The Silenced Signal

“What do you mean, ‘he’s gone’?” I repeat. I was still standing in the doorway of my dorm, staring with a furrowed brow at my older brother. “Who?”

“I know you were close to him, Atlas,” Ajax says. He was still dressed in his uniform. And not just any uniform, but a mourning uniform. The charcoal-black dress jacket, buttoned all the way and ironed out, but the creases in the collar are still there from too many years of use. A black mourning armband curls around the left upper sleeve. He wears white gloves, which should’ve caught my attention immediately. He never wears gloves, let alone ones that should stain easily. His cap is tucked under his arm, revealing dark brown hair brushed neatly out of his face, but damp from rain water.

“What…” I say quietly, looking at Ajax.

“We don’t know what happened yet, but—“

“Don’t.” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t pull a script with me, Ajax.”

A muscle in Ajax’s jaw ticks slightly as his shoulders lower. His eyes dart down the hall, then back at me. “Can I come in?” He asks. He has our fathers eyes.

God I hate him, I think, even as I step back and let the door swing open for him to step through.

My tea was cold. I was certain I hadn’t been at the door long, and yet when I came back to the table, my book was closed and my tea no longer warm. I sit across from Ajax, letting the silence stretch for a long moment. The metal disk in the side of his neck is surrounded by scar tissue, along with mine, but no numbers mark the metal.

“You’re sure it was him?” I ask quietly.

Ajax nods. “I identified the body myself.” He says solemnly. It was rare to get emotion out of him. Though wearing that uniform was a hell only he was familiar with. Painfully so.

I exhale. It’s ragged. “How?” I ask quietly. My voice is a whisper. I hate how it trembles.

Ajax hesitates, his breath hitching momentarily. That’s an entire answer on it’s own.

I can’t help the shudder that tears through my frame. “So it wasn’t kind,” I whisper, almost to myself. Surely not to him. I run my hands through my hair as I lean forward, clasping my hands together to keep the trembling unnoticeable. “Please tell me how, Ajax?”

There’s a pause. It feels fragile. Like the air is made of shards of glass, being held together by bleeding hands.

“There was another riot. In his district. I don’t know his role in it, but when security came to resolve matters, things… escalated.” Ajax confesses. “I noticed him. Amongst the others. I thought… this would be better then the silence.”

“Don’t say that,” I whisper, looking up to meet Ajax’s gaze. “He’s a person. Not just another name is a ledger. And especially when you don’t know a day of silence.”

Ajax doesn’t get upset, even as the muscle in his jaw tightens again. His hands are clasped in front of him, his cap resting on the table, before he speaks. “Do you remember that old, military-grade radio, father used to have in his office?” He asks, “We used to listen to it when we were children. The janitor would leave his door unlocked.”

“I remember,” I say quietly. “What does that have to do—“

“When father and mother sent me to the military academy, I told you I would have a radio, and if you ever needed me, that you could radio me using the one in father’s office,” Ajax says.

“I remember!” I snap, “and you never fucking did!”

“I heard every radio you sent!” Ajax counters. “Every. Single. One. And I couldn’t respond. Because then he would know. And you know what would’ve happened.”

I clench my jaw, turning my head to look away from Ajax and at the tiled floor. “There’s going to be a report of the riot tomorrow,” I say quietly.

Ajax sighs. “Most likely.”

“What do I…” I stop myself. I look around the dorm room. “What do I do with his stuff."

“He’s going to be buried here,” Ajax says, sliding a folded piece of printed parchment across the table, “If you want to visit him. And as for his stuff… do what you want. I can’t tell you what to do. I’ve tried.” As Ajax stands up to leave, he pauses next to me. He rests a hand on my shoulder, a heavy weight. “I am sorry, Atlas. I know Jonah was a good kid. He deserved to live a little longer then he did.” He squeezes my shoulder, something that should’ve been a brotherly gesture but felt too controlling, before striding towards the door.

I stare at the folded parchment. He should’ve lived longer, I think, Because nobody expects you to make it far. 

My classes for the day were cancelled, likely due to some strings Ajax had pulled. I spent the next hour. putting Jonah’s belongings in boxes. There were three boxes. I know Jonah was a simply man, but taping the last box shut felt cruel. Like hammering in the final nail of the casket. They were placed in the center of the room, neatly.

I sit at the table, with the cold tea, the forgotten book, and a lighter. The lighter had been Jonah’s, something he would mess with whenever he was stuck in his head. I can’t tell you what to do. I’ve tried. The last words Ajax said before leaving are stuck in my head. I realize now I haven’t stopped shaking. My hands have an obvious tremble, and my entire body feels as though my veins are infused with ice. Not trembling, but shivering.

I look at the printed paper Ajax had given me. The words were mechanical, a favored font of my brother. I remember the first time I’d seen a journal. A real, handwritten, messy journal. I’d loved it. But when writing is forgotten and replaced by mechanical typing, one can only wonder.

On the back of the note, was another thing. ‘Don’t forget dinner tonight’. Of course. Parent’s dinner. Every Friday night. Shockingly, mother had been the one to start such a thing, only last year when I chose to stay at the dormitories of the academy, to avoid being home as often as I was. Perhaps a part of her truly just missed her sons. But I knew better. I knew a part of her wanted to make sure her son’s were listening.

I look at the lighter. I flick it on, watching the orange flame struggle before strengthening. My hands stop shaking for the briefest moment as the flame warm my skin.

A thought sparks.

One that I know will surely lead to my demise.

But the shivering and coldness leaves when the thought settles.

I stand, walking towards the small kitchen. I grab my backpack, which had been sitting on the kitchen counter. I’d put a change of clothes, a first aid kit, a book, and Jonah’s personal knife, found under his pillow. I then step further into the kitchen, and grab a thing of oil. Simple cooking oil.

I pour it over the boxes.

I pour it over through every room.

I pour it over his bed.

I purposefully made sure to dismantle the sprinklers to guarantee what I craved.

And that was warmth.

From the door way, I flicked the lighter.

I watched the flame.

Then I tossed it onto the boxes.

And the warmth was finally real.