The Tacit Rebellion

A dystopian society in which people's wealth status is branded on their hands is challenged by a young woman.

      I stand in the crowd that has gathered around a woman who stands on a pedestal in the park. Behind her, a man, brooding on a rearing horse, flapping cape in cast iron. Power. She wears gloves on her hands. There's nothing odd about wearing gloves in the summer. Many people in the lower classes do it, to cover the brandings on the webbing between their thumbs and index fingers. Inverted triangles. Poverty. Many of them cover it with whatever gloves they can find, often hot, stuff wool or beaten leather. I've never understood why. If you see someone wearing gloves in summer you usually know why. But this was odd. The girl on the statue wore gloves of silk. It was emerald green and rich, that stood out against her smooth brown skin. It was expensive, and refined and beautiful. Nothing I'd ever seen in gloves. She was a protester who spoke loudly and boldly. I've always wanted things to change. But I'm not courageous. She awed me.

      "We are supposed to be able to move up!" She cries, her voice strong and radiated righteousness, "then why are we tattooed with permanent brands when we're only nine?"

The crowd cheers. I remain silent toward the back of the crowd. I stare at my hands, the hollow box that indicates my status in the center of the middle class. It wasn't uncommon to shade the top half black when moving into the upper middle, or vice-versa for the lower middle. But the rich and the poor were unchangeable. Triangles, pointing up or down. Solid. Black. Immovable.

It never even occurred to me that the marks couldn't be changed. That's just how it was.

      "How many of you have been this close to something before someone decides to...look at your hands?" She says, provoking a roar of the crowd.

      "I need a volunteer!" She calls into the thick of people. Everyone raises their hand, minus a few concerned people walking away. But I stand where I am. I'm stiff and solid. I do as I always do, I fear my surroundings. I think if I walk, she'll catch me with her lion's eyes, or if I raise my hand I fear I'll be chosen. She scans the crowd. I get cold as her eyes wash over me. She stops and points theatrically.

      "You." She says. My body is tense and rigid as if a metal rod is shooting up my back.

      "M-me?" I say. My eyes turn to the floor and I begin to wring my hands together.

      "Don't be a coward, the people need you...what's your name?" She says. She could be an actress. Her voice commands me.

      "Au-August. August Anender."

     "I'm Sunitha Petrova. So...Anender. I know the name. You own a small restaurant, no?" She says, casually, while maintaining a powerful aura.

     "My...my father's restaurant, yes. In fact, I was just walking there, for work, so if you don't mind."

     "I'm sure Mr. Anender won't mind. He's a supporter of the cause. He leaves the leftover food out for the poor."

     "Shh! Please don't say that!" I urge.

     "Don't be shy," says a sallow, sickly looking woman beside me, "go on up." Don't be shy. Please. I've heard that one before. It doesn't do much. I sigh and slide through the crowd. I find myself at the pedestal with no way up but to flop.

     "Can I- can I get some help?" I ask

     "You've got to be the tallest person here. Surely you can get up yourself." She smiled.

Surely that much is true. I flop up in a way that is undignified, more so than the paralyzing fear from just speaking with the crowd's ears on me.

     "Alright, enough August, I'll help you." She held out a small, gloved hand and on a short heave pulled me up. Her strength is surprising; she lifts me with ease. Silently, I wonder if she is a laborer.

"Thank you." I murmur.

"Now," she says strongly, now more to the crowd, "if you're strong enough."

I blush heavily, a deep full body blush. The crowd laughs. I turn my eyes to the ground once more.

"Hey, now, I'm just messing with you. Come on, look at me." She persuades. She's not talking to the crowd this time, but only to me. She talks softly, a presence of calm. I look up.

"A-alright."

"August," She returns to her audience, "slowly, and carefully, remove my gloves."

She holds her hands out dramatically with flare and presence I do not have. I grabbed the index finger of each glove and shakily pull them off. She holds her bare hands to the people surrounding her. Her right hand is covered with white gauze, freshly saturated with stark red blood.

"Now the bandages." She says. I flush sheet white.

"Um..."

"Try not to faint, now." Sunitha teases, her voice honeyed. I clench my teeth and shoot her a deadly look.

Quiet enough to address only her ears, and perhaps a few of the closest spectators.

"Stop making fun of me." I snap, "I don't need to do this for you. I didn't even volunteer. You. Chose. Me."

"Then why are you still here?" She whispers back. A stage whisper. Humiliating me isn't a problem for her.

"I-I'm just...I- well." I'm flustered. The laughter fills my ears. Even the smallest child in the crowd laughs. Sunitha is the only one who doesn't laugh. She scowls at me. I exhale deeply and look down. My hands are pale and shaky, nearly blending into the bandaging. I stabilize her hand with my right hand and begin to unravel the bandage with my left. Her arm shakes from the tremors sent from my hand to hers. I peel the bandage off. My heart jumps when I see her hand. I nearly fall off the pedestal, catching the iron horse's tail to brace myself. The crowd is too preoccupied to laugh.

Between the thumb and index finger of her right hand was a deep red gash. The webbing had been cut away, along with the branding.

Gasps. Some people walk away from the scene to avoid trouble. I wish I could. My feet are frozen in place. Sunitha is riling up the crowd to take a stand. I've never been more terrified. The police could be waiting. I'm holding her gloves, I could be her accomplice, for all they know. And my father could get locked up for giving free food to the poor. And god knows what they'll do to me if they think I'm promoting this. Not to mention that my hands are covered in blood from her bandages. My knees buckle and I cling tightly to the statue. My stomach is churning. I feel sick.

"--Help--" I choke as my legs give way. Before I fall, a strong left hand, scarred from some kind of labor, a flash of light brown skin.

"I've got you August." She breathes, "go home."