She Wore Black Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  SHE WORE BLACK

  J L Park

  Copyright © 2018 J L Park

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-473-46722-7

  For my wife Katy,

  and my children Madison and Hunter.

  Thank you for being you.

  “She will wear black, defiant, strong, a born leader, yet in the beginning she will not realise.”

  If only her name was Reed Taylor, I might finally get out of this place. I sighed, trying to focus on my philosophy text, Foucault and Nietzsche’s I called theories blurring in front of me upon. My attention kept wandering to the book I had hidden between the pages of that philosophy text. Contraband, something that would have me punished if someone discovered it, more so given its contents, and my gender. I took a quick glance around; he hadn’t looked my way in some time. The contraband, a black book from history, before the incidents that has sparked the creation of GreyBrook Aside from it being black, an illegal colour for anything, it contained the history of how the world was before now, what happened in the early days, well before my conception let alone birth, and early rebellions. Contraband now, because it held the secrets they no longer taught, about the history of our people. A history, now taught so washed out, it was as though no one had ever done a bad thing, ever had a bad thought. It annoyed me no end that our history was perfected, our people emerging on top every time, ignoring the harm our ancestors may have caused. Made into contraband so not to give the 'kids' ideas regarding rebellion by ignoring it even existed, the powers that be thought they had control. Mostly, they did.

  I’d found the small book in one of my secret missions to deeper parts of the city, and I’d found a few of the hidey-holes our ancestors had used before, dust so thick in places I’m sure only I had visited since they had written in the book, hiding it and dying without passing the knowledge of their hidey-holes to another. The weirdest thing, the main reason it was contraband, was the inclusion of predictions. The book called them Prophecies. One of them had me curious.

  She will wear black, defiant, strong, a born leader, yet, in the beginning she will not realise. An army, small but powerful, will stand behind her, ready to fight for what is good, what is just, what is fair. She will not realise it, but she would be the best thing be the strongest thing they could hope for, the best thing that could have happened. She would be small, but mighty.

  The Prophecies were interesting, women spoken of in high regard it seemed. Just thinking such things in a nation like ours, a nation that did not think highly of those of us with the bad luck of being born female. Many of the prophecies talked of this woman in black, doing things that just couldn’t happen in a place like this. It was a laugh, in a state that liked to hold back women at any stage. Sure, they allow us to get an education, and work, in the fields, join Selection Day, but lead? Never. Women weren’t made to succeed, or for such strenuous tasks. I tried to muffle a snort.

  “Reed,” called Mr. Hughes, “Is Foucault a laughing matter?”

  “No sir, sorry.” I went back to reading the prescribed text, secreting my contraband back in my bag.

  After class, I began the quiet walk home, to start the family meal and tidy up. It frustrated me to no end I had to do all the meal prep and rush around tidying, yet my brother Jameson didn’t need to lift a finger, able to just complete his homework and join his friends, and not bother about the cleaning, and meal prep - that was women’s work, not his. Aside from a handful of minutes between us, we were the same age, but he had always been the favourite. Who would I complain to? My mother chose the Pius Section life, and my father was born and raised here. Complaining would fall on deaf ears, and if I spoke what was on my mind, my father would report me to the Law. Sighing, I moved from peeling potatoes to chopping carrots and putting both on to boil, before putting the pie Mother had made into the oven to heat through, having been cooked the day prior. Humming to myself, mind still thinking about the information I’d found in my little black book hidden under my mattress, I couldn’t wait to get back to reading it, despite the pile of homework I had to wade through. Never mind, who needs sleep anyway?

  “Reed,” my father uttered as he walked through the door, “I trust that dinner is almost ready if you have time to waste with humming.”

  I lowered my head, careful to be submissive. “Almost, Father. I need to prepare a salad while the pie heats through.”

  “Why are you wasting your time humming then? Get to it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I hated having to be so submissive. Sure, I was shy - most girls in Pius were, a side effect of the submissive narrative we were fed from birth and were forced to portray. But as I got older, I couldn’t stomach not being able to question the rules, and it grated every time as I knew to question Father would get me punished, by him or by the law.

  Chopping lettuce, I tried ‘humming’ in my head but it didn’t have the same feel. I heard him searching for Jameson to tell him about his day and ask Jameson about his. Never mind mine. I sighed, remembering that he treated my mother the same way, and she’d had to put up with it for much longer. I checked on the pie, delicious smells emanating from the oven. It was my favourite. One of the nice little touches that Mother put in that reminded me that someone thought about me from time to time.

  It was customary for there to be no thanks to those who had slaved over hot stoves, chopping boards and in kitchens to produce the meal, and all thanks to Gods and Stanford, the Pius leader, for providing the meal. I didn’t begrudge thanking someone for the produce, but when I knew how hard my Mother had worked to bake the pies the day prior, after a day at a job just as difficult as my fathers. She deserved thanks, yet she sat demurely as my father spouted forth about how thankful he was to those who rule, and those who preside over us as religious deities. I squeezed my thigh hard to remind myself not to just blurt out what I really wanted to say.

