Chapter 1 - Old Crook

“Zee!” The commanding voice of my manager snaps me out of my trance, “Time to clock out! Go home before you become an old crook.” He lets out a cackling laugh at his own words as he grabs his coat from the coat stand.

“Yes sir.” I say and stand up from my cubicle. The Manager squints at me, as if he is perplexed by my response to his orders, “Zee, you know that regular people don’t fall in line as easily as you do?” he says to me.

“Well, sir I don’t see the reason in saying no to such a simple order.” I say plainly, the manager scoffs at me, “That’s the military in you talking! Geez the way they recruited you boys so young, and now they expect y’all to be regular folk.” the manager pauses as he looks at me again, a slight hint of surprise in his eye, “Well, it looks like you have not one problem falling into line, bless your heart Zebedee, bless your heart.” He says as he makes his exit out of the door, his footsteps are still audible in the hall, clacking away until he exits through the main door.

The thought of staying a few more hours off the clock doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, and my chair looks as if it is calling to me, for me to sit down and continue working, after all I have always been taught to keep working, even when I am exhausted.

I let out an audible sigh, “No I shouldn’t.” I say aloud.

Rain starts to hit the window as I make my way out of the office room, and the sound of the storm outside only gets louder as I walk the halls to the front door, to the point I can hardly hear my own footsteps. Since rain was not in the forecast I didn’t bring an umbrella, even more reason to stay, but I was given orders, so I should follow them. I grip the door knob, thunder booming outside, I feel so tired, but I have to run my way home today due to my lack of an umbrella. More than my exhaustion, I am a little bummed out that I won’t be able to enjoy the rainy city scenery.

I open the front door, heavy rain pours over the city, the slightly outdated streets puddle in some areas, and the crowds of people are in a rush trying to find shelter from the storm. A few people carry umbrellas and are taking their time getting home, how envious.

“Booze! All you can drink booze!” A man is yelling on the side of the street, he points toward a hole in the wall style establishment, with a neon light sign that reads the name “Andy’s Rum House” an odd name in reality.

Before I know it I am walking instead of running, admiring the neon lights that cast a variety of different colored glows on the wet sidewalks and streets, all with one purpose, to get people to walk in and piss their money away on booze. And within the variety of identical bars that line the streets, there are people talking, laughing, and just being loud. In contrast with the outside world which is dark and gloomy, these neon signs act like gates into other worlds, small ones, where you can be someone else with a whole bunch of other people acting as someone else. Walking past all these different worlds provides different people with different feelings.

As a kid I was curious, I looked into every shop, at the faces, what they were eating, drinking, and I tried to understand the jokes they made that made them all burst out laughing. It was as a child that I started to believe that these bars were entrances into other worlds, especially in contrast to the regularly gloomy Capital City.

“What did the leper say to the prostitute?” A man with a raspy voice says loudly in one of the bars. A crowd of people are shouting, trying to figure out the punchline before the man can say it himself, to no avail. The man smiles drunkenly, “Keep the tip.” The whole bar erupts in laughter, and so does the man, proud of his joke landing.

I can’t help but scoff at such a joke, it is the fault of jokes like those that these days these other worlds only serve me as background noise, these shops I never plan to step foot in exist in reality, but they are about as real as any other temporary pleasure, the curiosity of my childhood is gone, the jokes they tell are all shallow, dirty and easy to get, people guzzle beer and wine all night, and the food are simply side dishes to compliment their alcohol. These other worlds are simply one aspect of my nightly walks to my apartment, though they have a certain ambiance on rainy nights like tonight.

All the noise, laughter, and the red and blue lights soon disappear as if they never existed in the first place as I get into the residential area of the city containing all the apartment buildings, homes and hotels, at this point I start to run slightly, there’s no reason to get any more soaked than I already am, especially in this bland area.

Within the residential areas it is hit or miss, some days you’ll only hear the sounds of the night. You know? Owls, bugs chirping, the light wind, and on nights like this, the sounds of rain showering the trees and ground. On other nights you’ll hear people, they could be arguing or having a good time; it could even sound like both at times. On those nights I wrestle with the thought in my mind, the thought that says I am creeping on these people, that I should block out the sounds of “their world”, because I exist in a completely different one.

The world I exist in is new and dreadful, it leaks out into all the other worlds in the form of blood curdling screams at night, with spontaneous public freakouts, acts of needless violence with no explanation. This is the world of the returned, the men like myself who made it out of The War, for some reason we brought all of it back with us, whether it was intentional, or if it just seeped so far into our skin and bones that it became impossible to wash off; the reason isn’t clear, but it doesn't matter. For all the outworldly aspects of this “new world” we brought back with us, there are a thousand more aspects that only us, the citizens of this world, experience fully.

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A screech bounces between the building's walls, only drowned out slightly by the raging storm. These kinds of screams happen from time to time, an old or young vet having night terrors, or a panic attack.

“Shut up you crazy old man!” a voice yells out of a newly opened window. Such a statement is indiscriminate, but it disregards the fact that the scream may have come from a man younger than himself. Such absurdity causes me to let out a laugh.

“The fuck are you laughin about? What, are you a bum?” The man shouts at me now.

“No no, sorry sir.” I say while giggling still, I start running at a faster pace to escape this situation.

“Yeah you better run!” I hear the man shout, among other things as his voice gets drowned out by the roaring storm, before I am too far away I hear another screech, clearly from another person. Two in one day doesn’t happen often. The second scream results in a few lights being turned on in the houses on the street.

