Unamerican by Ane R Key

Alex squinted up at the clock in the hallway outside their room. Dinner would arrive in 15 minutes. Alex stood, stretching. They’d slept nearly all day again; it made them nauseous. They didn’t even have much of an appetite, but knew they should force down what they could and save the rest. They’d missed breakfast and knew there might not be one tomorrow. Breakfasts depended on who was working. The workers weren’t obligated to bring anything. Most brought something simple, bread or oatmeal. A few brought nothing and made no apologies. One particularly odious individual never brought food for them, but made a show of eating their lavish meals in the hallway where everyone could see and smell the food. It was a creatively sadistic form of torture.

There was only one person who brought breakfast every time. Real, nourishing meals, with fresh fruits and vegetables. Alex considered they must either pay for such items out of pocket, which would be extraordinarily expensive, or they had connections. A third possibility remained: They had an illegal garden. It was the most plausible explanation, but for some reason, Alex couldn’t imagine Blake gardening. It seemed absolutely incongruous with everything that Alex knew about them, which admittedly wasn’t much. Still, Alex had an impossible time imagining Blake’s 6’5’’, muscular frame knelt over a bed of tomatoes, delicately pruning them.

Whenever Alex thought of Blake, and they did think of Blake more often than was wise to admit, they thought of Blake pumping iron to Metallica, or some relic of a metal band. Maybe drinking scotch, all fancy, in a proper glass while watching westerns and smoking cigars. Or maybe drinking beer while watching wrestling. Definitely something more butch than watering turnips. But Alex supposed one never really knew. Take them, for example.

Alex had long, often complimented hair and was slight of frame with a narrow waist and broad shoulders. Alex had never had much muscle tone. Being naturally thin, they’d never seen the point in working out. Of course, Alex tried working out sometimes now to help pass the indeterminable hours of mind-numbing boredom, but was too calorically challenged to do much. They simply didn’t have enough energy, hence all the sleeping.

At any rate, despite being so slight of frame and possessing what one would consider traditionally feminine features, apart from occasionally wearing black eyeliner, Alex was not the slightest bit interested in appearing feminine. They wondered if Blake was misleading that way too. Maybe their well-muscled physique and surly demeanor were decoys sheltering a sensitive soul. They must be compassionate. Or, at the very least, have compassion for the people that were housed there. Otherwise why bother with the healthy meals?

The only days that Alex looked forward to were the days that Blake worked.

The problem was, if Blake had a fixed schedule, Alex hadn’t been able to decipher it. Due to the lack of calendars, newspapers, or any other such paraphernalia that would indicate the date, it was nearly impossible to mark the passing of time. Alex had done an estimable job for the first few months, but life in near solitary confinement messes with a person’s sense of time. As far as Alex could tell, they’d been there for at least a year. At this point, it was fair to assume that The Divided States of America had lost the war. And no one was coming to save them.

Suddenly, there was someone at their door. Alex looked up, and was rather shocked to see Blake standing there brandishing a veritable bounty.

“What’s up, friend?” Blake asked playfully.

“I don’t understand! It’s not morning yet. Is it?” Alex stammered.

Blake laughed, “No, no, friend. It is evening. See,” pointing to the window across the hall, “it’s already dark out.”

Alex heaved a sigh of relief, “I thought it looked dark out. I just wasn’t sure if -”

Blake cut them off, “If one of those other jerks who works here was playing a trick on you again? Covering the window so that you lose track of time even more? Not me. I told them I think you should have windows in your rooms. I even argued that you should be let into the yard more often to get some fresh air, some vitamin D. Nothing grows big and strong without sunlight.”

Alex was struck by two things: The reference to sunlight and growing seemed to underpin their idea that Blake did in fact have an illegal garden. Alex found that encouraging. That could indicate that Blake didn’t play by the rules. The second thing was disconcerting: Who wanted to keep them in darkness? It was Alex’s impression that they were doing the bare minimum to keep them alive, and they could stop doing so any time they chose. Yet here was Blake, ostensibly one of them, bringing them a feast and pleading their case for more sunlight. Alex wondered what was really happening.

Blake’s manner was unchanged, however. They smiled easily and made small talk eagerly while laying out the food, describing what everything was and how it was prepared.

Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right and asked, “I shouldn’t be concerned or anything, should I? You’re never here at night. I mean, if this were my - my last meal, or something, you’d let me know. Right?”

Blake laughed before realizing that Alex was serious, “Friend, nothing like that is happening,” they raised their hand, “on my honor.”

“But - would you?” Alex ventured, “If something like that were happening, would you tell me?”

“It's nothing like that,” Blake’s expression was gentle, but sobering. Blake then added, “But, yes. If it was your last meal, I would tell you. Ok?”

Alex nodded, and Blake said, “Now, eat and grow strong! I’ll be back in a couple of hours, maybe less. Please, Alex, enjoy your food,” and with that, Blake turned and left.

That was another thing! Alex thought. Blake rarely ever called Alex by name. It was always friend, my friend, or sometimes partner or pal, causing Alex to wonder if Blake had learned most of their English from late night television. Or maybe they did watch westerns. Who said partner in a non-romantic sense?

