A Rising Fall

0011001000110101

  When his eyes finally settled to the dark, Marcos could see the extent of the carnage inside of the container. The wild animals had escaped and in doing so, had turned the storage facility upside down. Whatever remnants they had of food reserves were now wasted. The Behemoth was right, they couldn’t hold here much longer. They had the physical force to fend off any attack, but inside, The Nest was weak, undisciplined, starving and all too human. It would only be a matter of time before their Famine fed on their philosophy.

  He picked up a bag of old rotting fruit and carried it over his shoulder out of the container, down the field and into the cafeteria where Mothers struggled to contain Children who were laughing hysterically at Fathers, picking themselves up off the floor sheepishly.

  Marcos looked over to The Woman and nodded his head inviting her over. He gave the bag of fruit to one of the Fathers who divided it out amongst The Children who quickly sat in their places ready to be served. The Woman came to Marcos with apparent love in her eye and could see that there was fright in his.

  “What’s wrong?’ she asked.

  “Outside,” said Marcos coldly.

  The two left the cafeteria and headed out into the field where The Woman tried to embrace her lover only to have her advance pushed aside. The Woman took the rejection as she did the many before. She kept the hurt somewhere safe along with a lifetime of neglect and miscarried expectation, and didn’t allow it to spill to the surface.

  Marcos stood with his arms folded looking her dead in the eye. The Woman had hers by her side but her empathy was too strong and she lifted one hand to rest against Marcos’ arm.

  “I had a dream,” Marcos said, looking down at the floor now as The Woman stood expectantly.

  “It was before all this. Before The Nest, before the blackout; some time ago. I was younger. I felt younger. My body felt strong. You were beautiful. Your hair was so full and the colour played terrifically in the daylight and nestled into the eve. Your breasts were firm. Your skin was dressed by the sun, so silky and soft. You smiled more than I ever remember seeing a person smile like you had the charge of a sun in your heart. We made love at the fall of day, through the night and into the new dawn. You had something to tell me, but I woke before you did” he said.

  The Woman stood staring deep into her lover, her skin warm and tingly, shivers racing up her spine, warmth at her breast and between her legs.

  Marcos kept his eyes to the floor.

  “Marcos what’s wrong?” she asked with concern for her lover.

  Marcos took a heavy breath, kissed The Woman on the cheek and walked away.

  “Marcos, what’s wrong?” she said, this time with concern for herself.

  She ran after him and took his hand, keeping his pace and pressing her body against his.

  “Tell me, Marcos. This is unlike you; this evasion, this compassion. What’s going on?” she asked desperately.

  “It was just a dream is all. The girl, Safrine, have you seen her since The Loving?” he responded.

  “No. I didn’t know she had been found. Is she ok, did they hurt her? Poor girl” said The Woman concerned.

  It was becoming harder to tell if she was feigning or being genuine now. It was as if she was stepping into her soul and finding her voice.

  “I’m not sure. The Behemoth tells me nothing. Did you know about the collection last night? I think they’re conspiring against me, the committee. They want to move The Nest, all of them but they can’t without my vote. Have you noticed anything? You see them all day from your window” said Marcos with a nervous tone begetting his speech.

  “No, nothing. Marcos, who is this girl? Who is Safrine?” she asked.

  “She is one of your Children. The girl, her friend; Milena, she is the one who told me Safrine had been taken” he replied anxiously.

  “Who is Milena?” asked The Woman.

  “She’s a Child, one of yours as well; the strange looking one. The adolescent, long straight black hair, fair pale complexion. The one with the green eyes. You can’t miss her” he said.

  “I don’t know. She’s an adolescent you say? I’ve no idea” she said genuinely puzzled.

  “Whatta you mean you don’t know her?” he asked desperately.

  “Marcos, I don’t know any Milena; or Safrine for that matter. We have no pubescent children, you know this” she said sternly.

  Marcos felt empty. His mind collapsed and hit the core of his consciousness, shattering into a billion pieces that all danced around one another and then hung in the air, billions of tiny colours, undistinguishable from each other. A buzzing befell his ears and his sight went to static.

  “Who is Milena?” he said to himself smiling.

  “Marcos, what’s happening?” she asked worriedly.

  “It’s fine, it’s ok, don’t worry, it’s probably nothing, just, don’t tell anyone about this conversation, ok? Especially not The Behemoth, do you understand,” he said. “Do you understand” he repeated forcefully.

