“You couldn’t even hear a pin drop in the city. The National Guard made sure of that.” A short story where a society’s steadfast, suffocating laws are challenged by an unyielding revolutionary…
by: Malik Berry
You couldn’t even hear a pin drop in the city. The National Guard made sure of that.
Never did anyone in the city pray for more noise until now. We were so closed in and locked tight by the law that I started to miss the sounds of bottles breaking, cars honking, and domestic disputes. At least then I could tell when my parents and older brother were angry. Now they sit in silence and stare at the flickering television. Their eyelids twitch and lips quiver, like they’re desperately struggling to hold back any bad word they can come up with about me.
You’d think this would be a relief, but I only got more afraid. Not of my family, but of the retaliation if we were found out. Sound became a statewide sign of dissent, as did any “excessive light,” whatever that means. At first, we brushed it off because there’s no way they can enforce it. That was before we were relocated to the Alderbrook Apartment Complex. It was made up of four massive towers in a quadrant with a plaza in the middle. Perfect for children to play in if it wasn’t for the guard tower and barracks taking up the space. It was a panopticon disguised as public housing.
At night, it would be pitch black when staring out the window into the quad. You might see the flicker of a TV behind closed blinds. That was the minimum amount of light and sound we were allowed.
Looking out the windows at the end of my floor’s hallway that faced out to the city, I could see all the mansions across town beaming with light. Some wrapped Christmas lights on every inch of their roofs which were the size of football fields. Others blared homogenized dance music over speakers as tall as a palm tree. Many did both. It was a cruel prank, a middle finger towards us trapped in Alderbrook.
Never once did I wish I could live there. A life of lavish surroundings and comfort looked good in the movies and in photos. This situation put into perspective how heartless you’d have to be to achieve a life like that, and what you’d do to keep it. Anyone that wealthy seems dead set on reminding everyone how terrible everyone else’s situation is. Never has a vocoded voice repeating “Throw your hands in the air and go crazy-crazy” sounded more cold. It brought my hope down to a rock bottom.
Then I met Nessa. I was looking out the hallway window when she snuck up on me. Almost made me scream, if I remembered how. To show no ill will, she smiled and stood next to me, both of us watching the parties on the ground with people milling about in enforced silence.
Minutes passed before she withdrew a notebook, and two felt markers. She opened it, wrote her name with the red one, and handed me the black one. I wrote mine after it. From there, we followed up writing in our respective colors about ourselves, answering questions, even telling jokes that we can only respond with scribbled smiley faces, or even a “HAHAHA.” It felt like my phone was still with me.
We carried on like this for a couple months. We chose the time of ten at night to meet at that window. Nessa always brought the same notebook and pens under her arm, and we’d carry on our “conversations,” sitting on the floor and writing long into the night. Our hands would cramp up, so we’d take turns massaging each other’s knuckles until we could write again. Some nights I would fall asleep in the middle of writing something. All she’d do is lean my head on her thigh, and lay back on the wall to allow for us both to get some rest. The next night would always start with her letting me pick up from where I passed out.
Slowly but surely, I found myself over eager to see Nessa. I was so happy that I had that feeling my father had described to me from happier times. The flushing in the face, the rapid heartbeat, and the smile that seemed to grow with a mind of its own. It was love. Love and hope had finally returned. And yet, I couldn’t write it out in my meetings with Nessa. If there’s anything that’s bound to cause noise, it’s love. If it could give off light, it would do so. It was more hazardous than running out into the quad and screaming your head off, which some did to end their pain at someone else’s hand.
I kept it all inside, but still hoped one day I could properly write out how much she meant to me. It would take a whole separate notebook to explain how lost I felt, how my family made me feel before the legislation, how their staring only made it worse, and how I was so sure I’d never be my true self again, restricted to communicating in looks. A whole day of being curled up in my bed as the room grew colder from the AI-controlled air conditioner gave me the time to contemplate it. I chose that night to do what I’ve been preventing. Nessa would know the truth, and with hope, she’d feel the same.
Nessa didn’t show up that evening. I assumed she was late, or needed to take a night off. She did look more tired than usual the past few meetings. She wasn’t around the night after that either, or the one after that.
At first I was worried, scared that she had gone over the sound/light limit somehow and got reprimanded. Then I got mad, thinking she ghosted me like other girls did when they found out I liked them, and assumed I was trying to hook up. Then I was hopeful that she was having the same struggles as I had, but even more lacking in confidence to express it. That was the least likely of the options.
Even just from what she wrote, how she wrote it, and the look in her eyes, I knew Nessa was a girl who knew herself. If she loved me, she’d say so. For seven straight nights, she wasn’t there to confirm or deny any of these. Over that time, my hope started to dwindle. Seven more passed, and I never went into that hallway again. I was back at rock bottom.
One evening as the sun went down and my mom, dad, and brother walked their daily march to the couch to sit and stare in silence, I noticed a piece of paper under the door. It was printed on the orange copy paper that the complex’s warden — who dubbed himself the manager — would use to remind us of any upcoming inspections. My folks were too addled with tunnel vision from the TV to notice it. I picked it up, ready to read that the annual volume check had been scheduled. When the TV switched on, the other side was illuminated, and I could see mirrored handwriting. Nessa’s handwriting.
