Moved

Delilah’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. It frustrated her. As a Surveyor at the Glass Park, she was meant to look firm. Slightly intimidating. Most of the time, the park was closed off to the public. Countless bottles laid out across the land. Daffodils stood inside; fragile, but incredibly important.

On the first day of spring, the public could come into the park, each person holding their daffodil. As they passed the gate, the daffodils became infused with their owner’s motivation. Every dot of pollen insisted that their owner should ‘be better. Do better.’

Each year, the same procession gathered and dwindled throughout the day. The glass bottles were freshened up, removed in the event of death or added when parents clutched their newborns. Whether the grass stiffened with frost, or the sun bounced off the glass and landed in rainbows that splattered across the concrete; the bottles remained a permanent fixture in her life.

She collapsed her own daffodil, hands going blurry as she stared. She’d read so much about the fragility of petals that she expected the petals of the flower to tremble alongside her. Instead, the pale strips moved only a little; choosing their own rhythm.

Soon, it’d be her turn to put her flower into the glass.

“Got a flower?” A friendly father asked, adjusting the kid on his shoulders. She nodded, holding it up. Still stiff, the petals opened their hands to the sun. The man smiled. “It’s nice to see you again. You were busy last year?”

She cringed. She wasn’t supposed to talk to anybody. She didn’t want to be fired. The park whittled away at her, but it was the best job she’d had. She nodded again.

“And this year.”

She wasn’t lying. People still crowded the gate, even at four o’clock. They had greeted her like usual, eyes on her badge. She understood the wariness.

“Wait,” the man said, breathless as his kid began to fidget. “You don’t have to be alone here, y’know?” She paused, and he, reassured by this, softened his smile. “It can be hard to take on change alone.”

A placid, frosty feeling emptied her – she poured her weight from one foot to the other. “Do you?”

The man examined her face.

“Change, I mean. Do you?”

He grinned. “Course I do. Didn’t like mushrooms last year, but here we are.” He laughed. Delilah frowned. Always, every year, with the jokes. The same routine.

Always.

“No you don’t.”

The man’s expression fell as she walked away. Her badge darkened, hanging off her chest as she bent down. ‘Surveyor,’ glistened next to the park logo, the colours beneath the plastic sun-worn.

“Hey De-lie!” Charlie yelled, jogging over to her. His badge shined as bright as his grin. She gave him a quick wave and spun the flower in her hands. She had never given him permission to call her that.

“Charlie,” she greeted when he was close enough.

“Apparently, there’s a Static in the Glass Park down south,” he told her, his voice a bit too loud. The people surrounding them looked at each other anxiously, grips tightening on their flower stems.

“You probably misheard,” she said curtly. Charlie did have a tendency to
exaggerate.

“No, actually, I’m being serious,” he said with a grin. She never understood the morbid fascination he had with Statics.

When she was little, she heard the word and thought it was Static from the TV, the kind that made your hair stand up all funny. Her parents, her teachers, whispered the word in a tone that implied danger. She approached the TV with caution.

When she found out what it was, she was disappointed. “It’s a person who’s given up, love,” her mum said gently. “‘”A person who wants
everyone else to give up too.”

“What’ve they given up?” she’d asked. She didn’t really understand then, she thought her mum meant someone who wasn’t determined enough to complete a puzzle or something. She couldn’t remember what her mum had said; probably something frustratingly vague. Maybe it was that vagueness that intrigued Charlie. She knew that’s why most
people went for this job.

She was kind of fascinated, kind of excited to meet a Static herself. To stop them in the middle of their path. She’d pictured herself, a calm protector of the flowers, striding over to a Static, clicking the device on her wrist, and placing her hand on their shoulder. The Static
wouldn’t struggle; they would look in her eyes with a resigned expression on their face. They knew it would be for the best.

There they would remain, a statue of a person, frozen there indefinitely. That part of the park would then be sectioned off, and Delilah would be congratulated on doing a fantastic job.