The food was delicious, and Alex finished eating quickly. They sat in the armchair to read until Blake returned. Sometimes after eating, they’d just go back to bed. When Blake was around, Alex was always hopeful that they’d have a few hours of conversation. Blake was the only one who talked to Alex conversationally. A few of the others were polite, but terse. Others barely managed forced civility. But Blake seemed to genuinely enjoy Alex’s company. Alex wondered if they'd be friends under different circumstances, but decided they likely would not.

It occurred to Alex then that they did consider Blake a friend. They hadn’t at first, but the word was in such heavy rotation in Blake’s vernacular, it eventually began to feel authentic. Odd, really, how using a word empowered it; manifested it.

Alex had stopped wondering about the outside world much, since even Blake wouldn’t - or couldn’t - reveal anything about what was transpiring beyond Alex’s room. Alex could only surmise that the world they'd known had fallen apart, and that if they weren’t released soon, they never would be.

The original story was that Americans from both the Federation and the Republic had been rounded up and put in these safehouses for their own protection. Seemed silly now that they’d believed that. To be fair, much like Alex, most of the Americans rounded up were diplomats, embassy workers, politicians, doctors, and the like. In short, people considered ‘valuable’.

When Alex had moved to Oustlandia five years prior, there had been a peace treaty between Oustlandia and the Republic of America. Moreover, Oustlandia had been fierce allies of the ROA and offered them asylum when the Federation of America had, quite predictably, launched the third civil war.

With time, Alex learned that only a few of the safehouse residents were from the ROA; the majority were from the FOA. This necessarily led Alex to wonder with whom Oustlandia was truly in alliance. While it might have been a ‘gather them all and let the Ambassador sort it out later’ situation, they later discovered that most members of the Federation had been released within the first few months. Alex was forced to contemplate the grim possibility that they were not being protected, but imprisoned.

Alex was fully immersed in one of their all time favorite books, The Dumb House, by John Burnside, when Blake returned.

Rather than entering the room, Blake stood at the doorway and whispered, “Partner, come with me!”

Alex rose, tentatively, “Come with you? What do you mean?”

“What do you think? You wanna go outside or what? I have something for you. But you must come now!”

Alex sprang from the armchair and followed Blake down the hall toward the yard door. As they walked past each room, Alex attempted to look inside, but most of the doors were shut. They were wondering where the other workers and residents were and why everything was so quiet, when Blake turned and whispered that everyone was in the common room for movie night. Alex couldn’t remember the last time they’d been allowed a movie night.

Blake unlocked the yard door, pulled it open, and gave Alex a firm push outside. Alex froze, certain that they were being set up: Blake had tricked them! They were going to flip on the yard lights and Alex would find themself in front of a firing squad.

Instead, Blake stepped out behind Alex and shut the door behind them. They pointed at 2 lawn chairs at the edge of the yard, “There, partner. Take a seat. I have many surprises.”

Alex sat in one of the chairs and Blake plopped into the one next to them, “No, my friend, like this,” Blake said, reclining their chair.

Alex followed suit and immediately understood why Blake had suggested it: The stars were innumerable, the sky yawned on forever, the stars covering nearly every inch of the vast canvas. The sky-canvas was hued in depths of blackness, interspersed with the brilliance of the stars. It was one of the most spectacular things Alex had ever witnessed. Blake pulled a flask from their inside pocket, smiling and nodding, encouraging Alex to take a swig.

“Whiskey, my friend. Drink with me and share this beauty,” Blake said, equally mesmerized by the sky.

As Blake handed the flask to Alex, their fingers touched briefly. They considered how comfortable they were with Blake’s touch. There was nothing withheld; no artifice, no need for it. Alex took a swig from the flask and marveled at the night sky, the grandeur of it bringing a tear to their eye. They looked over and saw Blake staring up at the sky, weeping without shame.

“It all comes to an end tonight, my dear friend,” Blake began. Noticing Alex’s anxious expression, Blake reached over and took their hand, “You leave here. Tonight.”

Alex was dumbfounded, “You mean - I’m going home?” Alex made no effort to remove their hand from Blake’s.

Blake gave a short laugh, “You have no home, partner. The FOA and ROA are both gone. Oustlandia wants to terminate all surviving Americans, from both sides. Never again, they say.” Blake looked squarely at Alex, “Can’t say I blame them.”

Alex wondered, “Where will I go, then?”

Blake shrugged, “Away from here. Doesn’t matter. You will be free.”

They sat together in silence, appreciating the night sky until a truck arrived. The pair stood, still holding hands.

“They will have clothes, a passport, and money for you.”

“You. You planned this? For me? But. Why?”

Blake shook their head before pulling Alex in for a warm embrace, “Because from all of this, some good must come. Grow big and strong in the sun, Alex. Now, you must go! Goodbye, my true friend.” Blake pushed Alex toward the gate. The person with the truck opened the gate from the outside and gestured for Alex to get in the back. Alex turned and looked once more at Blake, heartbroken that they would never again see their friend.

Blake waved and wiped their eyes. Alex held a hand to their heart, then climbed into the bed of the truck. The truck drove away and, as the canopy of stars sped across the endless night sky, ushering freedom for the Last American, Alex wept