We Were Good, Once
by
Walter Lazo
• • • • •
ISBN 978-1311417589
We Were Good, Once
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WE WERE GOOD, ONCE
Darkness claimed us. One day we were the children of light, delighting in all that is beautiful and kind; the next we were creatures of shadows, delighting in nothing, expressing only hatred. How did this fate overtake us? I am damned, yet I do not know. However, there were certain incidents that preceded our descent; and though it is possible that these were nothing more than coincidences, I think it important to list them for the sake of those who have not yet succumbed, and for those from other worlds who may become aware of us and our fate, who could maybe save themselves through learning from our example. Although my heart is now just hate, a part of me shudders at the thought of a Universe that is only hatred. For the sake of all that is beautiful, I record this, my obituary, not so that I may be remembered, but my fate avoided.
In the month of Ketay, when the spring sun kissed the verdant land with its gentle light, Myrta and I walked hand in hand through the Garden of Flowers, where every color imaginable could be seen. She smiled at me, her golden skin a precious contrast to her dark green hair.
“Hargeth,” she said, “I am happy.”
It was so sweet the way she said it, so free of vanity that I, too, felt my heart dance. I was about to speak, to ask her to bond with me, so that we could share our lives, when a wave of complete darkness passed through the sky, blotting out the sun.
Myrta squeezed my hand so hard, I thought it would break. It took me a few seconds to learn to breathe again. Then the darkness was gone. It could not have lasted for more than ten seconds, yet it left in its wake an emotional residue. Violent images flashed through my mind, images of distant worlds dying in orgies of mayhem.
“Take me home,” said Myrta.
I looked into her purple eyes, and saw there something I had never seen: fear.
I took her home.
For almost a week after the darkening of the sky, nothing else happened. Feeling safe, assuming that what had happened was nothing more than an astrological phenomenon, just a once in a lifetime freak occurrence, I resumed my normal life.
In the last weekend of the month, Myrta and I traveled to the province of Dillocay, where we met some friends: Jerto, Callie and Vez. Jerto showed us his new tail, which seemed feline to me. I told him so. He laughed.
“It’s not really feline,” he said. “It’s modeled after the extinct Sable Cats, which the Fossilists now claim are only in the vaguest sense related to felines. I believe the scientific term for them is Lodenines.”
“Nice,” I said, and I meant it. Not all of us could afford tails, nor did we usually get a chance to see one up-close. It was nice to see one of our friends with one.
“Come, let’s go,” said Callie, taking Myrta and Vez by the hand.
I smiled. Callie was a childhood friend of mine; we had gone to the same schools. I had known her forever, it seemed. She was the kindest person I had ever known, and her eyes contained a natural silver sparkle that flashed every time she talked; it gave her a mesmerizing quality. She was bonded to Vez, who was a bull in body, but a lamb in spirit. He was a perfect match for Callie.
In the great plaza of Gerkenon, we saw a performance of The Flying Sea, about a group of adventurers who set out to swim in all the seas but who are eventually defeated by The Flying Sea, which took off into the air every time one of them tried to dive in. We laughed. After the show, we had dinner.
It was when we were getting ready to go home that we saw the second strange occurrence. We didn’t notice it at first. We were laughing, telling each other jokes, and enjoying being alive. Then we heard someone nearby take a sharp inhalation of breath. Callie, thinking that somebody could be hurt, rushed towards the sound. The rest of us followed.
We found a middle age man, dressed in a yellow suit with exaggerated shoulder pads—a very expensive suit—staring up at the sky.
“What’s the matter?” asked Callie as Vez reached her and stood by her side.
The man pointed up. We all raised our heads.
I started, and this time I squeezed Myrta’s hand.
“Ow,” she said.
I loosened my grip.
Above us shone two moons, parallel with each other, full, and glaring down on us like two cruel lupine eyes. People tend to use the word fear in a haphazard fashion, without thinking about what it could mean—I have been guilty of this myself. This night I began to understand fear as a palpable reality. Fear is being chased by rabid dogs through a minefield. Though I could not truly say why, this is how I felt as I stared up at two moons where there should have been only one.
We all left for our homes, our moods now darkened. I dropped Myrta off. When I got to my place, I turned on the News Monitor to see what the experts were saying about the strange things that were happening.
The academes talked and talked, but said nothing. They did not know what was happening though they tried to pretend that they did. Even the people from the Space Flight Administration could not explain the appearance of two moons.
The Mystics came next, and, like the academes, they pretended to know what they did not know. They spoke of signs and portents, of needing to return to the old ways.
No one knew anything.
