The gathering begins with a warning, speaking of a deadly storm forecasted, which will end the world as we know it. “Nowhere to go but up, if you ask me,” I think, earning myself a sharp rap on the head from my Caretaker, whose elephant-like ears are trained to pick up strains of rebellion. Tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them back, resolutely vowing to show no emotion, the weakness we humans were persecuted for, sorry, rescued from. My family reaches the Convalescence, watching scores of people scurry in like ants, neat battle lines, carrying their contributions for Society in earthen vases. An eye, an arm, a toe, anything is accepted, but the bigger the sacrifice, the greater your devotion, and the more admiring looks you bask in. I carry a lock of hair, and scorn sears my skin. Mistress’s soothing tones fill the hall, and everyone’s eyes glaze over, as She speaks of how our species has been bettered by their arrival. We were drowning in our own filth when they found us, divided beyond repair, by Religion, Caste, Race, and other such unsightly demons. Slowly destroying everything around us that dared to challenge our authority. Captured within steel walls, no Nature to speak of, turning to cannibalism for sustenance. Humans dwindled, and the Earth breathed a sigh of relief. The next vivid memory I have is of Society, the carefully constructed system we survive in now, pets of Mistress and Her Caretakers. Their real names were never revealed to us, after all, does a dog know the name of its owner? If I sound bitter, it is because I am one of the few that knew the Good Before. I knew the names of plants that bloomed on my windowsill, I knew how to coax melodies out of the broken-down guitar, and I knew of life when humans co-existed with diversity that filled every inch of land.
The silence flows through the hall like a cool breeze, and slowly, we place the vases at Her feet, feel the calloused finger touch our foreheads. I struggle to hold onto my indignation, even as it slips away from my mind, and I am left perplexed. What was the emotion coursing through my body a second before? Ah, it couldn’t have been that important if I’d forgotten it already. “Come on,” urged my Caretaker, gently prodding my back. To tarry is to lose time, and that’s one of the few gifts I have left. I shuffle reluctantly, and reach the House, a neat whitewashed building sitting on a street filled with neat whitewashed buildings. Inside, the family continues as usual, two Parents and a Sibling, all assigned randomly by the Caretaker of the House. We are entertainment, our every move scripted. I long to pick up a pen and write, but even my thoughts are not my own. For the days I dream of running away, I pick the most secure corner of my mind, clothe myself in layers of indifference. Allow the façade of mundanity to continue running, while the best part of my brain schemes and reasons.
Some days, I am filled with anger. It seems as though no one else cares about being enslaved. We are shackled, forbidden from any activity that might encourage us to think. We have a Library, a relic of Before, but the pages are charcoal black and spines unnamed. The city we live in is a ghost town, memories of the past litter the streets. Our Voices were the first to be taken, and now I can only engrave the things I want to say in the stone walls of my mind. Everywhere I look, there is propaganda. A reminder that to be alive is a favour that has been bestowed upon us, and how lucky we are to have been chosen after the Great War, which could perhaps be more accurately called an Easy Conquest. It is true that the world as I knew it ended a long time ago, when humans still walked the land freely. We are the minority now, and it seems strangely fitting that we be exploited under the guise of development of Society. I oscillate between fury and acceptance, knowing that we deserved it, yet unable to come to terms with this shadow life, where to merely exist is to thrive.
Everyone around me is always dazed, sedated by the drugs I vomit every night. The Caretakers might be strong, but they cannot be accused of intelligence, not by any stretch of the word. It is near the Mistress that I am on guard, for She has a piercing gaze that strips away layers of armour I have carefully cultivated. On the days of Convalescence, I force myself to blank. To be discovered as a Thinker, is a fate worse than death. I still remember the human who used to draw on the sidewalks with brightly coloured chalk. They chewed that mind and spat it out, a masticated mess that they hung up on street corners as an example, while the body roamed streets, tortured to insanity. Perhaps I should take the medicine. The lethargy annihilates even a distant possibility of thought, and for all the criticism I silently heap upon my fellows, they are happy, or some version of it.
What do I gain by this constant inner monologue? I cannot change the world, not alone, and certainly not without a Voice. Moreover, does the world want to be changed? I have a sinking suspicion, that behind the curtains of perfection, there a gorier backstage than I can imagine. To begin this battle alone, would be asking for punishments that push their creativity to its limit. As much as I try to deny it, they have a grip on my mind. Yet, how do I remain quiet, knowing that I am one of the few, perhaps the only one with a chance at actually living?
Illustration by Dheeraj C L
A knock on the door pulls me out of this dilemma, and I hastily rearrange my mind, shutting doors, adopting an expression of bemusement. My Caretaker walks in, and I feel the probe entering my thoughts. The feeling is uncomfortable, the deepest invasion of privacy. I relax, pretending as though I am guilty of nothing except being the most devoted follower. “We know,” coaxes the Caretaker. I refuse to rise to the bait, pushing waves of nonchalance outward. The examination ends, and I cover my head as a sharp pain shoots through my skull. Voices begin to chatter, and the shock runs through my body like a live wire. It has been decades since I’ve heard anyone else in my mind.
Whispers of escape, words of comfort, plans of freedom. “Welcome,” says the soothing tone I have despised with every fibre of my being, “to the Inner Circle, Stormbringer. You are now one of us, and it is time to leave.”
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