Beautiful Machine

By PW Cooper

The train is moving north. You watch as the war-scarred world disappears behind you. Your body is a prison and you will never escape it. The blood on the floor is spreading in a wide red pool. Hate pours from their mouths. You feel as though you are trapped inside the most terrible dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PW Cooper
• Release date: Jan 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301726165

PW Cooper

PW has been writing for almost 10 years. Graduated from the Ithaca College Creative Writing program in 2010, with honors.

Book preview

Beautiful Machine

pw cooper

Copyright 2013 - pw cooper

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Departure

You watch the soldiers load coffins onto the train. They are shivering, faces pinched with effort as they drag their cargo down from the army trucks idling on the edge of the platform.

Coffin-wood, all pale pine hauled naked to the sawmill and eaten into by tearing silver teeth, chewed to smooth planks in hot air full of soft dust thick as a snowfall on the cavernous floor. Bright nails shine at the joints, brand new and gleaming like bullets. There are so many coffins, hundreds maybe. It seems there is no end to them. You can tell by way the soldiers' arms tense when they lift the boxes that they are none of them empty.

You feel as though you are having the most terrible dream.

The air on the platform is biting cold. You shiver and hold yourself tight, wishing you had been allowed to bring your wool coat. You won't need it, they said. You asked why. Don't ask questions, they said. You asked where they were taking you. Away, they said, away to be with your parents.

Your teeth chatter. The wind hisses. The train groans. The dull leather boots of the soldiers creak on the wooden platform.

You are so tired that you can barely stand. Your arms ache. Your feet ache. Your neck aches as you look around. There are masses of frightened men and women standing in huddled groups on the crowded train platform. They all look like you, like they could be members of your family, distant relatives. Weary old men huddled together with their caps pulled low, women clinging to each other; they wipe at teary eyes. You can taste their fear.

The headmistress stands behind you with her hand on your shoulder. Her lace gloves cover withered and bony fingers, nasty fingers that dig down into your skin. It feels like days have passed since she dragged you out of bed, though it was only a few hours ago. How strange time can be. Your fear, so raw and sharp when she first yanked back the sheets, has dulled to a miserable throb. You begged her to tell you why she was so furious, you pleaded to be forgiven though you had done nothing wrong. She ignored your every word, propelling you silently into an old classroom on the third floor. And she locked you inside, alone with the man in the dark red coat who called himself Captain.

He is standing at the ticket booth now, watching hawkishly. He frightens you. His teeth perfectly white and perfectly straight. His long cruel fingers. His hair so blond, the bloodless color of fresh-churned butter. His cheeks and jaw are tight, like the skin is stretched over fleshless bone.

He asked you strange questions in that empty classroom, his eyes never leaving your face and never meeting your eyes. Where were you born? Where do your parents go to church? What have they told you about the war? Do you have many friends here at school? Why not? What have you told them? Tell me their names. What do you think about the war? Have you ever touched one of your classmates? Where did you touch them? Have you touched yourself?

You did your best to answer all his questions correctly, but nothing you said pleased him. The sound of your voice seemed to infuriate him. You tried not to cry. The man gripped the edge of the desk, his eyes gleaming cat-like. When you tried to turn away he reached out and grasped your wrist in his hand. Your dark skin looked soft wrapped in his black leather fingers. The color of your skin seemed to change under the humming electric light. Now dark amber now blue black now mahogany now jet now toffee brown. You looked back towards him and did not look away again.

When he'd finished his questions the Captain called for the headmistress. The two of them spoke privately, nodding and murmuring and glancing at you. They took you to the Captain's automobile without even letting you say goodbye to your classmates, without even letting you get any of your things.

It was a long drive down from the boarding school. The car gleamed chrome black, as though the dust and filth of the road dared not touch its metal skin. The headmistress sat on one side of you and the strange man on the other. They did not speak.

No one will talk to you. You stare at their faces and wonder who they are, where they come from. Sometimes you think you see one of your parents or your older brother and you cry out for them. The headmistress strikes you every time and orders you to keep silent. Your family is not here, she says, you will meet them further on.

You sniff back tears and try to hold her hand. She will not take it.

