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“I used to see beauty in people, but now I see muscle and bones.”
Cruel World – Phantogram
Late into the night, there is a place Deputy Governor Vera Bennett goes to shirk responsibility. Reliving her lost youth, she explores something precious once lost to her: a playground bathed in smarmy darkness. A sliver of moonlight paints the landscape in shades of blue.
To gather her thoughts, Vera returns to the place of her childhood.
Vera enjoys the tender silence, lying to her mother on the phone as though she were another runaway adolescent. A pit stop to buy eggs for the morning. At the time, she realizes how unconvincing her wispy voice sounded on the telephone. For a few moments alone, it's worth the nagging come dawn.
Embodying the vestiges of human wreckage, her jacket flaps behind her, two broken wings desperately seeking flight. Her workplace attire serves as a dual function: the uniform that chokes and the uniform that acts as a second skin. In heels, she trudges across the uneven terrain. The woodchips act as a hindrance. She stumbles many times, but continues to stagger along.
She teeters and wobbles on the curved balance: a metal line that resembles a circuit. Vera braces herself, touching the pole for support while she envisions a tightrope act. Too afraid, she keeps her eyes open and her arms spread apart. At the end, she steps off.
The red slide remains untouched, collecting a bed of moss and leaves at the bottom. With a bare hand, she brushes them away. Annoyed by the hindrance of her heels, she kicks them off. They land in the grass.
Somewhere out of reach.
Out of mind.
One step at a time, she climbs the ladder representing chaos, representing childhood, representing nothing at all. Hands on her knees, Vera sits at the top, lifting her head to stare at the starry veil in awe. Wordlessly, she descends.
It's fast, sudden, and sends her heart racing fast.
At the bottom, the tips of her toes dig into the dirt and sand. She doesn't occupy the rest of her time with the castle made of plastic and metal. Vera races no one save herself, rushing towards the swingset that's fallen into a state of considerable disrepair.
On the swings, a broken bird tries to flap her wings. Her messy bun has come undone. Rust collects along the chains that hold the seat in place. Pale, small fingers wrap around rusted chainlink. Squeezing her eyes shut, Vera throws her head back and pumps her legs. She swings high, swings low. The delicious ache works through her leg muscles. Consumes her calves, her thighs. Sailing, she feels no fear. No crippling anxiety. No woeful disappointment. It brings a sheepish grin to her face.
Parking her car one street over, Governor Joan Ferguson has followed her deputy. Trust has become a recently fawned notion between the two. Rather than slackening the leash, Joan finds the need to tighten it. To rely on Vera Bennett, she must first be trustworthy.
What she finds contradicts any preconceived idea of deceit.
Like a viper, she slithers through the grass. The velvety embrace of the night hides her well. The branches create a webbing of shadows that cover Joan's back, akin to severe lashings. Several yards away near a bench with peeling paint, Joan watches her deputy.
There's an innocence to the way Vera enjoys herself, flying blind and enjoying the cool air.
"Who's there?"
It's the wrong thing to ask.
Vera stops kicking. Her stomach performs a haphazard somersault. Her heels dig into the dirt. Woodchips fly like shrapnel. Petrified, she looks over her shoulder. She looks as though she's on the verge of tears. Joan savors the moment, wishing that she could collect those tears along the thumb of her leather glove. To relish in the taste. It causes her insides to clench.
"You needn't fret, Vera."
So self-assured, Joan struts forward, assuming her military stance. She embarks on the lone soldier's march to the other side. With some distaste, she notices the brown and green that muddy Vera's heels. She's innocent, but not clean.
You can't have everything.
"You followed me?"
She doesn't sound incredulous. Simply surprised. Shocked, even. Vera blinks, as though she's unable to comprehend the fact.
"Because I care,” she answers in a typical Joan-like fashion, exuding arrogance. “I was merely concerned for your wellbeing."
Vera looks at Joan as though she could be her whole world.
And maybe she is.
For inspection, Joan kneels before her deputy. It serves a purpose. By no means is she stepping down. Rather, she's putting on airs. She pats the younger woman's knee in the way a child touches a dog for the first time. A gentle ' there, there. '
“You care,” Vera repeats the words like the good, little parrot she is. “No one's ever said that to me before.”
It's crushing,
The revelation carries the capacity to destroy Vera.
“It's high time you re-evaluate your worth, Vera. You are priceless. Had I not been impressed by your caliber, I would not have taken you under my wing.”
She reaches her full height, her shadow looming over Vera as a monster would descend on a hapless victim, but it's not like that. It's warm. Reassuring. Vera doesn't shrink away. Merely looks up in wonder.
This shouldn't be happening.
This hasn't happened since--
–Since Jianna.
Joan swallows, choosing to guide through the touch that she initiates. She cups Vera's cheek through the leather veil. Her thumb comes to settle beneath her chin, black staring into blue: a mottley of bruises that come together effectively.
"God, I wish I could be more like you," Vera manages to whisper.
"You don't."
Her idol and mentor must view her as a disgrace. On the contrary, her wilted rose simply requires a little pruning.
“Come. Allow me to drive you home, Vera. You can fetch your car in the morning. You must rest for the long day ahead.”
The little mouse doesn't protest. Akin to a marionette being pulled by unseen strings, she stands. Joan touches her shoulder, her back, to guide her home. Despite the formidable difference in height, they walk together side by side.
A need for intimacy – reassurance, consolation – drives Vera. Her pinky scrapes Joan's cuffsleeves. She reaches for the gloved hand that doesn't feel like a cage.
It's warm.
Human.
Loyalty has never been so dangerous.