The Last Word

I only have 28 words left.

The woman behind the glass taps her long pink nail on the counter between us and stares at me. Waiting for me to speak. The man behind me looks bored. His eyes keep darting between the clock and me while he adjusts his tie.

I see a woman five people back talking on the phone. She keeps waving her hand in my direction and looking at the diamond on her finger. A child tugs on her mother’s dress and whispers “What’s wrong with her mommy? Is she almost out?”

I've been in line at the Bureau of Citizen Services for 4 hours trying to think of exactly what needs to be said. I already tried the Department of Vital Records and wasted 2 hours and 107 words. I've never been this low before. I breathe, I need to be careful.

“Husband. Charlie. Missing.” 25 left.

“I need more to go on.” Pink fingernails is a Fifth Tier bureaucrat. Her badge says she has over four thousand words left and it's three in the afternoon. She keeps looking at my badge blinking red.

This feels futile. This woman doesn't care. No one cares. They're not Tenth Tier line workers, scraping by with 500 words a day.

Charlie used to be a Sixth Tier manager. That is until a Second Tier president grabbed my ass at a company party and I slapped him. I wasn't thinking. No one said a word in the moment. Must have been a million opportunities accumulated between the crowd and not a sound.

The next day they said Charlie wasn’t the right fit for management. He was “too concise”, “not made for leadership”, that required "narrative control". He was reallocated to Tenth Tier demoting both of us to a new quota limit. The words were wasted on someone like him anyways, they said.

He went out to try and buy us more on the Lexicon Market, heard about a way to get around the limit through symbols on paper. We’d been dangerously close to the limit every day since the demotion. Struggling for six months to break speech patterns around adjectives and fluff.

I never figured out how to say sorry—for ruining everything in an instant. We'd only been married eight days before the incident. Whenever I started to apologize, he'd push a finger against my lips and mouth, don't waste the words. Kiss me on the forehead and squeeze my hand. Now I'll never get the chance. He never came home.

“Three days. No work, home. Phone dead. Please.”

I stop. 17 words left now. Wasted one over a pleasantry. I was never very good at monitoring myself. Always wasting my speech on small talk and givens. Pleading with her won't change how she looks at me. I can tell from her posture, her boredom at being here. But I need Charlie. Tenth Tier wives aren't allowed to re-up their quotas without spoken permission from their spouse.

“Listen, you're going to need to speed this up. See, you've been at my window for too long and you're going to start to affect my performance review. And I don't have time for silence. Speak up so we can move on.”

The man behind me keeps clearing his throat. I hear the woman with the ring say “A Pre-Mute Tenner is wasting everyone's time again”. I feel the little girl's eyes on me, too young to comprehend but too old to have not seen desperation before.

“Missing. Help. Find him.” 13 left.

“I'm not sure how you expect us to find your husband without a description, a last known location, literally any information. You know the rules—if you can't say it, it doesn't matter.”

She points behind her to the government seal—a blindfolded woman sitting cross-legged holding a finger to her lips and the words ‘Quod non dicitur, non est’ above her. What is not spoken, does not exist. “Are we done?” Tap, tap, tap.

“Stop being a privileged bitch! I need help!”

Everyone stands straighter. The little girl hides behind her mom. The words tumble out before I can think.

I count back what I said. Eight words. I just spent eight words.

There's a low beep from my badge. I have 5 words left. It takes 7 to request a quota increase, even if I find Charlie. But I knew, the day he didn't come home. He must have used his quota trying to get us more. The Men in White must have come and taken him away to review all the words he's said in life and archive him. He wouldn't leave me like this.

“I've never seen someone go Quiet before. I bet that's what happened to your husband too. Bet neither of you could afford a decent quota and can't count—for the life of you. Now get out of my line.” She straightens up and spreads her arms wide. “Or get on with it. Speak up. We're ready for the show. I heard it's electric.” She smiles, repositions her arms on the counter, and starts tapping that fingernail again. “We're waiting.”

I won't let myself cry. I wish I could hold Charlie. Hear him tell his one line jokes. He always knew the right things to say. Just the right words to use.

He loved telling stories back when he had words to spare at the end of the day. I used to imagine him telling fables about going Quiet to our kids someday like my father told me. Think before you speak, it only has power if voiced, keep track of your words. He'd sing our favorite childhood rhythm as we lay in bed: One word, two words, three words, four. Soon you'll have words nevermore. Five words, six words, mark your score, Hush now, hush now.

I finish out loud “You'll be counting soon.”

I feel a shock, lightning coursing through my entire body now that I've said my penultimate word. I start to shake, my eyes roll back, I fall to the ground.

Everyone is watching and no one speaks.

Men in white coats surround me. I didn't see where they came from. There's a constant blaring horn in my head now. I may be able to think a million words a minute but I only have one left I can say.

The woman behind the counter yells “Next!” The man steps around me, ready to discuss his needs, thousands of words available to him.

They strap me to a gurney and start to wheel me out of the room. I list off everything I wish I had said: the sorries, the compliments, the dreams I never uttered out loud and now never can.

I wish I could say I love you one last time.

As I'm wheeled away, I see him, in line behind the woman with the ring. He's dirty, he looks confused. There's stubble on his face. A black eye. A man holds onto his left shoulder and a woman stands to his right whispering into his ear. They both have a badge that says they're Third Tier enforcers. He looks at me.

“Charlie!”

And my words are up, everything goes black.