PURPOSE

Everyone is supposed to have a purpose in life. I lost mine when I was twenty-five, right after graduating from college. Of course, there’s the purpose of being a daughter and sister to loved ones, but nothing personal, nothing that feels like my own. Now I’m thirty-three, and I still have no idea what the hell I’m doing as the clock ticks in the background, counting away my youth.

I once knew what my purpose was. I dreamed of becoming an architect. High school teachers killed that dream. Despite their efforts to break my spirit, I held my ground. I found purpose in studying languages instead. I finished school successfully and went to college. I think my disillusionment began there. I believed that once I graduated, things would improve and I would find my place in society. I was wrong. The pervasive feeling of having no direction only grew stronger.

I’m an immigrant living in Gaul. Gauls have made sure to remind me of that my entire life. At first, I was too young and inexperienced for a serious job. When I was finally old enough and hardened by disappointment, it turned out my experience — and my degree — still weren’t enough. The truth is my nationality was the real obstacle.

I was fired from my last job for being antisocial. Maybe I am. Gauls beat most social skills out of me long ago. As a child and teenager, I faced exclusion. As I grew older, I got used to it and stopped craving interaction. Frankly, now that I’m older, I don’t want anything in common with them. The only people I speak to are my parents and siblings. Still, only a Scythe living in the West could be sacked on such flimsy grounds. Firing someone for being antisocial is illegal in Gaul, but unions can turn a blind eye when it’s one of us. I fought the decision every way I could. It changed nothing. Now I carry that slur my ex-boss branded me with.

Thankfully, the long-awaited collapse of the United States of Gomora brought chaos across the West. The pristine haughtiness of the West took a serious hit. Local authorities became less picky about hiring because they had bigger problems: public disobedience, violence, strikes. They needed trustworthy people to keep administrations running, and such people were hard to find in the current climate. The collapse laid bare a brutal truth: the system had been brainwashing and exploiting people for generations. That realisation hit young people hardest, sparking riots, defiance, and refusal to obey authority. If you had no criminal record and weren’t on the domestic revolutionaries and terrorists list, you were hired. No experience, no degree, no social skills required. Even religion and ethnicity no longer mattered.

So, after long months of unemployment, I found work. As a police officer. No joke. I saw the vacancy, applied, was interviewed, and got the job — all within two days. I was the least qualified applicant: too small, too thin, too weak, too inexperienced. But I was the only one willing to work in that district and office for the salary they offered. At first, they hesitated, but when they learned I was a hyperglot, they told me to start the next day.

My job never extended beyond the walls of the police station. I handled reception, registered offenders, and doubled as janitor. I was the sole servant in a nearly abandoned office. Serious criminals and troublemakers stayed in bigger cities, so there was almost no flow of arrests. I saw colleagues once or twice a week when they brought in drunks arrested for public debauchery or young delinquents who had fought teachers or peers. That was why they needed me: I spoke languages and could communicate with foreign kids who didn’t trust Gauls or hadn’t mastered the local dialect.

Like real officers, I had a uniform, my own locker, and even a gun. I carried it mainly for the illusion of invincibility when walking home at night, though I knew it was false. After training I realised I would never use it — the potential for irreparable harm was too great, and my hands shake too much. That probably also explains why I still haven’t got over the psychological barrier to getting a driving licence.

Overall, the situation suited me. At least I no longer had a racist boss bullying me. Most days I studied or read, my mind drifting away while my body stayed behind, watching dust settle over my life layer by layer. Still, I clung to the dream of saving enough to leave and return to Scythia. My real life, I told myself, was waiting in the future, and my future was in Scythia.

I was convinced the years would slip by like that, each day blending into the next, every hour erased from memory because nothing meaningful happened. Until one day in December — just before Catholic Christmas — I was violently pulled out of my limbo.

Employers were eager to hire foreigners because we would work holidays while locals celebrated at home. My boss didn’t even ask if I wanted time off; he simply emailed my December schedule. I didn’t mind — they paid double for those days.

That day started like any other winter morning. I met no one on my walk to work; autumn and winter were the quietest months in villages like ours. The few young people left early for jobs elsewhere, while the elderly stayed indoors, nursing aching joints by the stove.

