Category: Dystopia

He had the urge to clear the ground, to look out and see nothing.

“Darling?” the familiar voice interrupted his thought.

“Hm? Oh, yes dear, you’re quite right. The garden has become quite the oasis.” he replied automatically.

More words tumbled from the woman’s mouth, but he stopped listening, only imagining orange flames licking each leaf of the garden before him. The corner of his mouth quirked up thinking about the charred remains of this magical place. Maybe then he’d finally have some rest.

The woman kept babbling. He was familiar with the words; he’d heard them countless times. Looking beyond the green of the garden, he could see the familiar figures watching them from the horizon.

The same thing was happening in every other garden on that street, possibly in that city, or maybe every corner of the world. Colin didn’t know how far it extended and he wondered how many others could see through the façade? Maybe none. Maybe he had to figure this out on his own.

The days repeated in this unrealistic loop for what seemed like ages. Colin never remembered eating or sleeping, just always watering the garden having this inane conversation with his wife. A wife he didn’t know – not her name, not how they met, literally nothing. How could she endure this never-ending mirage? If he could he would have frowned, but he couldn’t – he could only smile and be engrossed with watering the garden. He wondered if she was the same – trapped in this nightmare, but completely aware that it’s fake.

His mind wandered to the rows of garden fences stretched as far as he can see, up until the shadowy figures beyond. Was everyone here trapped the same way? How had they gotten there?

He tried to think back beyond the garden, beyond this moment in time, to see if there was something before. He saw flashes of a life outside of the garden. There was a body of water, he could remember lazy days on the sand, the touch of a woman, and an intense feeling of love and desire for her. Had he lived this life?

Turning into the dark alley, surrounded by the putrid smell of rotting food, waste, and death we saw the door with the watchful eye painted roughly over decades of grime and layers of chipped paint. This was it, the moment of decision. Would we enter and follow through or retreat back and fade into the emptiness that may be our death?

I turned to her, the look on her face told me the answer – onward. Lingering on the face that I knew so well, the single crinkle between the eyes indicating deep focus or concern, her rich hazel eyes, a crown of gold circling the dark pupil like an eclipse, but mostly it was the sadness that stained every pore. Oh she was beautiful, stunning actually, and that’s why we came to this butcher.

Turning the doorknob and pushing the door open, the smell of smoke, sweat, and incense assaulted our senses, filling our noses, blinding our eyes. The heat seeping into our clothes and skin, urging our own sweat to mingle with the scents of others. It was dark, visibility was nearly impossible, but I suppose that was by design, no one should see who was here. Decades-old broken furniture cluttered the outskirts of the cramped room with other visitors seated in masks that obscured their faces. I quickly put a mask on Deeanna’s face so we remained anonymous as well.

The sounds of buzzing reverberated into the waiting area, muffled cries and sobs heard far off in the distance. I looked at my cracking boots, the dirt was holding them together as much as my feet. I gripped tightly the small pouch of gold rocks in my pocket, that represented six months of hard labor in full hazmat gear. Looking over at Deanna, her fidgeting a clear announcement of her nerves. I put my hand on hers, she looks at me with those eyes, so bright and welcoming; she’s scared. She should be. Butchers aren’t known for their delicate touch. I want to touch her soft skin once more, to feel the silkiness of it again, but I know last night was the last time I’d feel that smoothness. If you wanted to survive and escape the slave-trade, you wanted to be average, like all the rest of us – rugged, deformed in one way or another, not the perfect angel that sat beside me. Angels have targets on their back, and it’s a hard life that often ends in suicide.

June 1^st was upon us again, though according to the travelers, we’ve lost another 2.1 million. By my calculations we’re losing people faster, now that the water has run out and the desalination plants destroyed in the frenzy, it continues to get worse.

In a way, the frenzy was pointless. The lottery never benefited anyone, so what did they think would happen when they clamped down even harder on water? A hydrogen atomizer was the only option, so the masses rushed and rioted during the lottery, believing they hid hundreds of atomizers that they used to provide unlimited water to the government, or to those who can pay the premium price for it.

That was a long time ago. I learned when my Pa never came home, making me the man of the house and responsible for finding water for the whole family.

So I stand in the line, move myself forward with the foolish hope that any of it matters. Maybe the ground-dwellers had the right idea. Digging my toe into the earth.

“Ya know, people used ta dig in the ground for watah back in the day.” The ancient man with the weird accent said again.

Yes, I know, you keep saying it. But I just nod politely and continue to say nothing. What this idiot doesn’t understand is speaking means I need liquid to lubricate my vocal chords. I don’t even remember the last time I spoke aloud. The only reason this old coot is doing it is because he never learned sign language.  

I hope he dies soon. No, that’s a cruel thought, I don’t think that, not in a mean way, but I do mean it. One less person means a better chance at an atomizer.

I look up and down the row of people and start thinking about murdering each person. But doesn’t that make me as bad as the soulless bipeds who did this to us? Our ancestors. That word feels dirty in my mind.

Different character

It were bright, like it always been this time o’year. The line o’ people in front o’ me warn’t too bad. Last year I were a few hundred back, at least this year I can see the front. They might’n run out of lottery fobs. I got a chance, Kay. I know she can hear me up there. She’s gon’ help me this year, I kno’ it. Her up in heaven, makin’ sure I gets a ticket and that atomitizer. I dun know how it works, but Imma get it and figur it out.

“Ya know, people used ta dig in the ground for watah back in the day.” I say to the young’un digging his toe in the dirt. We had a well, deep underground with cool, clean water. I ‘member threatenin’ to throw that rowdy boy who threw that ball at school. My face spreads into a smile while I remember the feeling of the waterin’ hole, the rope burn from the swing into the cold water. It don’t seem so long ago, but my hands look like old man hands, n I can’t unnerstand these kids round here.

Maybe all these young ones will figur out how ta get new watah. I bet they got the know how. I ain’t got another year in me. I los’ too much in them frenzies. Got no watah, los two fingers, n’ a week in da box. I still dunno why they give you watah when you in da box. Shoulda just let me die then. No, that ain’t how it works here. We gotta live long enough to die by nature, not by the Keepers.