The colours on that fantasy had long since drained. They began to leak last year, when she met an actual Static, and only got worse over time.

“It’s a shame they’re not here, De-lie,” Charlie said, elbowing her side. “You could sort ‘em right out.”

She hummed and tried not to think about it. She’d told him to stop bringing it up, but he thought she was just being modest. He
didn’t realise that she jumped every time she spotted flashes of pink hair in a crowd. Sometimes, when it was too silent, she could hear the Static she froze begging for a second chance.

The worst part was, every time Charlie mentioned it loud enough, the people surrounding them relaxed. Like she wasn’t a threat. Like what she did was a necessary evil.

He looked down at her flower.

“You been assigned to the east side this time or something?” he asked. She nodded, and tried to swallow her dread.
“Man, that sucks.” He patted her on the shoulder. The east side always opened last; most people hated waiting this long. But that wasn’t her problem.

Her problem was the Static from last year, who stood on row eight. She couldn’t stand the thought of putting her flower down while the Static watched. Frozen in place, unable to do anything. Was she in pain? Did she look at Delilah with fear? With rage? Delilah had literally ended her life.

She didn’t even know the woman’s name.

“I should probably come with you so there’s someone actually patrolling there I guess,” he said with a groan. “I mean, they really need to sort these schedules out. Putting staff on the east side? Ridiculous.”

“Yeah that’s a good idea,” she said quickly, trying not to pinch the stem with her nails. Holding the flower delicately was getting to be hard work.

“You alright De-lie?”

“I found her at her own flower,” she blurted out.

Charlie raised his eyebrows.

“The Static?”
“Yeah. I just don’t get why I had to freeze her when she was destroying her own motivation. Isn’t that her business?”

Charlie shrugged. “No man’s an island I guess.”

She sighed. Talking to Charlie was impossible sometimes.

When they reached the top of the hill, she braced herself. In no time at all, she’d spot that familiar silhouette.

The Static.

An electric, smoky smell was the first thing that alerted her to a nearby Static. She hadn’t run there; there was no need to alarm anyone. Instead, she walked very quickly to the eighth row on the east side.
There she was.

A woman with pink hair, staring blankly at her own flower. She watched the petals curl and crinkle until there was just a brown ball left.

“Excuse me,” Delilah had said timidly. Eyebrows drawn in, eyes sharp, she looked at Delilah’s badge.
“This is my own flower,” the woman said. She spoke so quickly, her words nearly jumbled together.

“I know, I know,” she responded automatically. She didn’t know. She had no idea what to do. She stepped forward.

“Don’t!” the woman cried, retreating backwards. Her foot knocked over a glass. It wobbled, and Delilah had to dive forward to stop it from tipping over. The woman shrieked at the sudden movement, cowering with her arms in front of her face.
The flower inside the glass was safe, but she had no idea what to do next. Slowly, the woman lowered her arms as Delilah stood.

“I just want to protect the flowers,” she said, trying to mimic the reassuring tones she’d heard during her training. She desperately tried to remember the next step.

“But not me,” she whispered. Despite her low volume, she said it like it was a fact rather than a question.

It felt like condemnation.
“It’s for the best,” Delilah said weakly, slowly approaching. The woman’s breathing sped up as she looked around. Delilah didn’t know whether she was looking for help, or wanted one last look at the world.

A few of her coworkers blocked the exit. She remembered the next stage of her fantasy. Reaching down to her wrist, she clicked the device.
The ensuing silence was loud.

“Please,” the woman said, crying now. “Please, just give me a chance, I could be better. I won’t hurt anyone, please-” she choked on her breath, hands up by her chest.

Delilah had to freeze her. It was her job.

Shakily, she jogged over the last few steps. She squeezed her eyes shut as she made contact.

Her hand touched the Statics shoulder, just like in her fantasy. The moment she made contact, the crying, the hyperventilating, stopped. The silence rolled out across the park, and even when people began to talk again, she couldn’t hear them.
Without a flower, the wind howled around the Static’s empty glass bottle.

