Seeing Red

by Sonja Faul

If fear had an odour, Violet would reek of it. I can’t smell her fear, but I see it. It’s written across her face and in her white-knuckled grip on the door. I notice her broken fingernails and the blood underneath them. Her voice is rough and strained when she speaks, barely a whisper.

“Are you Emily?”

I nod. A quick sideways glance confirms that nobody sees me entering the apartment. There are no security cameras because the Elite wanted to create a liberated society, free from the constraints of constant surveillance. Their fierce need for privacy works in our favour. She closes the door behind me and locks it.

I need to assess two things: firstly, whether she’s a victim and not part of a trap, and secondly, the extent of her injuries so I can treat them to the best of my ability. Then, I’ll deal with the problem — the primary reason for my presence. I search the apartment to secure it. Traps by the Elite are rare, but I have to be careful. The apartment is the “luxury model,” the smallest housing option available. The open-plan living room and kitchen, lavishly furnished, lead into a bedroom with an ensuite bathroom.

Lottery winners, myself included, live in these apartments. Political and social pressure forced the Elite to adopt a more inclusive approach, which led to the creation of the lottery system. It gives “ordinary people” the opportunity to join the Elite on Mars, all expenses paid. Although, we don’t call it Mars; we call it Red.

When I return from the bedroom, Violet is standing in the kitchen. She looks lost and frail, hugging herself. I catch the faint smell of urine, but there are no visible traces on her legs or the floor — she must have cleaned it up. All the signs point to NFS (non-fatal strangulation). I approach her, placing my medical bag on the floor.

My voice is warm but firm. “I’ve been informed of the details of your situation. There’s no need for you to explain what happened.” She blinks, and I continue.

“This only works if you answer my questions truthfully and directly. No bullshit.” She nods in agreement, sparing her voice.

“To avoid legal repercussions, you must follow my instructions precisely. If you don’t, you will be sent back to Blue.”

She looks confused.

I clarify, “You’ll be sent back to Earth.”

The legal system on Red isn’t so much a set of laws as a set of guidelines. The Elite altered the vocabulary. They have a particular fondness for euphemisms. As on Blue, any form of violence is strictly prohibited. If a death occurs as a result of an accident, someone must still be held accountable. Violet will pay the price, even if she is the victim.

There are no prisons on Red, only detention centres. Violet will be put on the first voyage back to Blue at her own expense. Upon arrival, she’ll be processed and sentenced without a trial. I’ve heard the prisoners despise people from Red. She’ll have a target on her back; they’ll see her as wealthy and untouchable. The irony is that she’ll have a ton of debt and no means to repay it.

I open my bag and slip on a pair of latex gloves.

“May I examine your neck?” Years as a medical professional have taught me the importance of consent in these situations. Asking for permission restores the victim’s sense of control. She nods.

“Can you describe your pain for me?”

Red strangulation marks coil around her delicate neck like a serpent. There are scratch marks too, likely self-inflicted as she clawed at her skin in a bid to stay alive. She raises her hand to indicate her neck but refrains from touching the bruises.

“My neck is on fire. It’s itching and burning. My voice sounds strange, and my throat hurts when I swallow.”

I nod. “The pain in your neck is normal. The bruising will fade in a few weeks, and your voice will return to its usual pitch. I’ll disinfect the scratches to ensure they heal properly and minimise scarring. Pain with breathing and swallowing is also common. Are you having difficulty breathing?”

“No, but it’s painful when I breathe,” she croaks.

I nod again. “That’s normal. It’s a good sign that you can breathe without difficulty.” I smile to put her at ease.

When I touch her, she winces. I examine her neck and gently rotate it. Next, I check her eyes. Her left one has a broken blood vessel. It looks alarming, but it’s harmless.

“Shouldn’t you be—”

I cut her off.

“You are my priority. He”—I point to the body on the floor without looking away from her—“can wait.”

I don’t find any permanent damage to her larynx or trachea. Of course, I can’t be sure without the proper scans, but that’s not an option right now. I’ll schedule an appointment for her at the hospital next week. She flinches as I disinfect the wounds and apply a soothing ointment.

The silence between us grows heavy, and she feels the need to fill it.

“He has never done this before. I would have… I would have left him.” I’m not surprised that Violet is defending her husband, nor am I judging her choice to stay.

I say, “You don’t have to explain.”

Satisfied with the care of her strangulation wounds, I ask, “May I examine the rest of your body?”

She nods.

“May I remove your dress, if you’re comfortable with that?” 

