Every dream ends the same way. A long, endless fall after experiencing sheer bliss. I wake up drenched in sweat and panting. I can do nothing but lay in bed all day, barely able to speak and only getting company when it is time for food. I feel like I am waiting for death to finally take me, or for the monster that has been inhabiting my body to complete its job. Unfortunately, neither come. I am a waste of bone and skin, unable to move, my brain trapped in a body that is not my own. I was so close to finding out the reason behind the poem. There must be something deeper to it – something that pushed the government to shut down any exploration into its stanzas and words. It is simple, yet I cannot fathom what it is truly trying to tell me. It wants me to walk a road, but which road I know not. It wants me to band together with others, but who else is there? Well, I suppose there are people here now, people who could band together with me, as useless as I am.
The clanging of a metal bowl snaps my mind back to reality. The broth has some lumps in it? I silently eat, the lumps are chewy and rich, a starchy net that captures and absorbs the soup’s flavour. I am sure this is a common food, but I have not had or thought about such things for a long time. Each mouthful is nice, but the flavours are the same. It does… give my body warmth though. My body? No, the body. It is strange that I can feel something coming from it. Perhaps the food is giving me strength to fight the monster off? I do not know if that is a foolish idea or the absolute truth. It could be neither or both, I suppose the plane is foolish when you think about it. Look at me, talking to myself about each and every action that happens. Monologuing like I am in a tragic and trashy play. I do miss plays. Art. Books. Poems. Poems? No, I have thought about poetry for long enough, yet not nearly long enough. Every thought I have is oxymoronic, thus I am the moron, trying to travel left and right at the same time and ending up nowhere.
Another clang, more food. The same starchy substance fills this bowl. Starchy substance… absorbs flavours… I am a copywriter; someone whose job is to work our language and twist it in interesting and unique ways for my clients. They would never let me describe a food without knowing its name, and I most certainly do. I just… cannot remember what it is. No, I can remember but my mind is filled to the brim with poetry. That poem. I cannot think about anything else, only what must be done. I have survived the attacks for a reason, and I will keep surviving until we can return to the beautiful world we once had. It is strange, thinking back. We had the ability to give everyone everything they would ever need, yet we chose to do nothing but let Dreg dictate our lives. And look at us now, being killed for wielding the very same material that once gave us life. How can one’s salvation be their ruin? Another oxymoron in this stupid world, huh?
The final clang for the day. Potato! That’s the word. The soup has potatoes in it. Or perhaps just the one. I remember… when I was a kid, my parents would make a large campfire and roll potatoes up in special leaves that were woven together. When opened, steam fills the air in a cloud of mouth-watering steam, and quickly, a large dollop of butter is dropped on its fluffy surface. The butter barely had time to realise its change in location before melting and soaking into the potato, creating a gooey goodness. Ah, to have a time like that again. To relive my childhood and forget about these cursed days. To close my eyes and be swept off my feet, carried by my parents once again. To smell pine in the air as we walk to our campsite. To feel the cool summer breeze against my skin as respite from the long walk we had done before – oh, it is beautiful. If there was a time when such purity could exist, whose to say that it cannot again? Whose to say that I cannot conquer whatever monster is claiming my body and recover from this bed? Whose to say that I cannot band together with others and walk towards a better future. Today onward, I will properly fight so that another child can enjoy roasting potatoes over a campfire with their parents. I cannot believe I forgot such a beautiful and simple moment. I wonder how many others were trapped under the crushing weight of regret and fear for the future. Fear that my body will be taken and my consciousness will remain without a means of acting. This is a high! I can feel the winds of change – a gale that expels the fog clouding my mind in a deafening whirl. This is when I fly above the walls set by monsters and Dreg, the walls that have blocked humanity's path for so long.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The gale stops.
I drop.
There is a clang of metal and my eyes open. The food has a few more cubs inside it. Orange and green. Interesting, I will need to take a moment to think about what these might be. Melza is watching over me with a look of deep contemplation.
“Hey Gan, I have a request.”
“A request?” Speaking is much easier today days, potatoes really did the trick, huh?
“It's been a few weeks, and you are looking better. Your face no longer looks drawn and sickly. You have life in your eyes.” I nod along, where is she going with this? Melza pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath, and continues, “Every night you mutter lines of a poem in your sleep. I was curious if the poem existed, or if it was just you sleep-talking. I asked some people and… it sounds so familiar. Everyone agrees, we have heard it before but no one can remember the words. Could you write it down for us?”
“What do you mean? How do you not remember the words, they were broadcast to the world only a month or two ago. The same time as when monsters started coming out again.”
“Gan, it has been a decade since the monsters first attacked.”
“What?!”
A hand pushes down on the chest, stopping me from moving.
“Gan, stay down. You are not strong enough to get up yet.”
I take a few shaky breaths. A decade?! Have I been writing that fucking poem over and over and over and over and over again, unable to make any conclusions on it for a decade?!
“You… must be wrong.”
“No, it has been a long time which… well, perhaps the potential that you could survive without… well that does not matter. Do you remember the poem? It could be the key to ending this blight.”
“Once I tell you, what are you planning on doing?”
“Well, if there is something we can act on, we will.”
“And leave me here?”
“If we must. The fate of humanity is in your hands and mind. Every moment counts. Every moment our numbers diminish as another person is killed.”
“I… okay. I can tell you. Please, write it down and promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Please let me band together with you all. Please bring me along. I… need to walk the road after all this time.”
“Walk the road? What is the poem – tell me and then –”
“Do you promise to take me with you, Melza?”
“Yes Gan, now tell me.”
“Humanity is at deaths deadly door,
Soon the world will torn, battered and worn,
It does not matter whether rich or poor,
You are family, no hatred when born.
Bind together, show the world you belong,
Listen to my plea and show you’re worthy,
Chosen walk the road together and strong,
Be proof that humanity is sturdy.”
Melza copies each word that I say with sheer determination plastered across her face. Once I finish, she looks up from the page and skims the words.
“Ah… a sonnet? No, that can't be – is it missing a bit at the end?”
“It… no, don’t worry about that. I am… tired. Please discuss that with the survivors if you will. Please bring me along when you leave.”
“O…kay. Will do, Gan. Thank you.”
Melza leaves with the page. She gives me a look – the look of someone who knows I am hiding something, just unsure about what. I cannot tell her the last two lines, for it will either crush her and the rest of the survivors here, however many there are, or they will leave immediately, and without me. How could I forget the most haunting part of the poem:
Three days is what you have to prove them wrong.
Three days is what you have to prove them wrong.