I saw her die today.
She always smiled. I remember that. She liked the water. I remember that too.
I was leaving for work. Things had been busy lately - our project manager had committed to impossible timelines. As usual. We’d often argue about whether he did it because he was clueless or because he was trying to look good for the higher-ups. Incompetence, or criminal intent? Either way, it didn’t matter much - we were the ones who had to deliver. And, knowing his undoubtedly weasel-like forebearers, we’d be the ones left holding the bag if it failed.
The last week had been a deathmarch - we were four weeks behind schedule, and less than fifty percent of the package was actually working. A team of fifty people, all experts in their field, and we couldn’t get the damn thing to work. It was so bad, we couldn’t even test the entire system in one hit, and this, a month out from our public beta release. Not good, and we knew it.
Einstein had it right - time is relative. Seven hours becomes eight. Eight becomes ten. Ten becomes fourteen. And it all slips by in two. Always. And sleep. Sleep! Four hours becomes ten minutes. The days start to blend, mixing like paints on a palette, inevitably becoming shades of brown, grey, and finally black.
Except that day. That day was red.
I’d barely been able to get up that morning - twelve days straight was starting to take its toll. The sun cut through my blinds in a blade, chiselling through my half-awake eyes, leaving ochres of agony and echoes of pain. I fought the exhaustion, forcing myself out of bed and into the kitchen. Coffee wasn’t just a way of life - as far as I was concerned, it was life. I had given up on counting the hours - after a hundred, it seemed somewhat pointless. The only real measure I had left was the number of cups.
It’s funny how you can lose track of your own life, but you’ll never forget someone else’s.
Forcing the medicinal brew down my resisting throat, I watched my neighbours. One of the joys of living in a “modern development” was living in each other’s backyard. It’s for that Community feel, or so they said. A hundred years later, and we’re paying good money to live closer to each other than the dockworkers had to in the slums. Go figure.
The real reason we bought into these rabbit warrens was to be closer to people like us. Get away from those unsavoury types, and enjoy the company of fine, upstanding citizens like ourselves. Green trees, red brick, off-white render, and shiny white faces - the staples of suburbia. The last refuge for upwardly mobile, aspiring DINKs and DIWKs. People who hide their fear behind the “issues” of outsourcing to (foreign) countries, (foreign) refugees illegally entering our fair country, and (foreign) abuses of citizens. Ignoring reality and their insecurities while looking down on the world from their raised station wagons. Sorry, “Sports Utility Vehicles”.
She was innocent though. She wasn’t old enough to have picked up the cloying atmosphere of prejudice yet. She was four. Four years and ten months and two days, as she put it.
Her hair was blonde. That’s like saying the Great Wall of China is built with bricks. It’s true, but it misses the point completely. Her eyes were gems of chipped emerald. When she smiled, the world glowed. She could count to twenty, and she’d just found out about fairies.
Her laughter reached under the doors of my dark mood like tendrils of pure distilled joy.
She was in her yard that morning, playing with the hose. To her, maybe it was a river where Tinkerbell lived. Or maybe a waterfall. To me, it was achingly cute. She had her dolls out, and had set up a series of seats for them with the bricks left over from their renovation. She’d used the sand to create a valley for the hose water to run through.
Her parents periodically gave her a cursory glance through the windows of their McMansion. I’m sure they’d read something about the importance of keeping an eye on your children somewhere. They’d probably discussed it over lattes with their friends, marvelling at the genius of Dr. Phil. They were everything I aspired not to be, yet deep down feared I was gradually becoming. What’s that they say about staring into the abyss? Something like, if you’re not careful, it stares back at you.
I heard them one afternoon debating whether eggshell white interior walls would match their architraves better than dandelion cream. The discussion went for hours, punctuated with many fine points and ripostes. “What about the carpets?” “Well, what era do we want?” “And the couch?” “What about the pillows?” “Well, the tablecloth could match …”
The mindless babbling of suburban banalities. After about five hours of this, I put a pillow over my head and thought about gouging my ears out. And felt a little bit more of my soul die.
They spent every weekend living the suburban dream. Boxes of toys for him, vases for the mantelpiece for her, and kitchen appliances as far as the eye could see. Appearances were everything - they’d worked hard to get where they were, and they deserved it. Or, more accurately, the world should know they deserved it. They were the poster children for success, and they knew it.
They never understood what they had.
He was a lawyer. She was a drunk. They were a modern couple.
The cartons of cheap wine easy enough to hide in the recycling bin, and from a distance, a Riesling looks remarkably like flat lemonade. The first drink is a bit rough, but it sure tastes good by the eighth. And, it takes the edge off knowing your husband is probably screwing the secretary while you’re unable to get up off the couch without vomiting. But, when life’s so good, it’s important to maintain appearances. If the Community knew, they might think less of you. After all, there are no problems - just new opportunities.
He left for work at 7 am sharp, every morning. Every fucking morning, in his fucking V8. Backing up the driveway, revving the motor to impress the world with his masculinity. Ramming it into first gear and mounting the speedhumps like an eager water buffalo. His kind generosity meant I never had to set my alarm. Or sleep, for that matter.
Every day except that day. Like it or not, I had to be at work by 8 - our project manager had decided that we were going to give a public demo that day. Why that day? Why not - at this point, it didn’t make much of a difference. Might as well have given the demo three months ago as in three more months.
I sat there, sipping my coffee. Watching her escape into fantasy lands and wistfully dreaming of following her. Watching her build castles in the sky, dreams in the firmament, and fables in the air. While I watched, kingdoms flourished and collapsed, victims of dragons, despair, and dread knights. Civilizations were saved from the brink of destruction by children abandoned, wrongs righted by forgotten heroes, and love shared by fairies. I watched her describe life in innocent, unknowing arcs. I watched her weave tapestries of joy and redemption, the way only a watched child can.
I watched her fall back against the ground. I watched her spine break. I saw the surprise in her gemstone eyes as her jaw was crushed and her teeth shattered.
I watched her blood pool in the gutter.
He must have felt something, even raised on his all-wheel-drive throne. If not emotional, then maybe physical. He stopped, leaving a single bloody track up the driveway. It took him five whole minutes to realise what he had done. Five fucking minutes. Five flowing, gushing minutes. I don’t even think he knew that he had crushed his own daughter - the first thing he did when he got out of his cabin was turn off the hose. I could see the irritation in his eyes from where I was. It was only when he turned around that he saw what he had done. He saw, and stared.
You know those times when the world stands still? The calm before the storm? When everything goes silent, and a crackling potential is in the air?
This was nothing like that. The absence of noise was a scream in my ears. The lack of movement was a string stretched to breaking point. Life died in those seconds. And wasn’t reborn.
He walked to his daughter, jerking like a marionette. He knelt next to her.
And then he started dragging her. To the road. He picked up the hose. And turned it on.
And he washed his guilt away.
Once her life had been erased, he washed the tires. I remember that - he specifically washed the tires of his car. It may be my imagination, but I think I may have even seen him pick her brain fragments from within the tread. And when he was finished, he ran to the house screaming. Screaming that someone had hit his daughter. That she was dying. And that he had just found her.
There was an investigation. Not much of one, but enough to make our Community feel appropriately regretful at the tragedy of life. Tears were shed and condolences shared. They never did find the hit and run driver, but they cursed his name for at least a week.
I still wake up. I still go to work. I wonder whether my soul has died, or if this is it. Whether I should join the Neighbourhood Watch. Whether I should attend our community get-togethers.
I wonder what it would be like to join her.
I wonder.