Tabula Rasa

They journey had been long and there was nothing to see in those stifling tunnels. He had finished his book after the first few hours; a cheap mass-produced propaganda piece about a brave soldier fighting for his country in the North. It never mentioned why they were fighting. Eyes adjusting, he squinted at the grey sky, the grey buildings and the grey people. The city the same as when he left - a little grubbier perhaps, a little more tired. He bought a cup of coffee at a newscafé; stood eyeing the headlines while it was disgorged. Victory Declared in the North, Valiant Heroes to Return Home. He didn't feel valiant. His eyes noticed a man standing on the opposite side of the road while his brain caught up. An old colleague, from his time at the bank. They used to have him and his wife over for dinner. He tried to remember his name, as their eyes caught while his colleague crossed the road. The other set of eyes imperceptibly widened in surprise, before slathering a slippery smile across his lips. They exchanged pleasantries, before his old acquaintance excused himself and hurried down into the metro, like a man talking to a grieving widow, not wanting to spend long in the airs of their misfortunes. He never knew how Johnson managed to avoid the draft, connections he supposed. He crossed the road himself and started the 12 blocks to his apartment. Concrete pavement met concrete road met concrete residential slabs. Air whistled between the buildings and threw up the fine dust that they shed, evidence of a decaying city. It had been a long time since he had heard from his wife. All communication from the front was censored, which in effect meant that it got annihilated in the gnashing gears of bureaucracy. He wondered if she got the money he sent, the letters, the love. He passed shuttered shop after shuttered shop - only the ubiquitous newscafés seemed to be still operating, vending their sweet coffee and bitter words. The streets were almost empty, only a few stray dogs and stray children roamed the recreational zones, placed every four blocks. He entered into the foyer of one of the concrete monoliths, churches to efficiency and bureaucratic power. The front desk, manned by a porter when he left, was empty. The chair tipped onto it's back like some defeated beast.The red tiles were rendered a murky orange under the layers of dust and dirt blown in through the swinging door. Leaves clattered and chatted in the corner as the wind scurrilously entered on his tail. The elevator was out of order so he slung his duffel higher on his back and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, sweat starting to bead under his heavy coat. Turning off onto his corridor, his heart palpitated with the excitement of a thousand imagined reunions. He approached his door and his hand trembled as he inserted the key. The lock didn't turn and a man answered within.