Truth, in Plain Sight Hidden
by Wendy Nikel
It's election day and every electronic device registered to me is beeping in one-minute intervals. They chirp with the urgency of a fire alarm, a persistent reminder for me to do my civic duty. Ignored, they'll start chirping every thirty seconds, then every fifteen, until by the end of the day, they become nothing more than a constant, metallic screech, until 9:00, when the polls close.
Then at 9:01--the Rewrite.
My tablet screen flashes, begging for my attention. Just thinking of it makes me sick. Makes my eyes feel swollen from last night's lack of sleep and the residual grief of the past three months. I take Julie's picture off the wall, remove it from the frame and set it on the table, face-down.
But first, coffee. Chirp. Hair. Chirp. Makeup. Chirp. Shoes. Chirp.
The beeping is maddening. Apparently, 85% of the population votes within twenty minutes of the first chirp. I used to be part of that majority. Responsible. Punctual. Reliable. The kind of woman who'd never be late for a lunch date with her sister. Never--until that one time I was.
My tablet's still flashing when I sit down with my boiled egg and orange juice. It's still flashing when I set the glass and plate in the sink. It's still flashing when I glance at the cuckoo clock--the one Julie had bought in Germany for her fortieth birthday--and realize that if I don't vote soon, I'm going to be late for work. Ted gave us an extra hour this morning, making it clear that he didn't want to hear a single chirp after our late start.
I sit at the table with the tablet before me, next to her photograph and a pen. I close my eyes, remembering vividly the sting of smoke in my eyes and throat, the pandemonium that muted my scream: "Julie!"
The tablet chirps one last time, and I press my thumbprint to the screen.
Part I is simple, relatively. Select a representative. Vote YES or NO. Approve a new budget. The screen vibrates gently beneath my finger, confirming each input. This portion will be printed in duplicate--one sheet mailed to me, one sheet filed away in the government archives, to verify that my vote was counted.
"Ready for Part II?" the screen asks.
I flip over Julie's picture, torn between wanting to forget and wanting to commit each of those moments into some deeper, hidden place in my memory. Somewhere the Rewrite can't destroy it. Am I ready? No.
But the cuckoo clock is ticking noisily, and I can't afford to be late for work again. Ted was patient with me, those weeks afterward, but I know that, for my sake, he's looking forward to the polls closing, to the Rewrite that will wipe so much clean.
"Thanks to Rewrite Corp technology," the tablet screen reads, "we now have the opportunity to remove from our collective memory some of the most harmful and divisive memories of the past year. Please select up to five national, regional, or local incidences that you believe should be rewritten to preserve peace and unity within our communities and nation. Upon the closure of the polls, a Rewrite Pulse will be sent out, effectively eliminating any neurological record or electronic references to the event."