  Afterwards, after Mother and I had cleared up, Father and Jameson were discussing the upcoming Selection Day, the day we decided as young adults whether to stay within Pius or change to another to remain in for the rest of our lives. Each group had defined roles - job roles with the city as a whole and along the gender divide. Father was suggesting what he felt would be a good fit for Jameson if he didn’t stay. It was too much to expect of him, or my mother, to think of asking me or discussing my choices with me. I figured they thought I would stay, the meek shy female child I was. Despite that, I had only ever caused them much trouble once - a childhood crush that was deemed inappropriate, and brushed off as a pair of young teens who got in over their heads in feelings of friendship. The other teenager had been able to shake the rumours and had moved on with her teenage life. Unfortunately for me, the rumours had been true, not that I had openly admitted it to anyone other than myself, at least within Pius. My classmates continued to taunt me, years later, resulting in a shy, lonely kid, who boys liked to tease, and who the girls were too scared girls to be friends with, in case it was assumed it
they were in love with me. Any contact I had had with anyone I felt a connection with, in that way, I had kept quiet, by sneaking out of Pius to meet. Nothing had ever lasted long though. At home, however, I had transformed into the model female child, not questioning my father’s rules, submissive at every opportunity. Whilst I didn’t quite know what choice I would make on the day, I knew for certain I had to get out of Pius even if just to get away from the rumours.

  “Father,” I murmured, waiting for him to acknowledge me, “May I be excused to finish my homework?”

  A sharp nod from Father, who then went back to talking to my brother. I headed upstairs to my room and tried to concentrate on enough math to complete my algebra homework. The little black book called my name. Finishing my algebra as quickly as I could, I took a shower, calling to my parents I was heading to bed early so they wouldn’t disturb me.

  Its cover was leather, worn smooth by handling, its pages thin but still readable. A particular smell I’d only ever come across with books from Before or really early in GreyBrook’s history. I took a deep sniff of its pages and grinned to myself, as I flicked it open to the page I had been reading this afternoon in Philosophy.

  She will wear black, defiant, strong, a born leader yet, in the beginning, she will not realise. An army, small but powerful, will stand behind her, ready to fight for what is right, what is just, what is fair. She will not realise it, but she would be the best thing they could hope for, the best thing that could have happened. She would be small, but she would be mighty.

  Whilst it confused me, it also somehow filled me with hope for the future - if not for me and the others, for our children, or their children. Further prophecies were scattered throughout the book, speaking on a war this female hero would wage, overthrowing those who held tight to the ideals they had forced us to grow up with and adhere to. I only hoped she would make herself known to us in my lifetime, but I had serious doubts.

  Fascinating history wound its way through the book, it was as though the author of the notebook knew something was happening, just before the events that led to the creation of GreyBrook, and wrote them down for someone to remember how it was, so no one would forget. In the hundred years since then, we had forgotten, we no longer taught the actual, or at least actual according to this wee book, history of our creation but covered the good parts of the way we were. History is not only that which is nice to read about, or a feel good moment, but comes with the good, the bad and the ugly. Present day, I forced us to only acknowledge the good, and nothing more. The book spoke of towns outside this one, close by. I wasn’t so sure it was all that far away, but I couldn’t yet prove it.

  I lay back, mind ablaze with all this new information. A smile on my face, I tucked the book back under the mattress. It was weird how much joy one book could give a person. It was rare for me to smile anymore, locked in my own world, unable to talk to others about what I thought for fear of being reported to the Law for insubordination or worse. Submissive and demure at home, quiet and tormented at school. I had reduced my existence to two places I didn’t feel at home in, where it seemed like I wasn’t worth the time or the space I occupied. And no one noticed. Snuggling in, it was a pleasant sensation to fall asleep with, dreaming of places before this time, and that hero someone before me was waiting on.

  I dragged myself through school for the next few days, I looked forward to reading and re-reading the book I now carried with me all the time. But with exams coming up just before Selection Day, I couldn’t seem to find enough time to study, cook, clean and read the contraband book. Missing my escape, everyone at school being on edge with stress from exams coming up, the taunting got worse, devolving into pushing and shoving, with the occasional punch when tutors weren’t looking. Though, it wasn’t like my life was filled with misery or being ignored. I kind of liked that I was alone a lot, it gave me time to do the things I enjoyed, like writing. Something I’d been neglecting since finding the little black book. I had to be careful to hide a lot.

  The history of GreyBrook was what intrigued me the most after I found the little black book I hid in my school bag. From what they taught us in school, GreyBrook’s history was pure, from the time of its creation to provide an escape from a world collapsing under the weight of sin, and women in power.

  GreyBrook hadn’t always existed in the way it was now, and whilst the purity-washed history we learned in school, and what was touted as truth by the Law, made it seem it had always been, the books I had found in the last few months suggested differently.