---

As she reached the top of the hill, she reminded herself that all Statics did was crumple daffodils, crumple the motivation of others. She had to stop the Static, no matter how pitiful she seemed.

“I can’t figure you out, y’know,” Charlie said, his tone a touch too casual. He turned away from her, examining the crowd. She had noticed, ever since last year, that the public always stayed at arms length. Just out of reach. “Like, do you pity them or not? You’re always so ‘procedure this, procedure that,’ but then you’ll ask me weird questions after the fact. I can’t figure out what you actually think.”

She closed her eyes and saw that silhouette every day, every night. The Static cowered in a sectioned off part of the field. Everyone avoided it.

Every morning, for three months, she stood at the top of this hill, and stared at the Static’s distant figure. Resentment bubbled in her as the harsh wind stung her cheeks. Why did she have to feel bad just because this woman had given up? Who would be so weak that they’d give up in a Glass Park of all places, where motivation literally bloomed?
Why did she have to remain here, in this park, after being frozen? It made Delilah feel like a vulture, circling her from dawn ‘till dusk every day.

“It’s not a crime to be curious,” she said in the politest tone she could manage. She found that, with her nerves, she had words scrambling up her throat. “Sometimes I expect to come to work and find her gone. I don’t know why.”

Charlie grinned in the way he usually did before he was about to tell a lie.“I’ve seen it, y’know.”

It was said that it’s possible to embrace change when frozen. The brain doesn’t stop, the eyes don’t stop, just the body. Charlie had once told her that he’d watched it – watched someone embrace change and twitch their fingers, taking a jerky step forward after days of stillness.

She shook her head. “You’ve said.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Not with that grin on your face,” she said shortly.

“I think,” he said slowly. “You believe me a little bit. That’s why you keep expecting to find her gone.”

He was partly right. She wanted to believe him. But then again, she desperately didn’t. It would terrify her if the Static moved. She couldn’t imagine it, watching everyone get on with their lives, watching them trust that they could place their will to do better in something as fragile as a dot of pollen. To put this already fragile thing into something as breakable as glass.

“What row are you on?” he asked, looking at her flower instead of her.

“Six.”

He whistled.

“Pretty close to Jenny then,” he said.

“Jenny?”

He pointed at the Static, and her stomach dropped. Jenny was her name. She had ended Jenny’s life.

At the bottom of the hill, gravel paths led down to each row. Delilah quickly examined the sixth row, hoping there would be a spot out of Jenny’s view. There wasn’t. She looked down at her feet.The gravel, spots of orange, white, grey, snapped under her step. She ambled down the row, trying to look relaxed.

She didn’t realise how close she was to Jenny until she spotted her shoelace. Her right shoe’s laces were undone when she was frozen. They would never be tied now.

She came to a standstill. Any further, and she would be in Jenny’s line of sight. This was wrong. It all felt wrong. Her shoulders shook with poorly concealed dread. It would be cruel, to put her flower down, to flaunt her life, her future, in front of somebody with neither.

Not when she had taken both away.

She stood there, feet awkwardly close together, unable to take another step. She smelled it. The wilting.

Nothing changed. Bottles smashed in only so many ways – there was no infinity about it. Flowers drooped and dried every year. Statics showed up every year, and spread their stillness to even the petals.

This year, the smell was distinct. The Static was close. She adjusted her stance, hoping the small movement would help her spring into action. Her tattered white laces flapped as she moved. She inhaled. She had a job to do. A flower crinkled. How did she miss the routine crackling sound? Her eyes swept around the garden.

All around her were wilted flowers. Lifeless, dry things that crumpled helplessly on the bottom of the bottles. The bottles themselves stood proudly to show the evidence, the rainbows on the ground shivering in the suddenly bitter wind.

With wide eyes, Delilah tried to turn to face Jenny.

“De-lie!” Charlie called. She spun around to face him, even though she knew it was a bad idea. He was meant to be a backup. She was meant to apprehend Jenny.

