Untitled...for now

My very waking moment scorns existence and to forget such is to condemn oneself to an agony worse than death. I've learned that living as a shell is better than being reminded that you are the very shit of humanity. Screams, cries of pain, and anger are merely a dream. Uprisings, opinions, and relationships are almost too distant to remember. Now, everything is quiet as the will of mankind is forgotten in the pages of history books. The word independence has been erased from our memories. There used to be a time when beasts of the world used to be the cows, chickens, and other farm animals that were bred, fed, and then killed. Dumb beasts, no voice, no soul. Gone are the days of animal servitude. Now, we are the cattle. Humanity is no longer the dominating force. We have become mindless beasts bred and then killed for no purpose other than population control. Women, children, and men were once unique and acted accordingly. Respecting each, they were to their own. Now, no one is of single mind. A collective decision. A collective action. Religion has become extinct just as education, love, friendship, and paternal bonds have faded into a recollection to faint to remember. Man has officially destroyed itself. No remnant of higher thought remains as we trudge through such a bitter existence awaiting the day we are thoughtlessly slaughtered for the sake of numbers. Await your day, brother, and be comforted by the only feeling that has become dominant, fear.

The desensitization process began quickly and was almost imperceptive.First, small fires in the dead of night at the edge of small towns awoke those near enough with their stale odor. Shortly after, large fires were set in the middle of large cities with bags of books, novels, films, paintings, and magazines feeding the fury as men shoveled for hours. Still, we said nothing as the ashes, wet from the hoses, littered our streets and the faint trail of smoke rose as a steady stream indicating the death of the past and the rebirth of a new age filled with new knowledge. Not a word spoken to stop the killing of the world's past because to rise up and question the authority bought said person a one way ticket to the Facility. Those few who were brave enough were quickly beaten to the ground and hauled off in an unmarked vehicle, never to be seen again. Isn't it funny to fear something you've never seen, never heard word of, and cannot imagine? I suppose that is how fear works best on weakened minds. The Facility has no exact location and it may not even exist, but in such times, it's best if you can put a name to your nightmares.

I am sad to say that I have forgotten what it feels like to be content. To just wake up every day and be normal is no longer part of my memory. I sometimes sit for hours with my head in my hands as I strain for a moment in my life when I've truly been alive. I rack and rack until my head pounds and my fingers bleed from the nail biting. I walk patterns in the carpet until the threads become worn by the treads on my shoes. What was it to see beauty? To feel your blood run hot and cold at the same time? Surely I've felt that. I must, because I know how to describe it.

Again, I pace until the hour grows late and the siren signals the shut down of electricity and the locking of all dorm doors. I lie in bed and just listen. Occasionally, through the wall, I can hear muffled sobs as one falls victim to the isolation they can no longer deny. That's one feeling I can remember. Utter helplessness as you no longer have control of your own mind except for the quiet of the night. Then, your situation hits you as you crumple inwardly into a worthless heap on abandonment.

The sound of the siren wakes me this morning. It is cold outside, almost the dead of winter. With the absence of electricity at night, my threadbare blanket hardly keeps the deadly drafts at bay. I struggle to arise from my bunk fearing the blistering cold that awaits me outside of the blanket. Furiously rubbing my hands together, I look at the wall-mounted clock that says 4 am. I lean over to help my bunkmate from the upper bed. "You could allow me to take the upper bunk, Andrei. I don't mind in the least," I said to the man that was at least twenty years my senior. Groping for his walking stick, Andrei replied goodnaturedly, "Never you mind Demetri. I am constantly reminded of my age and handicap and for once, I'll overcome all of that by staying on the rickety top bunk! I'm not useless yet and can still climb that ladder even if I cannot see it!" Walking straight to the small, almost frozen over wash bowl, Andrei began his morning routine without my assistance. Living in this dormitory for over ten years, he had learned its layout enough to where he didn't have to grope his way around like he usually has to. Giving him an affectionate pat on the back, I make my way to my sparse wardrobe of gray slacks and navy tunics.