My heart skipped a beat, and I nearly gasped in shock, but held my breath to keep it in. Without a word, I hurried out the apartment door, flipping the paper around to read what she had written.
“Sorry I haven’t been able to meet you,” it started. “I needed to be safe, and I couldn’t give away too much. I know how we can get out of this hell. Not just us, but everyone. Look out the window in the hall, same time as always, bae. You’re gonna love it.”
I was as relieved as I was confused and terrified by this message. Was Nessa finding a way to get us to escape the complex? Did she think it would actually work? And why “look out the window in the hall” instead of “meet me at the window in the hall”? I suppose it didn’t hurt to do what she told me. After all this time apart, I was willing to do anything she asked.
It was 10 P.M. on the dot when I rushed out the hallway towards the window. She wasn’t there. My stomach churned and sank, thinking I was being played. I was dejected, and was about to turn away when I noticed that, oddly, there was no light pouring into the hall. It was quiet too. Not a single song was playing from the wealthy residents’ mansions. Did the rich people run out of juice to power their lights and speakers? If they did though, they’d have them up and running with a generator until the wiring was repaired. This was what Nessa wanted me to see, all the mansions, snaking out to the horizon in organized veins of streets and swimming pools, were pitch black. But what did she know about it? What did she have to do with it?
That question was answered in the form of a resonant thud. Then another. More followed in a rhythmic succession before I recognized it as a sound I hadn’t heard in ages. It was the muffled sound of a bass-boosted 808 drum, and it was growing louder, coming closer towards the complex.
Running back to my apartment, I opened the door to a massive prism of colored light blasting in my eyes. My family was no longer seated in front of the television, but looking out the window overlooking the quad. All I could make out was their silhouettes from the light which seemed to grow more by the second. I nudged my way between them to behold a series of large trucks pulling an array of lights on a trailer, plus dozens of generators. I thought I was losing my mind and seeing things until I heard that muffled music grew closer and clearer. It was a trap beat playing at full blast, enough to rattle the building, windows and all, and it came from two of those massive speakers the rich had, each towed on trailers behind one of the trucks.
“This ends today!” shouted a woman’s voice over one of the speakers, interrupting the music. “Open your windows! Scream! Get to the quad and rally up! We are free!”
Whoever this voice belonged to, it echoed with so much command and intensity that it couldn’t be ignored. It was the sound of someone who demanded to be heard, and needed everyone to listen.
Sure enough, my stubborn brother was the first to slide the window open. The voice was doing its job. Reeling his head backwards and then out like a clucking chicken, he let out a scream at a pitch and range I’ve never heard before. It sounded primal, passionate, and after he took a breath to scream again, I saw tears in his eyes and a smile on his face. He was then joined by a chorus of more screams from the building across the way, then the one beside it, then a fourth.
It went on until sirens from the guard tower started to blare, with their loudspeaker demanding everyone be quiet. By then, every window was open and from it bellowed a shouting voice as if intent on waking the dead. They were overpowering the sirens and the barking orders from the warden. My mom and dad, ever the skeptics, started to get moved by this power and finally joined in with the screaming.
I was still hesitant, but the sight was more than enough to awaken a hope in me. I could almost feel the freedom. Sometimes liberation is so powerful, you can’t even believe it. I know I couldn’t.
An emergency buzzer sounded off from the guard towers, and the doors for the barracks swung open as the guards started to pile out in their riot gear. However, none of them could make it out to the quad as each speaker truck was blocking their exit at every angle. Even if they tried to climb their way out, there was another row of vehicles with light fixtures strapped all around them to conquer.
Once they fell all over themselves. one of the speakers squealed.
“Imani!”
My name. That powerful voice from before had called out my name.
“Imani Dawson! Girl, get your ass down here! We’re gonna have a party, and I want you here with me!”
I froze. I was not expecting to hear my name again in a million years. Impassioned, I began tearing down the stairs where everyone else was rushing down. They were all talking amongst themselves like it was years ago, catching up, and even just shouting out random words. Everyone was beside themselves to be able to speak again.
It took forever to reach the quad, but as I did, the light was more blinding, the music was more deafening, but the sight of all my neighbors was filling my heart, especially when several of them formed in circles to freestyling to the beat.
I squeezed between the groups of people, looking all around the confusion. My senses overloaded to the point where I had to lean against one of the trucks. My breathing had picked up, but I tried to calm myself until I looked up.
One of those speakers was right in front of me, and seated beside it on the truck bed was Nessa. She looked like she was crying, but also smiling, white teeth as bright as the lights that absorbed the rich skin on her face. And in the hand that wasn’t waving at me was a microphone.
With tears running down my face, I hopped up to climb on top of the truck bed and sat beside her. It was still for a moment, both of us staring at each other until I took the microphone from her, clutching it in both hands.
“I LOVE YOU SO MUCH NESSA!” I screeched.
Not even the huge speaker could handle it. My scream nearly blew it out. Everyone in the quad covered their ears, almost happy to feel how loud was too loud again.
Nessa didn’t cover her ears. She heard me, and she saw me, loud and clear.
Malik Berry is a Baltimore-based writer and community activist. Their work includes fiction, poetry, theater, and film criticism, and has appeared in Baffling, Expat Press, Meow Meow Pow Pow, World Hunger, DON’T SUBMIT, and God’s Cruel Joke. They get inspiration from performing mutual aid and fostering relationships with attractive video game characters.