Again.

The idea made her struggle to breathe. He approached slowly, like he was attempting to calm a wild animal.

“De-lie,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. She didn’t know what Jenny was doing, but his fear heightened hers. “What’re you doing?” That much was obvious to her. Nothing.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered, reaching down to his wrist. He hesitated before he clicked it.His hesitation gave her courage. She finally turned to face the Static. But Jenny cowered like she always did, arms up by her chest. Her eyes were bloodshot, wide with fear, just like the day she was frozen.

“What?” Delilah whispered, mostly to herself. Charlie looked up anyway, with a guilty expression on his face. He’d never looked so small to her, nails digging into his wrist as he tried to keep
his hand steady. The gravel crunched under his feet.

“This wasn’t me,” she said quickly, taking a step back. He swallowed.

“Don’t,” he said, voice wobbling. “Don’t talk, please.” Charlie was going to freeze her. Of course he was.

She wasn’t Delilah anymore, she was a Static.Just another task to take care of in the park; something to be done with before she crushed hundreds of flowers.

She thought about begging like Jenny did. But she knew, from her own
experience, that that did nothing. A foggy hope came back to her. Something she desperately wanted Jenny to say to her.

His hand was getting closer. She could see the dirt under his nails.

“It’s for the best,” she whispered. Charlie had an iron grip on his arm as he placed his hand on her shoulder. She thought for a second that he was shaking too much for it to work.But then, she felt it. In her fingers first. They were frigid, stiff. She couldn’t move.

Frozen. She was frozen.

A large crowd surrounded them, blocking Charlie’s exit. She couldn’t remember if her freezing Jenny was such a big spectacle.

She wondered how the crowd couldn’t see how sickly Charlie looked. Maybe they just credited it to adrenaline.

After some tape was put around her, the audience dispersed.

The rainbows swivelled around the bottles as the day sped on.

People passed, and looked. Some with concerned lips, others in wilful ignorance–she only saw their profiles, or the backs of their heads.

Bottles filled with brilliant yellow petals gazed defiantly at the sun.

If she strained her eyes, she could occasionally see Charlie standing on the top of the hill. She wondered if he resented her yet.

“Mummy, look!” a little boy said, pointing at her. “Jenny has a friend!”

The mum nodded and eagerly leaned forward.

“Now she won’t be lonely,” she said seriously. He shuffled closer to his mum.

“Maybe they’re sisters,” he said shyly. “I still haven’t thought of a last name for Jenny yet.”

The mum scooped him up in her arms.

“Told you last year she can’t have ours, son,” she said. He grumbled and snuggled up to her. “You’ll get a sister soon enough.”

Delilah would’ve frowned if she could. A last name? How did they know Jenny’s first name and not her last?

“My sister can name the other one, then,” he mumbled. The mum smiled. It took Delilah a full minute to recognise that she was ‘the other one’.

“Might be a while before she can talk, honey. Tell you what, how about you name the other one, and she can come up with a last name?”

The boy examined Delilah as she thought about her future. She would still be here when that unborn girl would have learned to talk. When that little boy was old enough to be embarrassed by motherly affection.
That stretch of time seemed much longer to her than the word that was used in training to describe the freezing process. ‘Indefinitely’.

“Rebecca! Rebecca and Jenny! They can be stepsisters!”
Delilah’s heart sank. There it was, definite confirmation. ‘Jenny’ wasn’t even the woman’s real name.

And now, frozen, she would never learn her real name. The woman whose life she ended. The woman she stood next to as her own life was abruptly stopped.

Charlie was back on the hill, greeting mother and son. He was always good with kids, being a bit of a kid himself. She could hear him approach on the gravel – he didn’t call out to her. He paused, standing next to her. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel his presence.

“I know what you mean now. Every time I’m on that hill I keep expecting you to turn around and wave at me.” He laughed to himself, but it sounded fake. “I know you’re quiet normally but God this is weird. I-” he cut himself off. A few minutes later, he was called away.