  Mrs. Scott, an elderly neighbour, often regaled me with quiet tales of how it used to be. When I said elderly, I meant ancient. Mrs. Scott’s family held true to their ancestors verbal storytelling traditions, and kept the accurate history alive, even if in their own family.

  How would I know it was accurate given I was almost a century younger than Mrs. Scott? You did not risk speaking aloud about pre-GreyBrook times, otherwise known as “Before”, unless you had a truth to tell. To speak of such could have you killed or expelled. It was only a few weeks before I’d found the contraband book she had regaled me with a familiar tale to what it told.

  “Ah, Reed, come sit with me a minute,” she had murmured, patting the couch next to her. Her daughters had smiled, leaving the room, returning with a steaming cup of tea for Mrs. Scott, a hot chocolate for me and two tasty biscuits. Before she spoke, she waited for them to get comfortable themselves. I knew they enjoyed her stories, loving to listen to them every time she told them, it helped them remember.

  “Mama, we are ready,” her daughter murmured, as Mrs. Scott, affectionately known to most of the neighbourhood as Mama, including her own children and grandchildren.

  “Have I ever told you about before GreyBrook? Before the walls went up, and the skirts went down?”

  Shaking my head, I took a sip of the hot chocolate before replying. “No, Mama, you haven’t. Are you sure you should?” I almost whispered, as she watched me curious, a grin tickling the edge of her mouth. I knew she would, a child at heart she loved to play the game.

  “What would they do to an old lady like me, Reed? I knew most of the leaders as little boys… the stories I could tell… could, but shouldn’t. Not in your youthful company anyway,” She shot her youngest daughter a look as she struggled to stifle a giggle, apparently that was a story she’d heard before.

  “Just don’t want you to get in trouble, Mama. But if you want to tell me, I want to listen.” She patted my knee, her eyes drifting off to the distance, as though staring out at the wall helped her to remember, a wistful look on her face.

  “Before the wall, life was very different. It might surprise you, young Reed, but before they put the Walls up, before GreyBrook became a city, women were finally coming into power. They were leaders, presidents and prime ministers of entire countries, mayors of towns, senators in government, CEOs of huge corporations. People of all different races, sexual orientations, abilities, skin and hair colours, religions existed side by side, in reasonable harmony,” she paused, to sigh with such sadness I wondered what came next. “Unfortunately, even with these great achievements, there were a few things that don’t differ from right here in GreyBrook. Women, whilst in positions of great power, were just as subject to the wills of men, as we are now.”

  She paused for a sip of her tea, nibbling the edge of a biscuit, going so quiet I thought she’d forgotten she was telling me a story.

  “Mama? How were they the same as now?”

  She grunted, swallowing her tea.

  “Much of what is written in the Book of Laws is taken directly from unspoken rules that existed in the Before. That men were to be obeyed, or allowed to get away with almost anything that they wished. These rules also prevented women from getting certain rights, just like they do now. Men might insist on certain actions from women, which if not performed, may cause the woman to lose out on promotions, work, or even cause the men to become violent. It was risky for a woman to say ‘no for
they considered her to be at fault somehow, again - much like now.” She smiled, a memory washing over her face, “But then things changed.”

  “How?” I murmured, enthralled with the story.

  “A man, woefully inadequate to perform the job they elected him for, was elected into a position of immense power, running one of the largest countries in the world. And being inadequate for the job, he was also a buffoon and bragged about how he had previously chosen to treat women, and would likely continue. It may have been well understood that this was the way things were, it was rarely spoken about, and never so openly by a man in a position of such power. Whilst this should have overthrown him, it seemed to merely pull the scum out of the woodwork regarding minorities, where they said nasty hateful things because this man had made it okay.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good change, Mama. If that’s why they created GreyBrook, I kind of get it.”

  She patted my leg again, a small chuckle escaping her. “It doesn’t, does it? What you didn’t let me get to, was that it sparked a change in the women of the world. Suddenly, they seemed to have realised that they couldn’t just wait for the change they wanted, with this buffoon in power, they would need to make it happen themselves. So, they did.” A sudden coughing fit over took her, waving her hand at her daughter who came over, “I’m all right, get away. Where was I?”

  “The women made the change?”

  “Ah, yes. They became the change they wanted to see in the world. Back in 2017, 2018, several well-known women from a thing I think I’ve talked to you about - television, the box with the moving pictures?”

  I nodded, it sounded alien to me but I remembered her telling me about it.

  “And Hollywood, the area in America that those who starred on television and longer moving stories called ’movies’ often lived and worked, came forward and claimed high powered producers had assaulted and abused them, or used their positions to deny these women things they deserved if they declined to perform sexual actions upon them. One by one, women from all over the world came out to say it had happened to them, not necessarily by high powered men, but a lot of average men as well. Over a very short amount of time, the movement gained power and an immense amount of political power. Most women had either been a survivor of abuses, assaults or harassment, or knew someone who was. They would no longer put up with the abuses and fought back. Trying to create a world that their children could be proud of.” She stopped, taking a long drink of her tea.