35. Three Years Ago, Daria Volker
THREE YEARS AGO, DARIA VOLKER
The dream is always the same. An endless spiral staircase, disappearing into dark depths, and the sound of feet behind me.
My legs are like lead, heavy and boneless, and with each rushed step that I take, I stumble some more, the world destabilising.
Until inevitably, I trip over, and I’m toppling, falling down and down without ever landing at the bottom.
I jerk awake to the sound of my mother’s voice. “Daria, honey! Are you nearly ready?”
Shit, shit, shit!
I toss the slick, satin covers aside and rush to my wardrobe, deciding between the Papa-dearest-approved flowery dress and the Papa-dearest-will-throw-a-fit black number with a cleavage so deep you can see my belly button.
I was going to play the part of a good daughter today. But with the unsavoury aftertaste of that dream still fresh in my mouth, I settle on option two.
I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and line my eyes with black to match my outfit.
Looking back at me from the mirror is a girl I would hardly have recognised two years ago.
My hair is shiny black now and reaches my waist. I have an eyebrow piercing, a nose ring, and a tattoo behind each ear—not to mention other places.
“You don’t look anything like my daughter anymore!” Papa told me recently.
It took everything I had not to yell back at him, “Well, that’s the fucking point, isn’t it?”
This time two years ago, we were already down in the bunker. But the night before, I was here, in my bathroom, getting an outfit ready for my eighteenth birthday party that was planned for the next day. The door banged open, and he rushed in without bothering to knock.
“Papa!” I’d squealed then, covering my body—I was only in my underwear.
“Pack things for two weeks. We leave in ten minutes.” He tossed a suitcase on my bed. He looked tired and dishevelled, his salt-and-pepper beard dull and messy without its usual coat of pomade, his eyes bloodshot.
“What? Leave for where?” I demanded in a high-pitched voice, but he was already on his way out. “Papa, but what about my party?”
“Cancelled.” He didn’t even bother to look at me. “Be ready in ten.”
The rest of the day is a blur. A short car ride: my dumb younger sister bickering with my even dumber younger brother—the crown prince.
A flight in a private jet that was just as short.
And then the rush of galloping feet, descending into the well-stocked, perfectly prepared bunker.
Gleaming white surfaces, bright lighting, everything new and spotless.
A sleepless night, people sitting around, most drinking, watching live TV—a satellite dish above ground connected to the bunker. Women sipping from martini glasses.
Martini glasses! With actual olives!
The next day, it was all over the news. Synechord dropped nuclear bombs.
Not a bomb. Bombs. Plural. They created a radioactive border running from north to south across the entire continent.
Kids didn’t understand, women still sipped their martinis, and men discussed something among themselves in monotone, unexcited voices.
And I just sat there on my eighteenth birthday—neither a child, nor a woman—lost in my own confused thoughts. Because if it was Synechord who dropped the bombs, how the hell did all these people—these politicians and their families—know to get inside a bunker the day before? How did Papa know?
Done with my preparations, I teeter downstairs on my high heels. My mother rewards me with a sigh and a disapproving look, my idiot sister giggles, and my brother just keeps running around me, looking like a caricature in his tuxedo and with a toy aeroplane in his hand.
“Vrooooom. I’m dropping nukes, sis.”
“Time for a fucking martini then,” I remark under my breath, but my mother hears me.
“Daria!”
Little bro circles around me, and in one well-timed movement, I knock the plane out of his hand. He tries to lunge at me, beet-red face contorted in rage, but I grab him and shake him.
“Stop it before I slap you into another dimension!”
“DARIA!” My mother covers her mouth—why does she always have to look so shocked, like it’s the first time I’ve done or said something that I in fact do and say every damn day.
A limo picks us up. Always a limo. I hate limos, I’m so bored with them. I want a car that overheats and breaks down often. A car that makes me get my hands dirty.
We drive through the streets of Everrise. Everything is under construction, bone-white monolithic-style buildings rising from the ground, old architecture being gradually erased. I never thought I’d miss the old cement block apartment buildings and domed churches, but here we are.
We arrive at the venue. A butler opens the door on my side, and I barely swing my legs out before cameras start flashing.
“Here comes the birthday girl!” Someone shouts, and I want to punch them in the face. “Give us a smile, Miss Volker. How does it feel to no longer be a teenager?”
No one really gives a shit about my birthday. Not on the anniversary of the worst geopolitical disaster of all time.
We all rush inside, more butlers clamouring over us to take our coats away, hushed whispers sizzling all around when my dress choice is uncovered. I smirk for the cameras, tossing my hair over my shoulder, the flashes blinding. Then we head into the main hall.
Round tables, starched white tablecloths, champagne flutes and ten different kinds of cutlery, all of which I’ll ignore in favour of using only one fork for every course—savouring Papa’s death glare more than the pretentious food. If asked, I’ll say I want bangers and mash for my main course.
I’m making my way to the head table when I see her, right next to Papa.
Riley.
Papa has an arm around her shoulder and is whispering something into her ear. She’s leaning away from him with a look of ill-concealed disgust on her face. Why the fuck is she here again, and in the seat next to him?
I stop directly in front of the table, and Papa raises his eyes, rage bleeding into his glare as he takes in my appearance.
“Darling,” he addresses me coldly. “Was it your intention to look like a common whore today?”
“Yup.” I jut my hip to the side to exaggerate my curves. “It was.”
“And why is it that you keep insisting on embarrassing me?”
“Maybe because you keep embarrassing me! Why is she here?” I jerk my head in Riley’s direction.
She flashes me a shy, unhappy look. I’m no idiot. I know she doesn’t want to be here any more than I want her here, but that’s not my problem. How the fuck someone like her can do what she does is beyond me. I’ve never seen anyone resemble a lost puppy so much before.
“Lower your voice and sit the fuck down,” Papa grunts, growing red in the face.
My name tag is two places down. The supposed star of the party, and I don’t even get to sit in the centre of the table because my spot is taken by some freckled twat who was the rebels’ most popular mascot only a year ago. I’m not fucking doing this.
“She needs to go, or I’m not staying!”
“I will go!” Riley volunteers in a weak voice, but Papa speaks over her.
“She is staying. You sit the fuck down.”
He isn’t shouting, but his voice is loud and forceful, and several people turn their heads.
“Looks like the vultures will have a field day today, Papa.”
Before he can react or stop me, I turn around and walk out.
But not before grabbing a martini from the tray of a harried waiter passing me by.
My teeth sink into the olive, salty juices coating my tongue, and I waltz back into the hall, ready to twirl and smile for the cameras.
Ready to show them that Papa may have the whole Continuum under his control for now, but he sure as shit doesn’t get to control me.
And because I’m me, I promise myself for my birthday that one day I’ll find a way to show him, too. Preferably by teaching his favourite puppy to bite him in the ass.