TIRED TIRED TIRED

me that I have been in the factory for eight hours already. A sigh of relief almost escaped my lips at the last minute, being replaced by an anxious groan as my longing to be home with my family resurfaced. I glance to my right at the station before my own. The man working that section, Ivan, is a long-time friend of mine. His first day here was filled with excitement as he eagerly took his place in the machine. The days following were less enthusiastic, but even so, he always managed to keep a positive attitude. This being said, he isn’t immune to the dull mind and blank face of repetition. Today, his eyes stare at no point in particular as his hands perform our monotonous tasks. As if sensing my tired gaze, Ivan shook his head to refocus, turning his eyes to me. We smile as best we can under the circumstances, both of us wishing for home. Our friendship has made most of the long days bearable. After every shift, we walk together to the train station, talking as we go. Our words have been cheerful, supportive, saddened, philosophical, and theological. In a dull life of work and minimal rest, a good friend becomes close very quickly. I’ve shared my aspirations of being promoted to a corporate position someday, and he’s spoken to me about his religious beliefs. We have inspired each other to reach further to achieve more in this impoverished life. He would say to me, “Dmitri? You know I’m praying for you, right?” I didn’t understand at the time. I thought he was meaning to have me congratulate him or something. But when I saw he was serious, and when I thought about how religious he was, I’d say yes. He’d say, “Good. I just wanted to make sure you know you have people in your corner.” He was and still isn’t seeking any praise for his actions. He just wants to lift people up. All of the hurting and sinful people he’d call them. I understand what he’s saying, I’m no saint.

Ivan and I started a staring contest right there at the assembly line. With our hands occupied, we can’t really play many games. Staring contests are, by far, the best two-person activity in the entire factory. I keep staring intently into Ivan’s eyes, warping my face into mock fury. Stopping himself from laughing, he meets my glare with equal intensity. I can barely make out anything around us as the contest grows in competition. The machines keep rumbling and steaming; workers mindlessly assemble their timepieces, and a delivery man drops off packages for the engineers by the machines. All of this goes on in a blur as Ivan and I reach the tipping point of our battle, our eyes watering. With a sudden moment of darkness and relief in my stinging eyes, I realize I had lost the staring contest. Ivan holds back a whoop of victory, and we laugh silently as we get back to work. The next few minutes pass like many of the others, dull and pointless. My eyes start to wander again, and I notice that the man across from me and to the right is back at his station. Knowing that my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me earlier makes me feel strangely relieved. But right as my eyes begin to roam farther away from the man, I notice something about his eyes. His face is blank, the same as every other worker in this factory. But his eyes… they seem more focused and attentive than any other pair of eyes that ever saw the inside of these walls. The unsettling contrast between his face and eyes makes me extremely uneasy. As sudden as the blink that ended the staring contest, a bright light dominated the work floor, accompanied by a deafening boom and a ringing silence. I’m on the floor with no memory of being knocked over. All of the other workers are scattered across the factory, forced to the ground by the explosion. I see the machines on the far side of the hall are in flaming ruins. The ringing is persistent and intrusive, blocking any other noise from my eardrums. I see the first man to get up after the sudden destruction. It’s the man with attentive eyes. He pulls something from his ears as he climbs up on top of the assembly line. Shouting and waving his arms, the man seems pressed to get us on our feet, although I have no idea what he’s saying. What I do see are his eyes. Crazed and burning with passionate conviction, his eyes dart from one man to the next as if willing them to rise from the ashes and listen to his sermon.

As the ringing begins to subside and the roar of fire takes its place, a familiar hand grips mine and pulls me to my feet.

Ivan motions to me while speaking. His words were still drowned out by the invasive side effects of the sudden boom. I keep shaking my head, trying to lose the dizziness.

Some of the crazed man’s words start to filter in through the noise. “UP… GO… WITH…” Others around me begin to stand, becoming more coherent with every moment. I train my attention on Ivan, who is now waving frantically toward the wall. My eyes widen as I understand his meaning, but it comes a second too late. Ivan and I are swept up into a crowd of disoriented and frenzied men, spurred on by the man on the assembly line. I cough out the words, “sorry… door… run…” to Ivan. He nods his head fervently, but we are unable to escape the onslaught of factory workers.

The man with the insane eyes continued his speech, and I only now began to listen to it. “...today! Keep on, my comrades. We must turn our attention to the balcony! Go and claim our rightful place in society! The revolution has begun!”

His words inspired passionate roars from the crowd. I almost willingly turned towards the staircase. It didn’t matter anyways, as the men around us pushed the group forward. Among the war cries and coughing, I hear workers praying and repeating the phrase “for my family, for my family” over and over again. Thoughts of my wife and children spring into my head, bringing tears to my eyes. The confusion of the strange and sudden turn of events is almost too much for me to process as the men bang on the metal door on the balcony. I soon found myself standing in the office, unaware of how I got there. As it turns out, the rumors were all false. No oak desk dominated the space, only a simple wooden table with rickety chairs on each side. Three smartly dressed men, now detained by the factory workers, had been sitting and drinking the cheapest of coffee from small tin cups. The walls are bare brick with windows facing the city, which was now covered in darkness. Smoke and fog cause the day to become night, with factory fires sprinkled throughout the industrial districts. I can almost hear the screams of panic and pain. Another push has me stumbling farther into the room as the crowd parts just enough for the Revolutionary (the man on the assembly line) to pass through. The clamoring voices of the workers began to die down, allowing the Revolutionary to speak. My mind still spins at what I saw out of the office window, rendering my ears useless to sound. Mouths move, but I hear no words.

Ivan’s face changes from silent fear and concern to a picture of horror. Before I can process even my own puzzlement, Ivan surges forward through the crowd, finding his nerve. His voice penetrates my shocked mind.

“No! Stop this! Can you not see how wrong this is?”

The Revolutionary pauses before the mature businessman, the object in his hand partially obscured by his body. He smiles and responds, “Pray, tell, friend. Are we so wrong in liberating ourselves?”

UNTITLED, VICTORIA BLOUNT

“In this way, yes. Has this man truly wronged you? What sin has he done to deserve this?”

“What sin? Living! He sits here, reaping the rewards of our hard work and our hours of labor.

He’s never been employed in a factory before!”

“This may be so, but there are those more deserving of this punishment that evade its grasp.”

Only now do I realize the object in the Revolutionary’s hand is a pistol. A firearm meant to topple the hierarchy of business. Of inequality. Of exploitation.