  “Yes, yes I understand. Marcos, Can I tell you something?” The Woman asked, thinking this was the right time to confess about her distractions.

  “No,” said Marcos bluntly.

  The Woman stopped in her tracks as her lover continued callously into the distance. His dance of emotion left her rattled. She stood in his footsteps fading quickly into distraction. She sat back into the theatre of her mind and transported herself to a time long gone when she was no older than thirteen.

  She shared a home with some other girls who had completed their Industry Learning. This was their coming into the world where they would model their identity; shape themselves into someone appropriate, someone desirable, someone fashionable, someone marketable and someone valuable.

  The house in which they lived was massive; property of The Industry, but theirs for the final years of their practical testing. She used to love running up and down the stairs and sliding on the bannister. In the boarding house during her lower schooling, she lived in single story houses and always dreamed of being older so she could see the world from a different height.

  She was always jealous of the older children. Not in a spiteful way, just that she wanted so much of what they had and she tried so hard to wish her youth away so she could have an identity, so she could influence others, so she could have a career and one day in the far future, so she could give her body to The Industry and give one child to The City.

  One she always thought was enough; enough anyway to be thankful for the life she has been given. Any more would just soften her body and that was just ugly. For now, though, in this grand house, it wasn’t enough.

  She saw all the other girls so overwhelmed and thought “oh god, how last season.”

  And she was right. She had wanted this when she was learning to crawl. By the time she was out of diapers she wanted a summer dress, by the time she was walking she wanted a car, by the time she was talking she wanted a cell phone, by the time she was reading she wanted it all; everything that could be hers and more hungrily, that which couldn’t.

  Still, she couldn’t quell the child within her and every morning she would lie on her stomach over the bannister, close her eyes, free her hands and slide down the twisting staircase until she flew through the air and landed, always on her feet. She had the grace and poise of a gymnast, the drive of a serial killer and the thirst of a drunk. When there was something she wanted, there was nothing and no one else in the world that would ever get in her way. She would look beautiful, determined and dangerous as she came to collect what was rightfully hers.

  Today, though, as she stood at the top of the staircase gripping the railing, she felt disdain for what waited for her below.

  “Thirteen,” she thought.

  “This body ages so much slower than my heart. I can’t be thirteen today. I want to close my eyes and when they open, I will be eighteen.”

  She closed her eyes tightly and envisioned herself much older, more refined, more elegant,
being welcomed into many stares, being followed and praised everywhere.

  She smiled to herself, stood up on the railing and let herself fall backwards onto the floor below.

  The Woman crashed into consciousness waking to the call of her name as Mothers pleaded for her to return to the cafeteria. She had a way with The Children that the other Mothers did not. She could focus in a way that seemed like a distraction as if her mind was wandering far from reality and picking up trails of memories to use in a song.

  She would disconnect from her conscious settings and connect directly to her sub-conscious mind and submit to the reasoning and calculations of her mind. What songs would come were just a measure of her sub conscious reasoning, how her mind; connected as one, understood the needs of The Collective and spoke not to the conscious wailing but to the quiet whisper of their sub-states.

  She knew that a Child’s cry was merely an alarm, but not so alarming. She would cure the solicitude in their souls through her voice, through her song and through the gentle touch of her hand against a Child’s head. When the fire in their heart was quenched, the smoke in their eyes would clear.

  The Woman entered the large hall with a gentle shush falling from her lips and in an instant The Children all returned to their seats and attended to their bruised fruit.

  Marcos caught a glimpse of the Behemoth speaking to a man in a white coat. He stopped quickly and watched from behind a corner as the two men spoke in apparent secrecy. He could see from the distance that the men were speaking in a low hush. There was no one else about so one could assume the secrecy was in their intention and not in their word.

  The Behemoth was not an intelligent man. He was very loyal, on occasion quite brutal, but he was focused and extremely dependable. More so, he was Marcos’ friend. It made little sense then as to what he was doing speaking to that man.

  Marcos stayed behind the wall until the two men finished their girded whispers and parted down the halls. When The Behemoth was alone, Marcos took stride and joined his side.

  “We’re down to the last of the reserves,” said Marcos as the two weaved through the complex.

