Sally Richards #4

A Prison of Fear

Sally Richards stood at the window, staring at the street, now as empty as her classroom.

Not a sole on the street, not a single student in her classroom.

At first, they had dropped out slowly, one by one.

Some had emailed her, apologizing, whispering that they were scared.

Others had simply vanished.

By the end of the week, every seat was empty.

She had stood in front of the vacant desks, the silence pressing down on her like an ocean.

For twenty-five years, she had dedicated herself to this job.

To her students.

Two short weeks ago the neighborhood had been lively, filled with morning joggers, children riding their bikes, and elderly couples walking their dogs.

Sally used to wake up to the sound of sprinklers, passing cars, the occasional lawnmower buzzing in the distance.

Now, the street was silent, cold.

No one was outside, no one wanted to be seen walking by or even looking at her house.

Sally had always believed that silence was a choice.

In history, the worst atrocities weren’t committed in secret—they were done in broad daylight, while good people looked the other way.

She had taught this for years.

She had lectured students about how easy it was for ordinary citizens to become complicit, how regimes thrived on cowardice.

She just never thought she’d live to experience it herself.

Across the street, Mary Wilson’s front door opened.

Sally’s heart leapt before she could stop herself.

She hadn’t seen Mary in days.

Not since the night she had come over with the casserole.

Mary stepped onto her porch, glancing around like a woman checking for predators.

For a brief second, their eyes met.

Sally raised a hand.

Mary’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something.

Then she turned away.

Sally’s arm dropped to her side.

She understood.

Two days ago, Mary’s twelve-year-old daughter had been followed on her way to school.

Three men—grown men—had walked behind her, laughing, jeering, calling her a “commie-loving professor’s pet.”

The little girl had turned around and ran home crying.

Mary had taken her back inside, locked the doors, and pulled the curtains shut.

That had been the last time she saw Mary.

Sally turned away from the window.

She didn’t blame Mary.

She didn’t blame any of them.

The neighbors who used to smile at her now avoided eye contact.

No one offered quiet words of support.

The message was clear: You are on your own.

She thought back to a lecture she had once given, years ago, about the rise of fascism in the 1930s.

She had told her students that when fear took root in a community, it didn’t turn people into monsters.

It turned them into bystanders.

She wondered how many of those students were now watching her downfall from afar.

She wondered if they recognized history repeating itself.

          ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The chanting started at dusk.

It always did.

She braced herself as she heard the first voices rise in unison.

At first, it had been five men.

Then ten.

Then twenty.

Now, they filled the entire sidewalk across from her house.

They carried signs and tiki torches.

They weren’t drunk.

They weren’t rowdy.

They were organized.

They sang.

Not crude songs, not drunken shouts, but patriotic anthems, twisted into something else.

Their voices swelled, drowning out everything, a wall of mocking, triumphant noise.

She had tried calling the police only to find it a useless waste of time.

The officer had sighed, exasperated, and countered her plea, “They’re on public property, ma’am. First Amendment rights.”

“They’re harassing me,” she had said, gripping the phone.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have taught wokeness and pissed off so many people.” he said as he laughed and hung up.

Sally had tried to block it out.

She turned on the TV, the radio, anything—but the singing always cut through, making the walls of her home feel paper thin.

As she paced back and forth in her living room she thought about moving

furniture to block her front door, but her windows offered her no real protection.

          ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Sally found her car tires slashed.

Again.

The first time, she had stood in the driveway, staring at the gaping wounds in the rubber, trying to make sense of it.

Now, she didn’t even react.

She simply turned around and walked back inside.

Lost in her own desperate world of sadness sorrow, Sally opened her laptop to look at the news, hoping for a glimmer of happiness.

Her email inbox was flooded with the same threats.

• "YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF."

• "F YOUR WOKE ATTITUDE"

• "YOU WILL PAY."

• "YOUR HOUSE IS NEXT."

She stopped reading them.

She stopped answering the phone.

She stopped checking the locks.

Because it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

She took a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet.

She poured a glass.

Then another.

Her hands didn’t shake anymore.

She opened the medicine cabinet.

Her fingers brushed over the bottle of sleeping pills.

She only meant to take one.

Maybe two.

Just enough to silence her mind.

Just for a little while.

After another glass of whiskey, she took three.

Then four.

Then five.

She barely registered the moment her head hit the pillow.

She never heard the bedroom window break.

Never saw the Molotov cocktail arc through the air.

Never felt the fire spread, licking at the walls, crawling toward her bed.

                  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The golden morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the governor’s mansion, casting a warm glow over the luxurious white sheets. A silver tray rested on her lap. A perfectly plated omelet, crisp bacon, fresh fruit. A mimosa, condensation beading on the flute.

She took a slow, deliberate bite of her omelet.

Her chief of staff, Ed Langston, entered, gripping his phone.

“Governor,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “There’s been… an incident.”

Sara Zander sighed dramatically.

“Ed, it’s barely nine in the morning. What now?”

“It’s about Sally Richards.”

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Oh?”

Langston swallowed. “Her house burned down last night. She didn’t make it.”

Zander set her fork down, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin.

“Well,” she said, “that’s a shame.”

Langston hesitated. “People are going to ask questions.”

Zander tilted her head. “Questions?” she repeated, feigning confusion. “I don’t know anything about it.”

She reached for a grape, popping it into her mouth.

Langston stared at her.

She chewed. Swallowed.

Then, as she picked up her mimosa, she winked.

Langston nodded stiffly and left.

Zander leaned back into the pillows, stretching luxuriously.

Outside, somewhere in the distance, the smoke from Sally Richards’ house still lingered in the sky.