She hesitates before turning her back to me. I unzip her dress, and the torn designer fabric slides off her shoulders, pooling around her feet. She turns back to face me.

I suppress a gasp. Her torso is a palette of bruises—some old, some new—black, purple, blue, green, and yellow. Her husband was clever; he hadn’t touched her face or limbs where the signs of abuse would be visible. No, he confined the abuse to her torso, carefully avoiding detection. Pink and white ridges protrude from her porcelain skin, cut marks on her upper arms and thighs, some deeper than others. All of them have healed; none are new.

“Are those cut marks?” I keep my voice gentle.

“Yes. He used to cut me.” She quickly adds, “It only happened a few times and not recently.”

She’s defending him again. I don’t point out that he’s escalated to strangulation.

“You don’t have to explain,” I repeat.

I’m curious how she managed to pass the rigorous medical and psychological tests that lottery winners are subjected to. He likely stopped the abuse long enough for her to pass the examinations. An “unfortunate accident” could’ve explained the cut marks. Lottery winners with psychological or medical problems immediately forfeit their tickets to Red. The same screening process doesn’t apply to the Elite.

I reach for my stethoscope and press the tips into my ears. Placing the diaphragm on her chest, I say “Take a few deep breaths.” Her jaw tightens and there’s visible tension in her facial muscles. It’s painful for her to breathe.

  Between deep breaths, she asks, “How long have you lived on Mars?” I can tell she hasn’t fully integrated yet. Nobody calls it Mars, but I don’t correct her.

“It’s been ten years, not counting the journey here.” That takes approximately eight months.

“Were you a doctor back on Earth?” Again, I let it go.

“I was. When I arrived on Red, my assigned service was as an Integration Coordinator. My responsibility was to facilitate the transition of new arrivals from Blue to Red.”

Lottery winners have to work, the Elite do not. The word “job” is replaced with the euphemism assigned service. We don’t earn wages; we earn our keep. The standard of living here is impossibly high - the finest cuisine, designer clothing and the best medical care.

I continue, “And then the coroner died, and I was selected to replace him because of my medical background.” This places me in a unique position to help victims gain access to medical services and supplies. I understand the fluid nature of Red’s guidelines and how to bend them in favour of those who need it.

I return the stethoscope to my bag. Her breathing sounds normal, meaning there are no obstructions in her larger airways. I continue to examine her, gently applying pressure with my fingertips to her abdomen.

I say, “Let me guess: back on Blue, your husband was a pilot.”

She looks surprised. “How did you know?”

“He’s wearing his aviator wings.” My guess is he works as a garbage man on Red. Pilots are often assigned to waste management. The waste that cannot be recycled is collected and disposed of at the waste management plant, far beyond the colony limits. They need pilots for the transportation.

I continue, “I’m not sure about you.”

I gesture to the insects encased in resin blocks displayed around the apartment — butterflies, beetles, scorpions and spiders. It’s a clever way to bring animals to Red. It’s the only way. Live animals are strictly prohibited.

“Perhaps you were an entomologist?”

She giggles, but it sounds more like a raspy cough. Her eyebrows knit together as she frowns. “No, I was a stewardess,” she says, pointing to the resin blocks on the shelf. “I just have a thing for bugs. I used to collect them on all my work trips.”

A knock on the door startles us. Violet holds her breath, covering her mouth with her hands, while I freeze in place. I tilt my head to listen more carefully. There’s a loud thump, followed by a grunt, but no further knocks. I check my wrist to confirm the time. Relief washes over me when I realise it’s the nourishment grant. Food is delivered twice a week, but they usually don’t knock: everyone knows the schedule. It must be trainees unfamiliar with the etiquette.

“It’s just the nourishment grant,” I say. Violet drops her hands and breathes a sigh of relief.

I’ve done everything I can for her, medically speaking.

“You can get dressed,” I say. Instead of reaching for the torn dress, she opts for a silk robe hanging by the front door. As she slips it on, the lights in the apartment dim. The central lighting on Red operates on an automated cycle to mimic day and night.

I shift my attention to the pilot. The scarf he used to strangle her is still wrapped around his gloved hand. I can’t see any scratch marks on his neck or face. A tailored jacket and collared shirt protected his torso and arms, while leather gloves shielded his hands. He was protected and prepared. There is no doubt in my mind that the attack was premeditated.

As I bend over his body, the pungent smell of alcohol hits my nostrils. Alcohol isn’t prohibited; it’s just difficult to come by. Premium liquor is a vice the Elite indulge in, while the lottery winners get the leftovers. The nearly empty bottle of tequila on the counter is not premium.