Not a finger twitched as the sky’s blue melted away with the day’s heat. A rosy pink and faint orange nudged its way up the skyline, spreading comfortably over the house roofs. He returned to her side. He just stood there, silently.

The glass in the dusk adopted a romantic tone. Thousands of bottles glowed with passionate promise – to be better; to do better.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I don’t know whether what I did was right. To you, I mean. This whole thing.” He was silent for a few seconds.

“Everything’s changing all the time, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “It always changes, but I don’t even know if the changes matter. If anything matters. God, De-lie, I don’t know.”

It was strange hearing him be so serious. She had always considered him to be ridiculously young for the job. What was more strange was that his confusion made them equal in her mind. Like he had just now reached maturity.

He stood there until the first star could be spotted in the sky. She wondered if he was cold. If he would be cold in the morning.

There was a way to tell, a local phrase that she couldn’t quite remember. She wished she could, so he would have some certainty about the changes he would have to grapple with.

“I should go home,” he whispered. “Goodnight, De-lie. Please don’t be here when I come back tomorrow.”

Red sky at night, shepherds delight. Her head started pounding as the syllables clawed up her throat. Red sky at morning…

“If you are here tomorrow,” he said softly. “I’ll keep coming here. To keep you company.”

He paused. “I will,” he repeated. “I understand now. I do. You’re still Delilah to me. I get the questions now.” When she didn’t respond, he sighed. “I don’t wanna treat you like a Static. You can still change,” he insisted. “You’re still capable, at least to me. Doesn’t that matter? Even if only I see you that way, doesn’t that still make you a person who
can get better?”

She always thought that giving up defied the definition of living. But both she and Jenny were still alive enough; at the very least alive enough to be conscious of the time passing.

“I’m gonna leave now, and you’re not gonna be here tomorrow,” he said firmly, as if he could will it into being. “You’re gonna get better.”
She appreciated his naivety. As if it was just some illness. Strangely, it gave her strength.

After he left, she tried to remember the names of constellations to pass the time. The stars blinked above her, and dimmed as the morning approached. If she could’ve she would’ve jumped when something brushed her hands. It was something warm. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted it.

‘Jenny’s’ fingers. Touching her own.

Her heart thumped as she listened for further movement. Hours passed, and all she heard was the rustling of bushes and the sounds of birds waking up. She wondered, after a while, if that’s where her fingers were all along. If she imagined the movement.

Then, she heard teeth clack together. Several times. As if someone was practising moving their jaw.

“That boy is very nice,” said a familiar voice. ‘Jenny’s’ voice. She took a loud deep breath, as if she was revelling in her own noise. “God it feels so good to stretch!” Delilah’s throat swelled with all the words she wanted to say. Begging for forgiveness, bitterness, terror; anything.

“I don’t know either, Delilah. Whether what you or he did was right. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.” She stepped into view. Tear tracks were still on her face, but her eyes were less bloodshot already. “Or about this,” she continued, wiggling her fingers. “Don’t know how it happened, but I’m not about to question good things.”

A group of seagulls screamed as they flew overhead, a young one struggling to keep up with the group. They both watched in silence.
“It’s human to give up, Delilah,” she said finally. “You’d know, you’re still alive in there.” She poked Delilah’s forehead. “It’s human. You’re alive. Even if you don’t want to be, you are.”

Delilah wanted to smack her for stating the obvious. She wasn’t stupid. “I’m saying this because I don’t know when or even if you’ll get to break out of, um,” she gestured at Delilah. “That. And people won’t treat you like you’re there, even if they mean well. But you are.”

A figure on the hill raced towards them. Even obscured by the bright orange light of early morning, Delilah could tell that it was Charlie.

“De-lie!” he yelled as he reached the bottom.

‘Jenny’ shook her head. “Name’s Miriam, actually,” she said. Devastation and hope flickered across his face so quickly Delilah barely even
recognised him.

“I knew it could happen,” he whispered reverently. “I knew it.”