Hello all,
Welcome to yet another piece of creative fiction on my blog! This week, I’ve decided to write it in the style of an unusual dystopian monologue piece as a young-ish male recounts his experiences through small snapshots of memory as his life story is recounted in a fragmented and fractured narrative style. Unusual, I know, but interesting to see how it all works out in the end. I hope you enjoy this, and I wish everyone the best for reading this post.
That’s all for now,
Dan.
Report: Unknown Male, #726
<waiting for server response>
<response received, initiating memory protocols>
>memory Access initiated, memory fragments are as follows:
*
First thing I remember is waking up. I must have been five or six years of age, just out of the nursery stages of my education. I remember wearing the standard issue sleeping clothing at the time, those scratchy, fibrous overalls whose only purpose must have been to toughen a child’s skin into a work-hardened hide, to show them how to tolerate discomfort in preparation for the harsh, cold lives that they would inevitably live. The time of my waking eludes me, but I remember there had been a noise outside, a crashing, cacophonous noise, then heavy footsteps on concrete, and then a woman’s scream. I remember I awoke with a start, shaking, listening as the events outside unfolded and trying to make as little noise as possible myself. These were the years of terror, where every action, every word, every sideways glance in a neighbour’s eye was scrutinised by everyone and no-one as the days only seemed to get much darker and much colder than the last.
I tasted salt.
I’d been so focussed on events outside that I hadn’t noticed that I’d begun weeping, softly and under my breath. I remember the sound of my father’s body hitting the floor to this very day. I remember the sounds of the gunshot, my mother’s terrified scream and the horrific pause between the noise and the silence. For what felt like hours, days even, time seemed suspended, a sickening, joking pause before the crack of a human skull against brick and the thump of a body shortly following it. My mother, sick with panic and fear, burst through the doors, a frenzy of noise and fury. Just before the doors slammed closed behind her, I remember glimpsing my father’s distorted face. Until my final breath, I don’t think any amount of time, nor medication, nor time in the isolation chambers in the depths of the medical hub could ever rid me of the sight of my father’s eyes, looking outwards but not seeing.
*
My teenage years consisted primarily of orientation sessions twice a week, physical tests three times a week and compulsory coital engagements twice every month. The loss of my parents, my earliest memory and the fear that recalling that particular memory induced within me was subdued, medicated and repressed in order for me to continue my ongoing obligation to the State that housed, educated and fed me. I never discovered the nature of my parents’ crimes, nor do I ever have any intention of knowing. What happened on that night, 10 years ago, was simply a symptom of the sickened world in which we live. I remember seeing in some old scripture somewhere, amidst the novels that were for mature student access only, that mankind’s only role on this earth was to suffer as they toiled. Perhaps I took this too far to heart, as younger members of our new society are often known to do, but somehow the aches and the toil of working within the belly of the steelwork core seemed necessary for the development of my own role within this New World. With every aching muscle and broken back I felt like I was atoning, little by little, day by day, for what happened.
*
I’m screaming. I’m screaming, and screaming, until I’m certain that my lungs will burst free from my ribcage itself. I can take it no longer, no more can I stand the incessant whirring of the machines, the grating, grinding, groaning of metal upon slate. My broken hands shake from year after year of self-medicated stupour, my eyes swim and dance about my skull. Three years since the hallucinations started, three long years of pushing, constantly pushing, trying not to nice the devils that twirled and swam through my vision. The drugs do nothing, the therapies make it worse. I have been lost between the cracks of this society, and I do not weep a single tear for it.
There is nothing more for me here, in this ever darkening world. I must put an end to their incessant pressure, squeezing and breaking us until our bones just out from out ribs like rocks on the shore. As I write this, the wheels have been set in motion, and it is I, a nameless, faceless revolutionary that shall bring the powers that be to their knees. Like a carefully placed knife in the darkness, I shall put an end to this unending misery, break this thunderous silence with a scream from the pit of my lungs. The end is nigh, and I shall dance upon the pavements amidst the raining fires.
DanBlogs994 