There are many more men with guns. They look like soldiers, but dressed in dark red rather than the cobalt blue of the army. They surround the platform. Their clothing is immaculate, folds sharp and cufflinks bright. Their black gloves and their black shoes are shining. They have fierce noses and beautiful blue eyes. Their skin is so pale; it turns back the meager gray sunlight. You can't help but stare at them. They are beautiful as cruel birds of prey.

You look at the headmistress. You'll need a ticket to get aboard. You don't have a ticket, you tell her.

She says that it has been taken care of. She will not look at you.

There is a sharp whistle blast. The conductor wears a blue suit. He waves one white-gloved hand. The men in the dark red coats move like wolves, herding people towards the train.

The train seems grim and cold, burdened down by the dead in their fresh pine boxes. You look up at the headmistress. Please, Ma'am. You are unsure what it is that you are asking.

She looks down at you. Her face is hard and cold. When her eyes meet yours her jaw begins trembling. You think that she is angry and you flinch, afraid she will strike you again. But she does not hit you; she seems to be fighting back something, her imperious face crumbling. Is she going to cry?

You feel a cold shiver of panic running down your spine. You hate it when adults cry. Your mother cried sometimes when she argued with your father, though they always made up in the end. Almost without thinking you reach out to hug the schoolmistress. I'll come back. I promise I'll be good if you let me come back.

She tears your arms from her, stumbling away. She seems to be choking. "Don't touch me!" she cries, brushing at her clothes as though to wipe away dirt. She glances fearfully at the men in the dark red coats, at the strange man by the ticket booth. And then she runs, skirts swirling. She leaves you there on the platform.

The conductor blows his whistle again. His gloves are so white, you cannot look away from his hands as they weave through the air, ushering people aboard. He shares a significant look with one of the men in the dark red coats. He seems frightened by them.

There is an old couple in line beside you. They remind you of your grandparents. Your grandmother, smelling of fresh-baked bread and lavender perfume. Your grandfather, who used to sit back in his rocking chair and smoke a pipe and argue at the newspaper. The old man takes his companion's arm. She clings to him. Her voice is very soft, very subdued How can they do this? she says.

The old man just shakes his head. Asima, he calls her, and holds her close.

You feel very lonely. You miss your family, even the classmates who never seemed to like you. You want to sink down to the hard platform and cry, but you know that you mustn't. You cried when your parents sent you away. They sent you to this place out in the desolation where there was nothing worth destroying. The crumbling old boarding school on the edge of the world. When they sent you away your mother knelt down beside you and she kissed your cheeks. You've got to be strong, little angel; you've got to be good. Come on now, don't cry. There's a good girl.

You are a good girl. You do not cry.

The coffins have all been loaded; they are stacked like bricks in the cargo car. The doors are pulled shut. The guards cradle their rifles and tuck cigarettes into the corners of their sour mouths. Your breath fogs like vapor. A darker smoke billows from between the thin lips of the soldiers, lingering about their faces in filthy halos. They watch without interest as the people on the platform are led aboard.

You want to ask somebody where the train is going but you don't know any of them and you've been taught that you must not talk to strangers. You hope you will see your parents soon. You think that maybe when it is your turn to board the train you will ask the conductor with the immaculate white gloves where he is taking you.

You are near the rear of the line, staring at the back of a young man. He has a loose gray scarf about his neck and he trembles with nervous energy. The closer he comes to the entrance of the train the more he shakes, until as last he gives a great cry and breaks free of the line. The conductor reaches out to take him by the arm but the young man throws him off.

At once there is a soldier in a dark red coat there; he strikes the young man hard across the face. The young man hits him back. There is blood on his lips. The conductor slaps his mouth, and his beautiful white gloves are smeared red. Another of the guards grabs a handful of the young man's starchy hair. They throw him down and kick him. You cry out. You stumble. Hands reach from in the crowd and draw you closer, pull you inside the train. It is too late to struggle. The doors are closing and you are on the train.

On the other side of the door the young man is grabbing the leg of the conductor and pulling him down. The young man gets up and runs, staggering a little and holding his side. He tumbles over the edge of the platform and he runs at a stagger along the tracks.

You push against the door; it will not open. The Captain steps away from the ticket booth. He draws a pistol lazily from the holster beneath his coat. The train is beginning to move now, chugging and groaning steadily. You hate the sound, the metallic strain of it. The noise of the pistol being fired is swallowed by the roar of the train.

Someone is taking your hand