was, though. I even dreamed of becoming an architect. Then I went to High School and the teachers killed that dream. Despite their efforts to break my spirit, I held my ground. I found purpose in studying languages. I successfully finished High School and went to college. I think my overall disillusionment started there. I believed that once I graduated, things would be better, and I would find my place in society. But I was wrong. The omnipresent feeling of having no direction of where to go and what to do only intensified.
I'm an immigrant living in Gaul. Gauls made sure to remind me of that throughout the years. At first, I was too young and inexperienced for a serious job. However, when I was old enough and hardened by the disappointing reality, it turned out my experiencewasn't enough to get me a decent occupation according to my degree. The truth is my nationality was a thorn in their eye.
I was fired from my previous job for being antisocial. Maybe I am. In the end, Gauls managed to beat all social skills out of me since I was a child. As a kid and teenager, I dealt with exclusion. As I grew older, I got used to that and lost the longing for social interaction. Frankly, I don't want to have anything in common with Gauls now that I'm older. The only people I have contact with are my parents and siblings. Nevertheless, only a Scythe living in the West could be fired because of a futile reason such as being antisocial. Firing someone on those grounds is illegal in Gaul. But the union could turn a blind eye to that in case it happened to a Scythe. I tried everything to fight that decision but to no avail. Now, I go through life tainted with this slur my ex-boss labelled on me.
Thankfully, the long-awaited collapse of the United States of Gomora caused chaos all over the West. The earlier, pristine haughtiness of the West received a serious blow. The local authorities weren't as picky as they used to be concerning recruiting workforce because they had more important issues to take care of, like public disobedience, violence, and strikes. In the meantime, they needed trustworthy people to manage their administrations and finding people like that wasn't easy in the current circumstances. The collapse brought an intense understanding to light: the realisation of the system brainwashing and abusing people for generations. That realisation affected mostly young people of my age which resulted in violent outbursts like street riots and refusal to obey authority. If people had no criminal record and their name wasn't on the list of 'domesticrevolutionaries and terrorists,' they were hired. No experience, no degree, no public relations were required from the employees. Even religion and ethnicity didn't matter anymore.
So, after being unemployed for a long time, I found an occupation. As a police officer. No kidding. I saw the vacancy, I applied, they invited me for the interview, and I got the job. All of that took place over the course of two days. I was the most unqualified applicant: too small, too thin, too weak, too inexperienced. However, I was the only one who wanted to work in that district and office, for the money they offered. At first, they weren't sure about my candidacy but when they found out I was a hyperglot, they told me to start the next day.
My job extended as far as the walls of the police station. I handled the reception, registered law offenders, and operated as janitor. I was the sole servant in a nearly abandoned office. All criminals and troublemakers were concentrated in bigger cities, so there was practically no flow of cons. I saw my colleagues once or twice a week when they brought in drunks arrested for debauchery or young delinquents who occasionally fought with their teachers or peers. That was why my employers needed me: I spoke languages and could easily communicate with the foreign kids who didn't trust Gauls or hadn't mastered the local dialect.
Like all real police officers, I had a uniform, my own locker, and even a gun. I carried it merely for the feeling of being invincible when I walked home from work at night, although I knew that feeling was false. After the training I realised that I would never use it, because of the irreparable damage it could cause and because of my unsteady hands. I guess that could also explain the reason why I couldn't get over the psychological barrier of getting a driver's licence.
All in all, my situation satisfied me. At least I didn't have to deal with a racist boss offending and bullying me. Most of the time I studied or read a book, with my mind leaving the body, shifting itself into a corner, watching how dust particles covered my life, layer after layer. But at the same time, I held on to the dream of saving enough money to leave that place, because my life was somewhere in the future, and my future was in Scythia.
And I was convinced that was how the upcoming years would pass me by, with every previous day merging into the day of tomorrow, and every hour being erased from my memory for good because nothing of importance happened in that time. Until one day I got violently pulled out of my state of limbo.
It happened in December, just a few days before the Catholic Christmas. On a side note, the reason why employers were eager to recruit foreigners was because of their willingness to work on holidays while the locals celebrated at home. For instance, my boss didn't even have the courtesy to ask me whether I wanted to take some days off during the holidays. He just emailed me my working schedule for December. I didn't mind his inconsiderate behaviour because they paid me double for those days.
But let's get back to that unforgettable day in December. It was a regular day, like any other day that Winter. When I left for work that morning, I hadn't met any people on my way, since Autumn and Winter were the two most unpopular months in villages like ours. The few young people who lived there had left for work early in the morning, while the elderly stayed inside, warming up their painful joints at the stove.
So, nothing was supposed to happen that day simply because there was no one to start a riot and because there was also no reason why anyone would want to do that. All was peaceful and quiet when out of nowhere, the main door slammed against the wall and scared me up from my somnolence. I heard bustle and screaming in the entrance hall. A man yelled "Resistance is a way of life!" and soon after Shaheed, my colleague from patrol, pushed a guy in handcuffs before him through the office door.
