Election Sunday and the silence of emptiness

Note: This story is fictional. Any resemblance to living or deceased persons is purely coincidental and unintentional. However, there are certain parallels with real life.

Johnson snapped at his wife for being unable to tie his tie. He pushed her trembling hands aside and stormed into the bedroom to do it himself. Displeased, he looked at the small cut marring his chin as he tied the knot. On a day like today, he wanted to look smooth, without any imperfections. Successful men did not cut themselves while shaving.

It was still early, the polling stations had not yet opened. Everyone in Johnson's household was already awake. The phone was silent, the secretaries and staff were not yet at their terminals, and the sun had not yet fully risen.

Johnson fiddled with his silver-grey striped tie and waved his hand impatiently while his wife fussed around him again, half-heartedly stroking his shirt front, anxiously avoiding the perfectly symmetrical double Windsor knot. She looked dishevelled and nervous, but Johnson thought with satisfaction that by eight o'clock, she would resemble the wife of a leading local politician. He relied on her in these matters – she was the perfect 'decoration' for the man of the moment. She knew what to say, when to say it, and when to smile or remain silent. Perfect.

He hurried her out of the bedroom and looked at himself in the large oval mirror reserved just for him. With his shoulders back, he tilted his head down, raised one eyebrow and smiled. The pose looked cool, confident and dashing. He had spent time practising it, and now it came naturally.

Then he held out his hand to shake the hand of an imaginary person, looking proud and sympathetic. He had been rehearsing this new role for the past four weeks. He called it the 'satisfaction of victory'. His advisor had told him that, when he shook the defeated candidate's hand, he should avoid looking condescending. He had rehearsed this moment countless times in his mind. After all this hard work, he had earned it, damn it!

It was light outside, he could see this through the drawn curtains. However, he hadn't turned off the ceiling lamp yet – it was exactly the atmosphere he needed. Johnson ran through his entire impressive repertoire in front of the mirror. He switched effortlessly from pose to pose, only the look of concern still eluded him.

Things didn't turn out as he had imagined. His advisor had told him to avoid frowning. He didn't care, and that was precisely why he couldn't manage it. Who needed to look concerned anymore? He had built up an image as a tough guy with a soft centre and a refreshing sense of humour. The voters liked that – unlike the others, he didn't whine. Those damn quota women cried at the slightest thing, even though it was impossible to prevent.

Politics wasn't for nitpickers. After all, you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs – but you couldn't say that. You had to appear 'concerned' when a stupid sparrow fell out of the sky or some fool ran into someone's fist. But that wasn't his concern. Today was his day. Johnson didn't consider his party to be important to him personally. He didn't embody his faction's goals, he only embodied his own presence. The statutes and goals appealed to him, but they weren't important.

The early morning passed quietly – perhaps too quietly. Mrs Johnson looked elegant and attractive for her age. She took care of the staff, striking the right balance between being a motherly figure and a grande dame. The expected rush to the polling stations failed to materialise, making Johnson nervous. His press spokesman said it was probably the calm before the storm and that the day was likely to bring many surprises. Johnson had decided not to appear in public. He was tired of the campaign trail. Smiling at people as they voted wouldn't convince those he hadn't already convinced.

Johnson went to the town hall, where he sat with his staff in front of the monitors installed in the council chamber. He remained calm, but when half past eight arrived and the town's streets were as empty as on any ordinary Sunday, he began to feel slightly nervous. Something wasn't right, he felt sure. The broadcast trucks showed empty streets and empty polling stations. No one, absolutely no one was out on the streets, and no one came to the polls. It was as if people had forgotten it was election day.

Then the reports started coming in, crazy reports and even crazier images. Suddenly, the streets filled with people as if they had all agreed to do so. A stream of citizens moved towards their polling stations in silence and with determination. Johnson felt the pressure mounting, so he struck a pose of 'calm and confident anticipation'. However, this effort was completely in vain, as the reporters' voices overlapped and the cameras showed the same images in rapid succession from cities across the country.

People, some with their children and even their dogs, gathered in front of the polling stations and stared silently at the cameras. No one moved to do what they should have done. Everyone looked silently at the journalists. Microphones held out to them were politely but firmly pushed away, and no one spoke a word. Johnson was completely ignored, the enormous news machine had become an end in itself. It was no longer about him, and it was no longer about the parties.

Broadcasters were in turmoil, politicians were holding hasty talks and the airwaves were buzzing. Alongside the journalists' frantic words, the world saw these images of silent, calm people gathered in the streets of towns and villages, remaining silent – for the first time. Not the silence of emptiness, but of refusal. Of relentlessness.

Johnson wanted to scream and storm out, but he remained seated as if bound to his chair. Darkness descended upon him. A bell tolled and he jumped up abruptly. He let his gaze wander around the dark bedroom, breathing heavily as he tried to shake off the dream. Glancing at the digital alarm clock, he saw that it was one o'clock in the morning. The first hour of Election Sunday.

© 'Election Sunday and the silence of emptiness': A short story by Pressenet (translated by Izabel Comati), 06/2025. The picture shows a man in a suit and tie, CC0 (Public Domain Licence).