The screen glowed with the familiar peach light. A glowing star, bisected by a cross, crescent moon atop.

She held her hand to her lips, bowing her head, acknowledging the sanctity of the place, of CoDE, and Mother.

Soft music and the hint of a babbling stream from the speakers.

She sat on the hard plastic bench, face as grey as her coat, pulling her hood up, conscious of Mother's ever-present lenses.

A few credits in the donation slot disturbed the peace, then a kind, gentle suggestion of a female face on the screen bade her welcome.

'Good evening, Citizen, peace be with you!'

'And peace be with Society and all Citizens.'

She spoke the words automatically, years of mandatory attendance at the Church of Divine Equality.

'Thank you for your visit, , Citizen.


For motivational content, say One.


For personal/sexual advice, say Two.


For family matters, say Three.


For celebrations/congratulations, say Four.


For any other matter, say Six.'

A bird sang beautifully in surround-sound as she wondered what had happened to option Five.

Taking a deep breath, forcing herself to focus through her adrenaline, she said 'Six'.

'Please clearly state the nature of your query, Citizen.'

'It's kind of family-related but…'

'For Family matters, please say Three. Would you like, Mother to repeat your options, Citizen?'

The kindly face blinked patiently.

'No, it's not exactly that, I just need some advice, guidance if you will, please, Mother.'

'For personal/sexual advice, please say Two.'

'No, I mean, look I'm a little confused, please, Mother, can I ask a question of you?'

'I am here to listen, Citizen. Society loves you, you are Cherished, you are Valued, please, state the nature of your problem/concern/dilemma.'

Frogs croaked in the stream, she inhaled the calming scent of grass and flowers.

She subconsciously thumbed the blade nestled against the syringe in her pocket, but carried on, eager to find acceptance, permission, or validation that she was still a Good Citizen.

Mother, tell me this - if somebody has done something wicked, evil, I mean. If someone has hurt people, been cruel, dishonest….isn't it right that a normal Citizen should do everything to stop him? Stop more Citizens from being hurt?'

The calming sounds ceased. The screen blanked. Mother was gone.

Instead, the logo of the Agency appeared….

''DDV activity has been suggested, connecting you to an Agent, please remain seated and calm, Citizen….'

By the time the young Agency Clerk's face filled the screen, Mother's comms cubicle was empty.

Renée came to, hands zip-tied behind his back. Around him the office had been ransacked, equipment smashed, hard drives ruined. All his work was gone, deleted or damaged beyond recovery.

The only thing untouched was the neat stack of cash on his desk.

He moaned as he looked at his collection.

Each print, each original, had been slashed, ruined, defiled. Hundreds of years of surreal beauty gone in an orgy of destruction.

A female voice whispered in his ear, a cold, hard whisper.

'One hundred and eighty days. Each day is like someone cutting a piece of your soul away! One hundred and eighty wickedly heart-breaking cuts.

Unbearable anguish, one hundred and eighty times, until there's little left of hope. Those one hundred and eighty days of torment. Cut after mind-shattering cut.

You have no idea what those cuts to the soul feel like, Renée, no idea how many lives you've ruined! But now you will feel that pain!'

'You have no idea what Renée feels!'

He struggled against the restraints, realised he was bound completely, gave up, and started laughing. An insane sound from this wreck of a man.

'Renée has felt those cuts, more than you can ever know. Cut after cut, until the whole pointless world was cut away from Renée.

'Renée don't care what you're here to prove. Renée used his pain, escaped his pain. This life means nothing to Renée, so, if you have the stomach, do your worst, Renée regrets nothing!'

He laughed again as the blade sliced into his arm, sneered as his legs were cut, giggled as his chest was carved. Over and over, he laughed.

Until finally, after the hundred and eightieth cut had been carefully delivered, loss of blood stilled his voice, he felt thirsty, his body began to sweat in acute post-hemorrhagic anaemia, his pulse slowed, he closed his eyes, feeling a little dizzy, and fell into unconsciousness as his life bled out.

Renée didn't even feel the last assault upon his almost lifeless body.

His head flopped forwards, the deep gouges of the '180' carved into his forehead, spilling the last of his blood onto the stack of notes.

He was dead before she left the room.

Freewayriding

05.06.23 Front Page

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