Quote:
DO NOT GOSSIP
"Damn youngsters, don't know how good they have it," said Ilyana Bosovich to herself as she monitored the street below through her green wool curtains. She heard every obnoxious word and grunt of her neighbors. Her eyes darted back and forth from person to person, never lingering for more than a second, making a quick mental note of who was saying what. The street below her apartment was her business- a business that allowed her to live above her pensioners' means.
A grunt of frustration escaped her throat and she turned towards her kitchen. She hobbled across the orange shag carpet as her three cats, Alfredo, Kruschev, and Nana, rubbed against her exposed and wrinkled calves. Her small TV blarred a foreign language soap opera with enough volume to wake her neighbors, but her hearing aid had run out of batteries.
As she slowly made her way the seven meters from window to kitchen, she bumped into her coffee table, knocking a stack of seven year-old magazines to the floor. She swore to herself.
"Damn coffee table, I thinknyou'll be used for firewood next winter."
Ilyana reached beneath her kitchen sink and lifted a bag of contraband cat food. She carried it to her cats' food bowl, opened the bag, and poured out the contents. Only crumbs fell, but it was enough for the three starving cats to fight over. Ilyana sighed.
"I am sorry, my kitties. Your mother have meeting in twelve minutes. She bring back food for all."
She bent down and scratched behind Nana's big white ears. The cat let out a soft purr. Ilyana smiled, then slowly stood back up, her knees straining to lift her wiry body.
The widow Bosovich took her red shawl off of the coat rack and wrapped it around her head. She knew if she caught ill from the cold, her cats would be left alone to starve. Ilyana swore to herself that would never come to pass, and she clutched her shawl tighter before leaving her apartment.
It was colder outside than Ilyana had anticipated. The cold bit into her hands and she cursed that rationing that had made obtaining a new pair of gloves nearly impossible. She hurried as fast as she could towards the apothecary two blocks over, all the while casting scornful glares at her younger neighbors. She loathed to hear them conversing about state affairs.
"Do not gossip, you stupid children," she thought to herself. "What is that American expression? Ah yes, The loose lips sink the ships."
She smiled as she trudged through the light snow. She remembered the early days of the party rule- of food shortages, power outages, and social cleansing. Compared to that dark decade, life under party rule was a heaven.
Officially, it was a pet-free utopia. Dogs and cats were considered an upper class frivolity that were a waste of resources. Ilyana's pets would remain illegal until the party was headed by a pet lover; until then, they would remain blacklisted.
Fortunately, nobody seemed to care. As long as she cared for them on her own time and money, the police would not bother her. Obtaining those scarce resources was no longer difficult, thanks to Ilyana Bosovich's side job.
The Department of Information paid citizens well for spying on their neighbors. Thanks to the low burden of proof they required, Ilyana found them to be a reliable source of extra income. enough such that keeping pets was possible.
However, Kruschev had recently grown fat over the last few months and now consumed more than each of the other cats combined. If Ilyana was to keep her only friends, she would have to up the number of 'traitors' she found in her community.
Her contact, a nameless bearded man in a thick brown coat and wool hat, stood at the street corner and took a drag of his cigarette. To anyone that paid attention, the man's job with the government was obvious- cigarettes were remarkably difficult to obtain. Even a small supply was a sign of wealth and power.
Ilyana continued as if to walk past the man, but stopped just in front of him. Without making eye contact, she muttered the names of the young workers that were being too noisy beneath her window. That will teach those stupid children to talk where they should not.
The party agent handed Ilyana a wad of bills. "Once again, the government thanks you for reporting those who make espionage easy for our enemies. Do you think you will have more for us next week?" he asked.
She continued to stare straight ahead and muttered, "maybe, maybe," then turned the corner and headed for her supplier's apartment.
The man that sold Ilyana her cat food was an elderly man who had owned a pet store before the revolution. While he no longer kept pets for himself, he strongly supported the hobbies of others and never failed to sell Ilyana the food her cats needed.
There was no need to hide the bag of cat food. Few of her neighbors cooperated with the government. She carried the food back to her apartment, unlocked her front door, and entered, happy to be back in the warmth of her home. The cats followed her and meowed. She opened the bag and crouched to pour the food into their bowl until her actions were interrupted by the shadow of an intruder.
Ilyana slowly turned to her side and recognized the intruder as a young man from her street. She slowly stood up, her legs creaking, and asked, "What are you doing in my apartment?"
The man stared back at her. (Add description - is his clothing neat, messy? His hair?) Ilynana gaged the look of complete and utter hatred on his young face. (What does she see? Let's see it through her eyes.)
"I don't know what you told them, but they took my sister because of you. You destroyed my family!"
He pulled a small pistol from his coat pocket and pointed it at his enemy's chest.
She recalled who he was talking about. His sister was one of the annoying little whores that Ilyana had ratted on the week prior. Like everyone else she reported, the woman disappeared the following night.
Ilyana looked her assailant in the eye and lied, "I have no idea what you are talking about. Get the hell out of my apartment before I scream."
She motioned with her boney hands to shoo him away, but he did not budge. She never got the chance to scream for help.
Peter Petrovich pulled the trigger twice, landing both bullets in Ilyana's chest. She stumbled backwards against the wall with a thud and slid to the ground, pinning Nana's tail underneath her thigh.
She looked her killer in the eye and tried to speak, but only coughed up blood. Her killer left the scene, knowing nobody would report the hated woman's murder for many hours.
Ilyana closed her eyes while her cat tried to free itself. Her shouts for help came out as whispers, her perforated lungs unable to fulfill their job. Alfredo and Kruschev mewed, knowing that something was wrong. They stared at their master with befuddled concern.
Never did Ilyana Bosovich stop to think of her children or friends, all of whom abandoned her years ago, nor did she think of the countless men and women condemned on her unprovoked accusations. In her last moments, Ilyana's thoughts looped towards no unique or productive ends, a fitting end to the life of a traitorous and contemptible old lady.
"Damn youngsters..."
Copyright 2007 Razor All rights reserved.
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