A prisoner has a right to try to escape.
-Joan of Arc
“Bonjour, Camille,” her husband whispered in her ear. “It’s morning, my love.”
“I was dreaming.”
“What did you see, my dear?”
“I was on the Lower East Side. It’s snowing. There’s snow and ice on the ground. It’s still early. Someone older, a man, my father I think, sends me to hold a parking space on the corner. It looks like Houston Street and 1st Avenue. I’m standing on the street, in that spot. I can see the asphalt—a car has just left— and there’s snow everywhere else. Then I see a car coming up the wrong way down the one-way street pulling headlong into the parking spot. I step out of the way. They park, and I see a president and his wife step out of the car. At his waist, there’s a holstered pistol which he casually lets me see. The first lady says nothing. Then I see a Secret Service agent across the street. He communicates with me, mind to mind. He says this is a ‘disequality.’ What does it mean? That’s what I was thinking when I heard your voice just now.”
“What does it mean?” He asked.
“I don’t think I can go on this trip. I know you’ve been planning, and it would be good for me, but this car dream can’t be a coincidence.”
“You haven’t left this house in nine months, babe. You haven’t left this room.”
“I don’t want to be seen.”
“You can’t live like this forever. I can see you. I’m looking at you. You’re still here.”
“You don’t understand. Or you do and you don’t care. Their eyes are like daggers, lizards with daggers for teeth crawling all over me. It feels like their eyes are ripping my skin off, eating me. How many different ways can I say it?”
“Whose eyes?”
“Everyone, everyone! Why did you wake me up for this? Is this what you want to discuss first thing in the morning?”
“I want to plan our trip or help you see someone. I want to do something to help you.”
“You can leave me alone! You and everyone else.” Camille retreated under the covers.
He walked over to the bedroom window, its curtains blocking out nearly all light, then returned to sit beside her on the bed.
“The fresh mountain air,” he said, “think of it. There will be no one there.”
“The radio waves will be there,” Camille replied after a pause.
“What radio waves? There are radio waves everywhere. Fewer in the mountains.” Silence. She pulled the sheets tighter over her head and face. He continued.
“I wish you could tell me what’s wrong. It’s not the radio waves or signals or anything else. Please tell me.”
Camille twisted vigorously under the covers. “What’s wrong?! How could you not know? Have you seen what’s happening? And everyone acts like they don’t know. If only there were some way we could look into what has been happening for so long no one can remember, to see if there has been plunder and rape and violence. That no one wants to leave their homes to come live in slums and work as slaves. And anyone who says anything is disappeared. If only there were some way to see examples of people who said this is a bad idea and were executed in public while we watched. If only there were some way to find out what happened to the plunder. Was it used at least for the benefit of the people to invest in the people to make us all richer, or do we keep buying more land and more slaves and wonder what’s wrong? You know, maybe it’s the niggers that’s the problem, and don’t forget the Jews, and the migrant slaves. If we could just get rid of those assholes it would be all fine. And while we are at it let’s round up the undesirables, the Romani, and the occultists, the pacifists, transsexuals and gays, and drug addicts, the real problem, the real reason we can’t enjoy, and let’s not forget the undesirable women, the old and ugly women we won’t or can’t breed with. And after they have slaved to near death, we can execute them in public. Maybe we can create some place to keep them while they await death, an away place, and this could be our penultimate solution. We could call it that. And after we are done with all those idiots, we can really get down to the business of a war of all against all, where we can enjoy killing full, real humans. Then after that, after we are spent and weary and have no more fight left, and the horror has degenerated into nirvana of pure sublime titillation in each waking moment, until we can’t even move our eyelids, the ecstasy so rapturous, we can have a final solution, and do mass ritual suicide quietly in our homes, secure in the knowledge that this really is the end.”
“What are you even saying? Are you going to harm yourself? I can’t let you sit here and kill yourself. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Camille’s head slowly emerged from under the covers. Her husband’s horrified eyes were almost bulging, mere inches from her face.
“Get the rental. I’ll come with you to a cabin in the mountains. That’s what I’m telling you. You are right. There are fewer radio signals up there,” she said calmly.
The couple drove toward the cabin in their rented sedan, a manual, along a quiet, winding road. The hills gave way to steeper mountains, the roads narrow, nearly all uphill. The smell of pine. Thickening trees. Little traffic. They had not seen another car for miles.
“Let me drive,” Camille said abruptly.
“Are you sure?” he asked, confused and surprised.
“If I remember correctly, I was always a better driver than you ever were. Who drove you home all those nights you couldn’t drive yourself?”
He pulled over and stopped the car, and Camille got behind the wheel. She pressed on the pedal gently as they continued their journey up the steep hills. “One day this will all end,” she murmured to herself. As she drove up the narrow mountain road, she suddenly stopped. She pulled up the parking brake. “I have to pee,” she said. “Wait here for me.” She hopped out of the car and disappeared into some nearby trees. She returned moments later, her husband still sitting there, and she felt relieved. She stopped for a moment. The trees seemed to be sparkling. She returned to the wheel and continued driving toward the cabin in the woods.