I froze in fear when I looked at Shaheed's red face, with blood covering his nose and mouth. Shaheed was a hot-tempered Musulman fellow, who hated Gauls more than I did. On more than one occasion I've witnessed Shaheed abusing the detainees. I was convinced that entrusting that man with a gun was a bad idea. Sooner or later, something bad would happen.
"Alex! Wake up! I have a visitor for you from Albion!" Shaheed grunted and wiped the blood under his nose using his sleeve. He rudely grabbed the arrested by the shoulder and forced him down on the chair before me.
"Register this Anglo-Saxon pig and lock him up in a cell. We have free cells, don't we?"
"Of course, we have free cells," I snorted, making a hopeless attempt at cutting the tension between the two men, "they've already transferred that other guy you brought in last week on Friday. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. This idiot just walked up on me and punched me in the face. He almost broke my nose! I think he's crazy."
"Resistance is a way of life!" the insane Anglo-Saxon shouted again. Shaheed struck him on his shoulder, muttering something in Fârsi.
"Why did you bring him here then?! What if he does something to himself? Or worse, what if he does something to me?" I exclaimed.
"Because the madhouse was closed," Shaheed barked and threw the man's ID and wallet on my desk, took some tissues from the counter by the door, and walked out, leaving me alone with the deranged guy from Albion.
As I was looking up his file on my computer, I carefully examined the man sitting before me. He was tall and slender and had reptilian facial features: his cheekbones and chin were unusually sharp, and the pupils of his grey-green eyes were slightly elongated instead of round when light fell on them. I couldn't help but shudder when I caught him staring at me, noticing how his face changed as he smiled. At that moment, he reminded me of a satyr.
"Mister John Smith. Is that your real name?"
"Oh, you speak Anglo-Saxon? Thank God! No one understands enough Anglo-Saxon over here, just some common phrases. It's so nice to hear the mother tongue again. Especially with such a cute accent," he grinned, exposing his teeth.
"You didn't answer my question, Mister Smith," I replied coolly.
"It's the name my Mummy and Daddy gave me, Officer … Yazarova," he leaned slightly over my desk to read the nameplate on my chest.
I felt uneasy at how he looked at me as he pronounced the word Mummy. There was something lewd about it, which softened his intonation and made his voice sound higher.
"I'm asking you because of how common that name is. Even outside of Albion people know that. We don't see that many Anglo-Saxons over here. But here I have one, arrested for assaulting a police officer. I just read in your file that you're a thief. One they're trying to catch for some years now in Gaul! So, you either took a false name because you've done something in Albion and you're on the run or you're a spy," I concluded as I surveyed him.
I noticed that Smith's clothes weren't according to the season: he wore tight fitting black pants and a purple shirt. He had no jacket or an overcoat with him.
"I don't think you're a local either, Officer Ya-za-ro-va," he pronounced my last name emphasising every syllable, "what are the odds of both of us being spies?"
I couldn't hold back a smile, which I instantly regretted and abruptly changed my demeanour. Smith was a felon. He punched Shaheed in the face without fear of consequences. I didn't want him to think that I was on his side or that I was an easy prey.
"Okay, Mister Smith. Follow me to your cell and don't make me use the taser on you."
"You don't have to be afraid of me, Officer. I'm a good boy," I again perceived those obscene notes in his voice, lingering longer in my mind than I wanted.
I brought him to his cell. It was cold in that part of the building. Gauls were a stingy nation. If there was a way to save money on food, gas, electricity, or heating, they made sure to use it. Even at the cost of someone's health and wellbeing. There was a radiator, but I couldn't turn it up because Gauls found a way to prevent people from wasting energy. They put a plastic ring under the pressure cap to block it from being turned. Smith was a conman, but he didn't deserve to suffer from cold just because Gauls wanted to reduce their ecological footprint.
In the locker room I found a pillow, two blankets, and a coat for him. I apologised for the room being cold and explained that I couldn't do anything about it. I took off his handcuffs and gave him the stuff I brought with me. Smith intentionally brushed his bony fingers against my skin as he reached his hands out to me through the cold metal bars and thanked me.
I returned to my desk and continued reading his file, but it didn't reveal anything new or extraordinary about the man from Albion.
Smith immigrated to Gaul three years ago. His background was unknown as the reason why he moved countries. His criminal activity seemed to have started at his arrival in Gaul. His main interests were jewellery and art. Names of famous and influential people were on the list of his victims. Although, it was quite difficult to see most of those individuals as such.
The radio was on. I liked to listen to that one station that played old songs but sometimes the music got interrupted for a news report. I never listened to it and turned the volume down whenever I heard the annoying voice of the news anchor. However, this time my ears caught the unsettling dispatch of a shooting in a neighbouring town, followed by the weather forecast informing the listeners of a temperature drop that night. That information goaded me to check up on the detainee.
Smith was sleeping on the bench, with his face turned against the wall, wrapped in the blankets I gave him. I found some pliers in the utility room and began to wreck the ring under the radiator cap. Eventually; I succeeded and managed to remove the blockage. I turned the heating up and gathered the broken pieces of the ring. I would glue them together and place it back under the radiator cap in case my boss would pay me a visit.