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Chapter 4 – The Gray
The palm-sized screen in front of Vincent’s right eye blinked green, and the door slid open. He stepped inside without looking over his shoulder. He felt as if Simon’s words had weaved around him a fragile but constricting blanket, one whose threads were undeniable while in their grasp but easily broken when outside of it. Everything Simon had said had to be rubbish. It had to. Only now that he was outside of the man’s two wheeled pod did Vincent realize how ludicrous it all sounded. Simon’s words had carried the weight of treason with none of its merit. Fatrem was well-respected by everyone. Loved, even, by some. That he would betray his own people, his own admirers, was beyond the realm of reason.
Vincent collected himself and made sure the door had locked behind him. He was in the foyer, a small nook blocked from the rest of the Main and oftentimes the most private place in the dome. Now, though, he wanted privacy far less than he wanted sleep. He stepped through the second door and into the Main. The kitchen and dining area were empty, but there were voices coming from the master bedroom. Suddenly realizing he hadn’t paged his parents ahead of time – they loathed surprises – Vincent flicked his eyes up and to the left. He started composing his mother a message, but as the words started to populate his Lenses, he began to hear the voices more clearly, as well as something in addition to them. It was a strange sound, one he had never heard before, and one he already felt certain he didn’t want to hear again. Mixed in with the voices were deep, pained sounding sobs. Vincent stopped composing his message. Instead, he crossed the Main toward his parents’ bedroom, his every step excruciatingly amplified by the unforgiving tile he contacted. After only a few of these betraying noises, he slipped off his shoes – a cardinal sin in the dome – and resumed his progress, silently this time. He felt himself spied upon by the walls around him as he grew closer, disapproved by the dome itself for sneaking as he was. But he kept going. Something about the sobs coming from the bedroom told him that the normal rules didn’t apply to this particular moment.
He reached the bedroom door which, uncharacteristically, had been left ajar, held there by Father’s briefcase which had fallen into its path. With breaths as soft and shallow as his lungs would allow, Vincent leaned in close and placed his ear to the gap.
“It’s ok, Father.” Vincent’s mother was almost whispering. Her voice was calm. “It was the heat of the moment. You didn’t know if he had made it.”
“No. No.” It was Father, though his voice was nearly unrecognizable. It carried none of its usual collected strength. It was shaking and weak, defeated. “I did know,” he said. “And I wanted to vote against it, I did. I just…I was so angry.”
Then the sound started again, the sobs. They were coming from Father. That’s the way it seemed, at least, but Vincent could hardly believe it. He had never heard his father cry, nor, he was convinced, had anyone. It was a thing that didn’t happen, that was never meant to happen. But still, the sobs continued.
Vincent peeked his head around the edge of the door and looked inside. He had never seen his parents’ bedroom before, but he felt like he already had. It was plain, devoid of decoration but for the bed in the room’s center, and stark white all the way from the curved ceiling overhead to the spotless tile below. Father was sitting on the foot of the bed, still in his collared, snow-colored uniform from the Senate, and Mother was sitting next to him, her right arm draped, a bit awkwardly, around his shoulders.
“Either way you have nothing to worry about,” said Mother. “I’m sure it’s for the best.”
Father shook his head, puckering his lips like a small boy pouting, and lifting his gaze slightly so Vincent could see the red, puffy lumps under his eyes.
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s too much.” He clenched his teeth together. “We gave them everything. On a platter we just handed it over.”
“I’m sure it will be ok,” said Mother. Father interspersed her words with a series of “no”s and head shakes, but she kept on.
“It’s Newsight, after all,” she said. “Whatever you gave them, they won’t misuse it. We’re safe, Father. We can trust them.”
“You’re not getting it, Sarah.”
Mother recoiled from him, her mouth agape, perhaps from hearing her own name. Vincent had no memory of it being spoken aloud. Nor, really, of the name at all.
“We can’t trust them,” Father continued. He had lifted his head from his hands, and now Vincent could see him clearly. His face was twisted into an expression Vincent was only slightly more familiar with than the sobs. It bore none of its usual composure, and it just failed to mask the fear underneath. Father’s eyes, too, betrayed him, and not only that, they were too red to have been irritated just by the crying. Father had tried to take out his Lenses.
“I’ve been feeling different,” said Father. “Since the upgrade. I’ve…” He held his palms out in front of his knees, facing upward. He stared down at them, wearing a look of disgust. “I’ve been feeling things. When we learned of the attack, I was so angry I could barely see straight.” He looked back up at Mother. “It’s the Lenses. I don’t know how but it is. I tried to take them out…but they wouldn’t move. I can feel them…” He bit back a sob with a grimace that made Vincent want to look away. “I can feel them strangling me.” He shook his head, his lips puckered, on the verge of tears. “I’ve made a mistake, Sarah.”
Mother didn’t pull away this time. For Father, that seemed only to make things worse. He dropped his head once again, staring down at his palms. “I let us down,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Mother’s arm no longer looked so stiff as she rubbed her hand side to side in between Father’s shoulder blades.
“We’ll get through it,” she said. Her voice had started to shake as well. “Together. Ok?”
Father nodded, barely, as he looked up at her, but the nodding stopped just as quickly as it had begun. He wasn’t looking at Mother any longer, but at the door, where Vincent had been just too slow to pull back his head.
“Vincent.”
This was the voice of Father’s Vincent knew: stern and composed, without the wild, breaking fluctuations in pitch.
Vincent slid open the door and stepped inside. Father had stood up, seeming taller than usual.
“You need to go to bed.” Father pointed out the door. “Now.”
Vincent stayed where he was. He had never disobeyed a direct command of Father’s like that before, but now his feet felt rooted to the tile. He looked from his father to his mother and back again, still trying to decide whether or not what he had just seen could be real.
“I said,” pressed Father, his voice near a growl. “Now.” He turned away, rubbing a hand over his face, looking exhausted. “I’ll deal with you in the morning.”
Vincent stayed where he was a moment longer. He remained until he caught his father’s eye.
“Vincent,” started Father, “I said to–”
“It’s not your fault,” said Vincent. It was an effort to keep his voice level. “You didn’t let us down.”
They were still for multiple seconds, Father’s eyes fierce and Vincent’s steady. And then Father was starting toward him, his posture large, powerful. Before Vincent could run, Father was on him, arms wrapping him tight, holding him there. Vincent tried to break free but stopped when he felt his shoulder growing hot and damp where Father’s head was. Slowly realizing what was happening, Vincent raised his arms as well, and circled them around his father’s back. They stood like that for several seconds, embracing for the first time in Vincent knew not how long. When they broke apart, Vincent looked up at his father, whose jaw was flexed, biting his tongue. Father gave him one last glance, then turned away. Vincent turned to his Mother next. She nodded at him, looking somehow stronger than usual, then turned as well.
In a daze, Vincent stepped back. He nudged his father’s stray briefcase out of the doorway, and the door slid shut. He was back in the Main, and though it was empty save
for him, he no longer felt quite so alone.