In the beginnings of the month of Apelay, right at the start of winter, we saw the last sign. What we at first thought were meteorites fell from the sky. They were black but very bright. One of the Academes called it “anti-light.” To me, at least, that seemed fitting. After the meteorites, the madness came.
I woke early in the morning of the ninth day of the week, and something that I had never in my life felt, that I could barely understand, abused my body and mind: Rage. I wanted to break everything, and I wanted to hurt someone. My body trembled as if I were having some sort of seizure, and thick drops of sticky sweat plopped from my forehead. For the first time in my life, I was afraid of myself. I was not this person, this person who felt such intense alien rage. I reached for my Palm Communicator, which I always kept next to my bed on the nightstand. I called Myrta. She answered on the second ring. Her voice sounded so strange—husky, deeper than it should—that I almost thought I had called someone else.
“Come over, Hargeth, I want to see you,” she said.
Her voice, though strange, chased the unfamiliar rage away. I was myself again. Relief washed over me. “I’ll be right over,” I said.
I got dressed, brushed my teeth, and started to comb my hair—it was not my hair. This discomfited me more than anything. My hair had always been a natural blue; now it was bright red. People’s hair did not change color all by itself…this was not normal.
I pushed all thoughts and doubts away. There would be time enough to think on them later. Now I had to get to Myrta’s. I headed out the front door, walked to my Streaker—a six-wheeled vehicle—got in, and drove over to Myrta’s.
When I got to Myrta’s house, I was shocked to find the condition it was in. Normally it was an immaculate Geo-dome with a light brown tiled roof and nice silver siding. Now it was a ruined mess. All the windows were broken, from the inside out, it seemed; and black paint had been splashed around the entire house in angry splashes—some had even reached the roof. I went for the door, putting my hand on the knob, turning it slowly. The
door was unlocked. Panic threatened to overrun me. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside.
Myrta was standing in the living room, head bowed, arms to the side, hands covered in black paint, breathing heavily. She was wearing a light green dress, and on it were written strange letters in a language I could not even begin to fathom. Yet I did know—or at least strongly suspected—it was a language. The pattern of the marks was simply too deliberate not to have meaning.
“Myrta?” I approached her cautiously, fear making my limbs heavy.
She looked up. Her eyes were not her eyes, not the purple I had always known and loved. They were completely yellow, but a yellow unlike any I had ever seen, deep and menacing. I took a step backwards. She smiled. Her new smile was a mockery of all smiles, something meant to threaten rather than reassure.
Without warning, she threw herself at me. Her hands were curved like bestial claws. She tore at my face, scratching my cheeks, nose and forehead. I bled. She then went for my eyes. Not wanting to hurt her but in a near panic, I pushed her off me, roughly.
My face was on fire, my heart pounded, and I was caught between despair and fright. I looked at her, my beloved, in disbelief. This was Myrta? My Myrta?
She stood there, in front of me, silent, frothing from the mouth. It was clear to me that she was preparing to attack again. It shames me to admit it, but I ran away. I never saw her again, nor do I know what became of her.
From that day on, I did not leave my home, not for work, nor to meet up with friends. Jerto called. He left a message, saying that he was taking his family out of the city. He wanted me to come with them. I never called him back. I did not trust the sound of his voice. Then Callie called, and she sounded normal, but I did not answer the call. I sat in my bedroom, barred all the windows and the door the best I could, and watched the News Monitor. The news was sporadic now. I could see that whatever was affecting the world was clouding the mind of the reporters—they were all slurring their words and looked unkempt. It was a miracle they were still on. Most of the entertainment channels were off, couldn’t even get reruns. The world was ending.
I heard one of the reporters say something about getting underground, how the malaise affecting the world had no effect beneath the surface. But by that time I was not paying attention, so I cannot be sure. I was looking out my bedroom window at a group of men beating another man to death. Some kids were running around breaking windows. I felt a shadow creeping into me. The rage came back. I knew that very soon I would cease to be, so I decided then to record my thoughts and experiences so that other people from other lands, or even other worlds, could know that we were not always monsters.
With a smile on my face, I opened my closet and fished out a club. The club was meant for the game of Clubball, but today I had other plans for it.
I looked out my window for the last time. Outside, great spectacles of violence were taking place, macabre dances of fury and death, manifestations of cruelty and depravity, where men fought men, women fought women, and even children fought children, every one fought every one—even pets seemed to be infected by the madness. It was so beautiful, like a divine wind. I tossed the club over my shoulder, walked to the front door, opened it, took in the wonderful scenes of violence and death, and joined the fun.
From The Author
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