My nightly walks home as a result of all these factors always become needlessly complicated, at least in my mind. But this only lasts for the 10 minutes it takes to get home. When I enter my home, that being a small studio apartment, gracefully issued to me by our government, I am greeted with a string, the string hangs from the ceiling, and when I pull it light beams throughout the doorway and room, in the form of a nearly spent, dim bulb, conspicuously screwed into the ceiling. The contraption appears needlessly complicated, for the miniscule task it performs.

Every time I walk through my door the first thing I do is grab a can of beer, and today is no different; I open the small fridge and grab one can of the many in the fridge. The words “Free Throw Beer” sprawled on the front of the can.

“Eccacia’s finest.” I say out loud, laughing at my own statement, because this is the cheapest beer you can get in the entire world, even the slum countries up north can get a can just like this for anything worth the dead skin that clogs an air filter.

This is the only thing in my routine that never changes, no matter what. Every time I crack open the can I can't help myself from smirking ever so slightly. The first gulp feels like pouring acid down my throat, but it is always the biggest gulp, and the pain is a form of satisfaction that can only be felt after another long day at work, no matter the job. This daily routine has become so integral to my life that I bought a fridge specifically for this reason, and I put the fridge at the entrance of my apartment.

With half the can of beer empty, I finally slip my shoes off and slip another can into my pocket, the condensation on the can wets my thigh through my pants. The only light in my whole apartment is the one at the door, but it is enough to provide me with a path to my couch, which also acts as my bed. I stumble over to my throne, grabbing the TV remote on the way, and when I finally crash down onto the soft cushion I can feel my body loosen up.

“Finally.” I say while letting out a long exhale, as if I were holding my breath all day.

There is nothing like relaxing on the couch after a long day at work. It allows my mind to run free, even more so than the walk home. What did I achieve today? Who did I talk to? Was today fun? I ask myself all sorts of questions, and I answer them wholeheartedly.

“Nothing. No one. No.” I say aloud.

I usually have the same thing to say about every other day, and that sounds terrible, but those kinds of things don't matter when the days I live only serve me so I can live the next day in the same fashion. Over and over again. But I do get tired of saying “No” all the time. I am not clueless to my pessimism, or my self-destructive way of life. I mean, I have a fridge full of beer at the entrance of my apartment and it’s the only thing I look forward to all day. That kind of life where we live day by day, where we are counting every single day subconsciously, where the small things, self destructive or not, are what we look forward to beyond all else… It's the kind of life me and people like me, the people scarred by war, are forced to live, borrowed time they call it

I let out a long sigh, “What am I even thinking about…” I say as I click the red power button on the TV remote.

There are more important things to worry about, like what will I eat tonight, or what's on TV today? Will it be another “Memorial for the ones we lost” in a beautiful font, with sad music playing as they spout bullshit about a 30 second moment of silence, as if that somehow pays off the debt this country owes the dead. Will it be the royal family making a speech about our freedom? In their high castles? After their grand balls and daily feasts? They preach to us, the people, and the soldiers about the freedom that we paid for.

“Breaking News huh…” I say repeating the words on the screen

A woman reporter appears on the screen, “Youngest Princess, The Illegitimate Angela, who rarely made any public appearances, has been reported missing…” the woman reporter says.

My eyes widened slightly. “Huh, a princess? I thought that was just a rumor. Princess Angela?”

Before the war ended there was news that circulated throughout the country and later our camps that a girl was discovered to be an illegitimate child of King Harold, that small tidbit of information was all we heard about this supposed princess. This caused most of us to think it was just a rumor, that coupled with the fact that news like this simply isn't broadcast often, due to it being a “scandal” I assume the royal family silenced the people who reported on it after it broke, as they do with everyone else that aren’t kissing their boots. Either way it’s not like there aren't already a few of them, this kind of news is not what's most important when we don’t even know if we will be alive tomorrow.

“For those of you who aren’t aware of what the Princess looks like, please look at this photo.” The woman reporter says with an attitude, as if she is referring to us who don’t know as gleefully ignorant. I scoff, “How the hell are we supposed to know, lady?” At that moment the image on the TV changes.

The TV program displayed an image of a young woman, her hair is jet black and her bangs go down to her brow, her eyes are a deep blue and her lashes are long, and her skin a kind of pale I thought only achievable through malnutrition, but her cheeks are full and slightly chubby in contrast to her skinny figure, by all accounts this woman is the embodiment of beauty.

Something catches my eye, something familiar about this girl. I get up to my feet and almost trip on a can as I sprint to the TV screen. On the Princesses cheek is a scar, it looked jagged like whatever cut her in the past was not something sharp and clean, almost completely covered by makeup, that's why it was so hard to see it at first.

“That looks just like the one Angy had.” I mutter.

“Just months before the ‘Madly in Love Couple’, that being the Youngest Princess and Prince Dane of Artenia, were to be wed on the Isles of Arden. ” The woman reporter says. “Whether she was taken or is on the run is unknown at the moment.”

“M-married?” I stutter

For some reason I felt an urge to shut off the TV, and did so, leaving me in silence. Even though I wasn’t doing anything I started to feel sweat start to form on my scalp, and I felt as if I was out of breath. This feeling isn’t new, it is the same feeling I felt when the Brigadier General would announce the soldiers killed in action, and I would hear the name of a friend. But why do I feel this now? The princess surely isn’t her. The princess cannot be MY Angela.