Welcome to The Machine

This morning greeted me with an energetic awakening. The first sound I heard was a tense drumroll bursting into a military march. I opened my eyes. The clock on the wall read 10:22. The march grew louder, flooding the entire room with sound. Its source turned out to be the TV. The image on screen was impressive.

Grim-faced soldiers marching in deadly unison, colossal tanks that inspired both awe and involuntary fear, towering humanoid combat robots — the latest marvels of military engineering. A raw display of power: an army capable of crushing any enemy, carrying out any order, achieving any goal.

I watched it with sadness.

— You're awake already?

My mom’s voice caught me off guard. I turned sharply, pretending to be completely fascinated by the fighter jets flying over the square, while simultaneously pulling my pants from under the chair.

— Yeah — my voice was a bit hoarse from sleep. I kind of liked it that way. A touch of raspiness, but not that smoker’s croak.

— Good. Make yourself some tea, breakfast is on the table. And seriously, get a haircut already.

— Sure — I muttered, pulling on my pants. I had to cough after all.

She left the room. A triple "hurrah" echoed from the TV. A jubilant crowd behind barriers, weapons at the ready. The triumph of militarism.

I watched it with disdain.

— Dad’s going to be home late today — came a voice from the kitchen — it’s a holiday, you understand.

I raised my fist in mock celebration. February 17th — National Liberation Day. By old tradition, on this day men of all ages were congratulated as potential defenders of the state. Personally, I was rarely included in such congratulations, but I never felt left out.

The TV went quiet, but soon the voice of the Supreme Chairman of the Republic’s Council came on. Tall and elderly, he didn’t appear weak at all. He looked like he had no body fat whatsoever, and his steel-sharp eyes gleamed — especially noticeable when the camera zoomed in on his deeply wrinkled face. He looked unshakable, radiating energy and absolute confidence. Black-and-green flags waved behind him. The speech began with congratulations, then turned to the importance of the armed forces, increased defense budgets, expansion into nearby regions...

I watched it with revulsion.

The clock read 10:27. I turned off the TV and sighed, heading off to make tea.

Mom was no longer in the kitchen. She’d left, saying she was going to the city center, would be back in a couple of hours. She’d complained about the ice, the holiday parades, and blocked-off streets, and finally slammed the door on her way out.

I went through my usual ritual: filled the kettle, pressed the button, took out a cup, grabbed a tea bag, dropped it in, filled the cup halfway with boiling water.

The stove clock blinked 10:29. I nodded to myself and started counting five minutes. Outside, snow was still falling gently, as if the massive drifts already burying all the benches in the yard weren’t enough.

“Funny, isn’t it? We celebrate Liberation Day while snow quietly conquers the city.”

“We? Are you actually celebrating anything right now?”

“Well… we — I gestured vaguely — the people around me.”

“Trying to separate yourself from everyone else? Don’t bother. The two of us are plenty enough for each other.”

“Oh, sure. I’d love to keep chatting, but my tea’s probably ready. Sorry.”
“But it’s only 10:32.”
“Three minutes, five — what’s the difference?”
“Oh, a real rebel! Go ahead, drink your tea early, be a bad boy! You secretly want to change everything, don’t you? Surely you know better than all those ministers how to run things, what politics to implement, what relationships to build. I mean, I saw that look you gave the TV.”

“And now you’re reading my thoughts. Which are partly yours too, by the way. Anyway, I’m going to drink tea, regardless of what time it is.”

“Bon appétit.”

I could practically feel the smug smirk of my inner voice. Where did it even come from? It started with me asking questions aloud when alone. The silence didn’t respond, so I did. Answers turned into new questions, then new answers, and before long — a conversation. It was my way of convincing myself I wasn’t alone. That thought took root better than I ever expected.

Now came part two of the ritual: remove the tea bag, shake off excess tea, open the cabinet with the trash bin, carry the dripping bag without spilling, top off the cup with cold water, add one ice cube and three teaspoons of sugar. Stir carefully. Done.

I sat at the table, tucking my right leg under myself and propping my left so my knee nearly touched my chin. I didn’t feel like eating, but forced down a couple of sandwiches, washing the bites down with tea. I had no idea if this breakfast was nutritious or filling, but at least my stomach wouldn’t be twisting from hunger until lunch.

I really should go to the barber. While putting on my hat, I noticed that my hair was almost too much to fit under it.

As I slammed the door shut, I caught a glimpse of the clock — 10:45.

Outside greeted me with crisp cold, about minus twelve degrees. The wind stung my face, but it scattered the smoke from the factories, so the air felt noticeably fresher than usual. I was nearing the neighboring block where the barbershop was, gazing ahead out of habit, when a familiar voice called from the right:

— Hi.

Yes, it was her — my new deskmate. It had been about a week and a half since we’d started sitting together. Our communication had been limited to routine greetings and short requests, like borrowing a pen or a sheet of paper. Nothing more. Not that I expected or hoped for more.

“Seriously?”

I stifled the sarcastic voice inside and looked up.

— Hey.

She was smiling, looking at my wind-chapped face with wide eyes, while mine were squinting from the cold and bright daylight. I’m not a fan of running into people I know on the street. But this encounter… I wouldn’t call it unpleasant.

I was about to walk on, but feeling the awkwardness of the moment, I turned and asked the question I’d answered to myself countless times:

— Do you happen to know the time?

She turned, took off her glove, pulled out her phone and wiped the foggy screen.

— Five to eleven.

— Got it. Thanks.

I turned, catching that scent again. The same as always, though the cold softened its sweetness, leaving only the impression of over-sugared tea.

A deep breath. Yes. Over-sugared tea. At least five spoonfuls.

She put her phone away and walked off — in the direction of my home, it seemed. I didn’t ask where exactly.

I looked at the building where the barbershop was and kept walking, without looking back.