Nothing was supposed to happen. No one around to start trouble, no reason for it. Everything was peaceful until the main door slammed open, startling me out of my doze. I heard shouting and commotion in the entrance hall. A man yelled, “Resistance is a way of life!” Moments later Shaheed — my patrol colleague — shoved a handcuffed man through the office door.

I froze when I saw Shaheed’s face: red, blood streaming from his nose. Shaheed was a hot-tempered Musulman who hated Gauls more than I did. I had seen him abuse detainees before. Giving that man a gun always struck me as a bad idea. Sooner or later, something terrible would happen.

“Alex! Wake up! I have a visitor for you from Albion!” Shaheed grunted, wiping blood on his sleeve. He grabbed the arrested man by the shoulder and forced him into the chair in front of me.

“Register this Anglo-Saxon pig and lock him up. We’ve got free cells, don’t we?”

“Of course, we do,” I snorted, trying – and failing – to ease the tension. “They already transferred the guy you brought in last Friday. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. This idiot just walked up and punched me in the face. Nearly broke my nose. I think he’s mad.”

“Resistance is a way of life!” the Anglo-Saxon shouted again. Shaheed struck his shoulder, muttering something in Fârsi.

“Why bring him here then? What if he hurts himself — or me?” I exclaimed.

“Because the madhouse was closed,” Shaheed barked.

He tossed the man’s ID and wallet onto my desk, grabbed tissues from the counter, and stormed out, leaving me alone with the deranged Albion man.

As I looked up his file, I studied him carefully. Tall, slender, with reptilian features: sharp cheekbones, pointed chin, grey-green eyes whose pupils looked slightly elongated in the light. I shuddered when I caught him staring back — and when he smiled, his face reminded me of a satyr.

“Mister John Smith. Is that your real name?”

“Oh, you speak Anglo-Saxon? No one here understands more than a few phrases. It’s so nice to hear the mother tongue again — especially with such a cute accent,” he grinned, showing his teeth.

“You didn’t answer my question, Mister Smith,” I replied coolly.

“It’s the name Mummy and Daddy gave me, Officer … Yazarova,” he said, leaning forward to read my nameplate.

The way he lingered on Mummy made me uneasy — there was something lewd in the softness of his voice.

“I’m asking because it’s such a common name. Even outside Albion people know that. We don’t get many Anglo-Saxons here. Yet here you are, arrested for assaulting an officer. Your file says you’re a thief — one Gaul authorities have been trying to catch for years. So, either you took a false name because you’re on the run from Albion, or you’re a spy,” I concluded, watching him.

His clothes weren’t suited to the season: tight black trousers and a purple shirt, no jacket or coat.

“I don’t think you’re a local either, Officer Ya-za-ro-va,” he said, emphasising each syllable. “What are the odds we’re both spies?”

I couldn’t suppress a smile — then instantly regretted it and hardened my expression. He was a felon and had punched Shaheed without fear of consequences. I didn’t want him thinking I was on his side or an easy target.

“Okay, Mister Smith. Follow me to your cell — and don’t make me use the taser.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Officer. I’m a good boy,” he said, those obscene undertones lingering in my mind longer than I wanted.

I led him to the cell block. It was freezing there. Gauls were stingy; if they could save on heating, they did — even at the cost of health. There was a radiator, but a plastic ring under the cap prevented it from being turned up. Smith was a conman, but he didn’t deserve to freeze just because Gauls wanted to shrink their ecological footprint.

In the locker room I grabbed a pillow, two blankets, and a coat. I apologised for the cold and explained I couldn’t fix it. I removed his handcuffs and passed the items through the bars. He deliberately brushed his bony fingers against my skin as he took them, thanking me.

Back at my desk I continued reading his file. It revealed little new. Smith had arrived in Gaul three years earlier. His background was unknown; his criminal activity seemed to begin upon arrival. His speciality: jewellery and art theft. His victims included many famous and influential names — though few deserved to be called victims.

The radio played old songs, occasionally interrupted by news. I usually turned down the volume when the anchor’s voice came on. This time I caught a report of a shooting in a nearby town, followed by a forecast of a sharp temperature drop that night. It prompted me to check on the detainee.

Smith was asleep on the bench, face to the wall, wrapped in the blankets I had given him. I fetched pliers from the utility room and pried the plastic ring off the radiator cap. After some effort I removed it, turned the heat up, and gathered the broken pieces. I would glue them back together and replace the ring before my boss noticed.