The siren rings again at 4:30 am after those in the dorms have had time to change their clothing and scarf down rough brown bread with water. I douse my slice in water to soften it and hand it to Andrei. "Here old man, I've had my fill of this slop," I say as I slide the slice into his waiting palm. Uncertainty flashes across his features. I know that he has used up his rations for the week, and though my own are low, it is better that he have it. "If you do not want it, I will just throw it away," I hinted as I leaned toward the receptacle. "No, Demetri. It is a crime to waste. But if I take this, you must take some of my bread next week." Panic edged with longing laced his voice. Today is Wednesday, rations are given on Sunday. "Of course, Andrei. Next week," I add as I hold the door open for him. As I saw him relish the small treasure, I felt that somehow, this gesture had improved conditions, at least for the moment.

At the break in the hallway, I part with Andrei as he leaves for the Infirmary and I head to the trucks. Single file, myself and about 40 men trail down the 5 stories and out into the frigid air. It's always cold here. Some recess in my mind draws the word "Russia" but though I know the word, I don't know what it means. We are taught that we are in the 25th District, and out of the 858 districts, we seem to have the coldest climate. The landscape is barren with the skeletons of trees rising on the iced slopes. The wind sounds shrill in its journey down the mountains in the distance. I feel the sting as it races across my damp face. I close my eyes against the pain and see something I've never seen before.

Reds, golds, deep purples, and blue tones flash against the black abyss and I see the trees filled with crisp leaves complete with blooms. The ground is no longer white and brown, but a deep green velvet. I can feel the air on my arms and it is warm, not cold. I hear laughter. Laughter. And then I see a face.

Suddenly, I knew that beauty is this creature.

I open my eyes in surprise and the image disappears. I look at my brothers to see if they saw what I did. Blank stares ahead are what I see as they wait for the arrival of the trucks. I shut my eyes tight hoping to catch a glimpse of that face one more time, but all I see is black. My breath comes in gasps as I try to calm myself. A few of my closer brothers look in my direction but quickly regain their composure. I can't slow my breathing. I hold my chest trying to calm it's erratic beating. I feel my face, surprised to find it wet with my own tears. I stare at my fingertips, entranced by my response. As quickly as I reacted initially, I wiped my hands on my slacks and resumed position.

We were loaded up in short order into the back of a waiting truck with benches set out in two lines inside the covered cargo hold. At least the tarps kept the outside wind outside. I stare down at my hands as I bump and sway with the movements of the truck as it rambles down the dirt road. You can feel it slide every now and then on the thin ice coating the puddles.

The man next to me coughs violently. Hacking noises that threaten to dislodge his lungs rack him in his seat. Across from me, a few men over, a man sneezes and wipes his nose on his sleeve. He leaves behind blood. A tightening in my chest overcomes me as I realize that the district will soon have another round to exterminate.

Working men are easy to come by. Very little training is required for the type of jobs they demand upon us. This is why we are destroyed more often than any other class of men. You may wonder why aging Andrei has not been disposed of? He has something the District needs. He is one of the Medical Men of the district. Dull, capable, and easy to mold: the definition of the perfect brother. I am thankful that he is nearly untouchable.

I mourn these sickly men, though I do not know their names. I feel their fear. It stifles the air in the cargo hold. Sickness. I'll never forget the smell of fear and sickness.

We all jolt in our seats as the truck stops. The horn signals us to rise and disembark onto the gravel. We assume our positions once everyone has exited and await the KomDiv. Eyes front. Arms at sides. Typical. The KomDiv (short for Division Commander) paces in front of our assembly. His stark navy blue slacks and heavy navy coat contrasts handsomely with our thinner slacks and jackets. You won't see a KomDiv without pristine garments. Bitterness. Yes, that's what I would call the taste in my mouth.

KomDiv takes a drag off of his cigarette, inhales deeply, and then releases it. Repeat. The sound of chattering teeth can be heard a few men down. The KomDiv smiles and goes to stand in front of the guilty party.