iamtheposterchild

[iamtheposterchild]

[iamtheposterchild]

blue

[iamtheposterchild]

the crane operator.

November 22nd, 2033 – 7:37 a.m. London, UK

The DLR screeches along the track as it pulls out of Bank station. I’m shuffling through the packed car, looking for a good place to stand, when some guy shoves straight into me, sending his latté cascading down my work uniform and burning the fuck out of my chest. I wince and shoot him a dirty look, but he just keeps moving without saying a word. I can’t blame him; it’s so packed in London these days you can’t go thirty seconds without bumping into someone. I guess I’m part of the reason why, so how mad can I really be?

I manage to make my way a few cars down, gripping the handrails for balance, until I find a nice spot by the window. It’s a thirty-minute ride to Mudchute and a five-minute walk to the job site. Then I’ll get a change of clothes. Some man in the seat beside me sees the coffee all over my shirt and offers me his spot out of pity. Maybe kindness isn’t dead yet. Either way, my day is totally ruined. I try not to let things get to me, especially now, but sometimes little things happen that totally throw off my rhythm, and it’s like, all of a sudden, all the memories start rushing back in and I can’t stop it. C-PTSD, my counselor calls it.

Now my shirt is damp and sticky, I’m in a shit mood, and it’s all coming back to me again in those ugly flashes. I’m not sure how many more times I can relive it, but once it starts, it doesn’t stop. 

At first, the small things start to surface—images of my old house, my office. I was the youngest partner in my law firm’s history at 29. Graduated from Yale Law and passed the bar by a hair, and I remember how proud my mom was. What a terrible shame. Any documents I had that proved I had a JD were long gone—not that my degree would be valid in the UK anyway. Partner at 29, and now I operate a crane. Fuck me.

For a second, it flashes in front of me like a strobe light: the picture frame in the living room with my graduation photo, only partially sticking out of the rubble and debris where my childhood home used to be. I gulp hard and try to push it down, but I swear I can smell the burning flesh, wood, and gunpowder like I’m right back in the moment. My heart starts to pound.

Then it’s my house, my beautiful brownstone in Back Bay with its huge windows and backyard. It smelled like books and Nate’s cologne, and when I shut my eyes, I swear I can still smell it. The crown molding from 1894, the fridge camouflaged among sage-green cabinets, the open concept flowing into the dining room with its chandelier. I picture it now, buried under rubble, dust, and ash. My hands start to shake. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help.

I reach for a brighter memory—Nate, in that hideous brown suit the day we met. “It’s Burberry,” he would argue, as if the brand name made the suit look better. He stood in the elevator at the firm, gripping a massive binder full of papers, each tab neatly color-coded. He was always so organized, yet he carried this slightly disheveled look that made him so cute to me. We locked eyes, and something clicked right away. I knew from our first date that I loved him. A year later, we were in that brownstone together, painting the walls and imagining where the new furniture would go.

Everything about the house reminded me of him: the upholstery on the loveseat in the foyer that carried his cologne, the absurdly expensive Le Creuset pots he insisted on buying, the way he’d run from the living room to give me a hug when I got home late. I think of him every day; no routine or new life is strong enough to drown him out.

I grip the armrest and try to steady myself. He’s gone now. He’s not coming back. There’s no point in rehashing it all.

The train hums along the track before stopping abruptly, jolting me back to the present. Mudchute is just ten minutes away now. As I glance around the carriage, I notice a woman vacantly staring in my direction and lock eyes with her. I get the sense that she was lost in a memory too. I’m not the only one, after all. I bet half this train is refugees on the way to some shit job they had to beg for. She snaps out of it suddenly, jumping as if she was startled, and makes her way out of the doors. I sink back into my memory.

Two years ago, Boston was alive and busy with people celebrating the Fourth of July. Nate and I went with his mom and brother to a big party in Beacon Hill with red, white, and blue cocktails and a fireworks show planned for once the sun set. We just wanted to feel normal; none of us even cared about America. We just wanted a party. Closeness. Normalcy. The unrest had reached a fever pitch after Saldovar was assassinated, and the world was on edge. We knew something was coming; we just didn’t know what or when.