Violet moves closer to watch me as I examine her husband. Despite everything he has done, the look on her face remains hopeful. She wants him to be alive. I observe his chest closely, then place my forefinger and middle finger on the carotid artery in his throat to feel for a pulse. It confirms what I already know. I keep my expression neutral as I look up into her anxious face, shaking my head. Violet bursts into tears, staggers backwards, and collapses onto the couch as her knees give way. Her face is covered in tears and snot and spit.

I examine the injuries to his head. There is blunt force trauma to his left temple where she struck him and bruising on the right side where it connected with the floor when he fell. I can’t find any open wounds, which works in our favour. His body shows no signs of a struggle because hers bears them all.

Next to the body is a large resin block, bigger than the others in the apartment. Violet used this block to defend herself, to break free from his iron grip and render him unconscious. The size and shape are consistent with the bruising pattern on his temple. I look closer to see what’s inside the resin. It’s not another insect, but a perfectly preserved wasps’ nest, its spherical shape encased in the polymer.

I straighten, walk over to where Violet is sitting, and take both her hands in mine. I force her to look at me; eye contact is crucial.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” I say, holding her gaze. “You’re going to clean yourself up, get dressed, and cover the bruises and scratches on your neck. Then, you’ll leave the apartment and go down to Galaxy Bistro to meet a member of our community. You’ll enjoy a meal or a beverage and stay there until you’re instructed to leave. When you return, you’ll find your husband unconscious on the floor. It’ll look like he had too much to drink, hit his head, and fell. You’ll rush to his side and try to resuscitate him. Finally, you’ll call emergency services. After he’s pronounced dead at the scene, the body will be taken directly to the morgue, where I’ll rule his death accidental.”

I continue, “There might be a few questions about your whereabouts, but since you were with a friend in a public place at the time of death, there shouldn’t be any trouble.”

I squeeze her hands. “Do you understand?”

Violet is still in shock, but I see the information sinking in. Something inside her shifts; a switch flips and she understands what she has to do. After she leaves to clean herself up, I collect the food from the hallway and place the container on the kitchen counter.

When she emerges from the bathroom, she looks lovely. She has covered the strangulation marks with makeup and a beautiful scarf. Her nails are cut short and scrubbed clean. The irony is that her body and soul are broken beneath the designer clothes.

She hugs me and whispers, “Thank you, Emily.” There’s no need for more words; I can feel her gratitude in the embrace.

“You’re part of our community now,” I say. “We take care of each other.”

She smiles, pulls her shoulders back, and leaves the apartment without looking at her husband. I lock the door behind her; what I’m about to do requires extra privacy.

Crouching behind the pilot’s head, I plant my feet shoulder-width apart. Hooking my arms underneath his armpits, I lift his upper body. He is heavy, but I manage to drag him a few centimetres at a time. I only need to move him two metres to the kitchen. With effort and speed, I position his body to make it look as though he hit his head on the edge of the kitchen counter. I must work quickly, as he could regain consciousness at any moment.

I reach for my medical bag and pull it closer. I find a small vial of clear liquid — an opioid stronger than fentanyl. At the same time, I grab a syringe and tear open the sealed packet. I remove the protective cap from the vial and push the needle through the centre of the rubber stopper. Pulling back the plunger, I draw the liquid into the syringe. I drop the vial into my bag and tap the syringe to remove the air.

I pull down his trousers to expose one buttock. With the syringe pointed in the direction of blood flow, I inject the needle at a shallow angle into a vein. I pull the plunger back until blood appears, then slowly press down, releasing the opioid into his bloodstream.

I want to spit in his face, kick and beat him with the same force he used to strangle his wife, but I can’t. Instead, reality clubs me over the head, and I collapse onto the floor, unable to keep my emotions in check. I yank the scarf from his hand, squeezing it into a ball. I’ve just taken a life. I sit with that thought for a while, tears stinging my eyes and guilt piercing my heart. It wasn’t my first time, nor will it be my last. But this time, I allow myself to bear the full weight of my actions. My chest tightens, my heart pounds, and the crushing heaviness of anxiety wraps around my ribs. My breaths are shallow, my mind foggy. I curl into the foetal position and let the rage and grief wash over me in waves.

An hour passes before I manage to pull myself up from the floor, feeling exhausted yet somehow lighter. My resolve kicks in, and I form a mental checklist of everything I need to do — remove his gloves, press his fingers on the glass, wipe down the resin block, return it to the shelf, and eliminate every trace of my presence in the apartment. The community needs to be updated, including our contact in emergency services who will respond to the call.

I check his pulse, but this time, there is none.