Who's Yolanda?
She wondered as they walked through the placid yet hectic streets of Risdon. The gigantic towers may create the impression of a well off nation, but this country was no paradise. Though 'paradise' was subjective. Too many people feel that this mockery of a nation is true bliss. How odd it is to say that—since most of men and women here had lost their hearts and minds anyway.
The sky did reflect the citizen's emotions.
Deep.
Raw.
Melancholic.
Who's Yolanda?
The question far more melancholic than the sky or the Boards, the Posters, the Banners that praise the party frantically against their will. These objects had as much emotions as the humans of this nation.
All flat lies. The party lies and the patriot believes.
Her father was not a patriot.
With the secret police at the door, she knew she had to listen to him for this might just be the last of his words. She knew this day would come inevitably. Yet parting glance at her father etched the sight of his dread into her soul. He did want to see the party's downfall.
Who's Yolanda?
She's not Yolanda. Her father had requested her to use that name from then and onwards.
That day he had returned home panting and immediately ran to his room, went through his things and gave her the objects. He told her to get ready since the day has come. She took a deep calm breath and got her handbag filled with the books and the box with news reports first, second to them were other essentials. In almost five minutes she'd everything ready and she had checked her escape route.
Her father has trained her for this ever since she was with him. It seemed insignificant to her all the years but now she knew how essential the knowledge of climbing out of a window is.
"Make choices and be happy, honey." His voice breaking. "I was probably not the best parent. But I will be there for you no matter what."
The knock on the door growing harder..."Open the door, Mr. Dalles!" A faint, distant, cold voice contrasting her father's.
"It's okay, father." She blinked slowly. It's either she did not understand the depth of this situation or she was practically unfeeling. It was most probably the later.
She needs to know who Yolanda is. The second time Raphael asked for her name—
"That is such an ugly name." He had said half sad, looking away into the forever depressed sky of Risdon.
The sky did reflect the sorrow of the people. How raw that was. They were born into this. This is normal. You are watched all the time. You admire the party and the leader.
Patriotism feels forced.
The sky does feel for people who has lost all their feelings. She is sure of it. She has known people who has their mind filled to the brim with slogans and propagandas.
It was infact a crime to think of anything else than praise for the party and criticism for its enemies.
Crime is not inherent to human beings. It can only be infused into their soul. Once infused you commit your first crime. And when you commit your first crime, the second feels effortless.
She had committed her first crime back when she was seven. A young girl read her father's collection of secret story books of forever lost times, before the regime. News articles cut and folded, stored in a box. She read them all. It was her hobby to do so. Just like her father's was to collect them.
Surveillance might feel natural to a human born into this dystopia. How foolish of them. Yet, on the second thought maybe she was the foolish one—For she'd have loved to visit the neverland harbouring complete freedom. Deep down she knew those worlds existed in books only.
Who's Yolanda? Why did her father choose this name? And why did Raphael's hands tremble upon the sound of it?
All these questions need to be answered and
she'd love to see the party's downfall.Like Father, Like Daughter.