That evening, the sound of air raid sirens cut through the party, ending the festivities like a slap. We froze, confused. Was it a test? Then the ground trembled, and the first explosions ripped through the skyline. Everything changed in an instant. We all scrambled; soon the distant explosions on the skyline grew closer. We heard gunfire. In a few short weeks, our city would lay in ruins.

Nate and I barely made it home that night. We huddled together in the basement, watching the news feed projected from his phone. Boston in flames. New York locked down. DC swarming with soldiers under an unfamiliar flag. The news anchors stopped speaking, their faces drawn and empty as they tried their best to report on the situation. We were tuned out when we heard gunshots from the feed and looked up at the last moment before it cut out. Two news anchors, facedown at the news desk, blood splattered on the backdrop behind them. Then darkness.

I think about the people who weren’t as lucky as me all the time. About the day at the airport when they grounded the planes and everyone stampeded through security. There were gunshots and nobody knew who fired but we all started running as fast as we could. Nate was there. His hand slipped mine and I looked back but he was gone. I kept running. I should’ve stopped. I don’t really know what happened or remember it clearly; it was all chaos and I blacked out. Nate was there. Nate was there and I left him.

I notice another man standing towards the back of the carriage with the same, vacant expression that the lady from before had. Probably also a refugee. I wonder if he noticed me, if when I keep going back in time like this my face looks like his does now. He’s got bags under his eyes and a rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear. His work uniform is covered in paint splatter, and for a second I vaguely remember him. His hands shake slightly and I only notice when I stare hard. Did I used to know him? 

I think back to my first six months here. I got the crane job after passing a few tests, and when I went to the Home Office to pick up my paperwork, the secretary passed me a letter under the protective glass with a drawn, pitiful look on her face. The envelope was labeled in big, bold letters:

THE UNITED AMERICAN REPUBLIC

Subtly fascist. The letter said that I was due for court back in Boston, that apparently I had broken some law about leaving the country without authorization. The secretary at the office explained that the UK wouldn’t cooperate with the new government as long as I stayed out of trouble. She slid me my work papers and flashed a sad, knowing smile.

These days, there’s very little that comes out of America—no people, no goods, no information, except for propaganda. Flights don’t run between London and Boston or any major American city anymore. When the rare American plane lands, it’s almost always refugees seeking asylum. The UK exchanges residence for intelligence, but it’s classified, so none of us have any idea if our loved ones are alive or what is happening in our former country. I pray Nate comes on one of those planes every single day. I miss him like a bomb inside my chest. Will he even want to see me? Does he blame me for leaving him? I tried, I really tried. 

The train finally stops at Mudchute, and I funnel out. The cold air bites me as I listen to some commotion on the street below. The protesters are out again, trying to antagonize us. They know if we fight back, we’ll get in trouble—or worse, deported. Their chants are sharp and rhythmic, and as I descend the stairs to street level, I see their signs: plain white picket signs labeled “CLOSE OUR BORDERS” and “SEND THEM BACK.” Their glares pierce me as I push through, trying hard not to make eye contact or piss any of them off. I can’t even be mad—Americans would probably do the same thing if millions of Brits moved into their country, took their benefits and jobs, and crowded their cities.

I get past the last of them and hurry up my pace. I only have a few minutes before I’m supposed to report for first shift, and I need to handle this situation with my shirt. The hum of my new daily life takes back over, and I start to put all the memories back in the box where I left them—neatly and carefully, as if to protect their integrity. As horrible as they are to remember, they’re all I have left. It’s a paradox I can’t even begin to reckon with right now, but I can’t forget what happened. I can’t forget my family, my husband, my job, who I am. They’ve taken everything from me. I won’t let them have my memories too, even if they kill me.

[iamtheposterchild]

[iamtheposterchild]

i am the kafka beetle

[iamtheposterchild]

sup fuckers