  “The soil, it’s ruined. How is it that we can keep out an army of marauders, but somehow a dog can just stroll in unannounced, eat all of our rations and dig up the rest? I mean, seriously. Smell this” he said lifting his right hand to the Behemoth’s nose.

  “What does this smell like to you?” he asked. The Behemoth breathed deeply and shook his enormous shoulders.

  “I can’t pick it. But it’s everywhere in the soil. I don’t know if it’s table residue or what but you can smell it everywhere in the field. It must have all come to the surface with those fucking animals. I’m going to take it to the scientists and see what they think” he said looking for any reaction.

  The Behemoth nodded his bulky head agreeably.

  “Do you remember the first day we met? How we met?” asked The Behemoth.

  “Of course, don’t you” replied Marcos.

  “No, I don’t and this is the problem Marcos. You are not sane. The past days I have witnessed you showering yourself in distraction; this sensory masturbation. You are getting further from the reality that is screaming in your ears. You refuse to see things as they are. Instead you infuse the truth with a bushel of aspiration, of blind expectation. This is not the markings of sanity Marcos. You’re coming unstuck. You’re becoming more like them every hour; Famined. And that woman of yours, she is no Mother, not at all. I told you it was a danger to have her so involved in The Collective teachings. She’s undisciplined; a poor example to The Children and her attempt at feigning love, it’s just plain awkward to watch. Compare her to some of the elder Mothers, the ones that are real performers, you can see she is wasting time, ours and The Children’s. If she can’t fool me, then how is she supposed to fool nature?” he said rhetorically.

  Marcos was silent. He didn’t respond to The Behemoth with hand or tongue; his gestures lifeless and unaffected, his words restrained by the force of his will. Something within him clawed at his belly and he wanted so much to turn around and lash at The Behemoth’s face with his teeth and nails. The anger filled his stomach and swelled within him, boiling his blood and tickling his fancy for violence. He gritted his teeth, pressing hard to force the rage back down to his core.

  “Save it for later,” he thought.

  As they walked through the corridors, there was no reaction from him whatsoever as to what was being spoken. For all he knew, The Behemoth was right, but something unexplainable shouted within him resonantly to defend The Woman; a feeling he had not felt in such a long repressive time.

  “Time is pressing Marcos. Do you agree to move The Collective? I want you to think clear, as one; get that woman out of your head. There are no rations. The soil is dead. The Famined are getting more desperate. And you saw yourself, in the distance; more of them, they’re coming and they’ll be here in hours Marcos. What is your plan of action?” asked The Behemoth.

  Marcos kept his cold face and eroded the warm cloud of doubt in his mind. Behind the walls, The Collective was vulnerable, but with the right defences they were more secure here than on the run.

  The run; to where?

  The Nest helped to contain The Children. In this controlled environment they were swimming in adoration; albeit false adoration, but nevertheless, they were constantly engaged in what nature would recognise as the language of empathy; in word, in song, in play, in gesture and in sleep.

  If they ran, they would not be At Focus for their focus would sit at the foot of their step and they would be anchored consciously to the print of their foot looking not at the Forever New Dawn, but at the shadows that spawned from its ascension.

  The only chance they had to fool nature, to deserve its empathy, to re-establish this connection and to save humanity was to stay; to continue their work and to weather the storm.

  “We stay. Nothing changes. When the sun sits at its highest we will send out our men and present messages to The Famined, they will receive their weather prediction and their danger will be quelled. What is within our grasp shall remain in our control and we will attend to it and show it love, whatever that means. Nothing changes, do you understand?” he said adamantly; a crisp certainty in his voice.

  “So be it. This is your command. I have a work to do then” said The Behemoth coldly and parting immediately.

  Marcos stopped in his tracks and watched The Behemoth quicken his pace and fasten his stride and like an avalanche, he pushed forward knocking over Mothers and Children in his path, halting the force in his focus, like a bullet; non-negotiable.

  Marcos wondered for a moment if he was right. One again his stomach started to turn on him and he felt a mix of emotions wash over his reason, painting a thousand shades of grey on the white of his conscious canvas. Was The Woman affecting his judgement? There was some sense in what The Behemoth had said. These days had been so unlike any before and his thoughts; so derailing.

  In his mind, he visualised The Forever New Dawn, the orange hue peeling into the tenebrous night sky that cast long shadows across an expanse of broken winding roads and monolithic concrete coffins reaching out into the lightening sky.

  As the sun rose over the urban jungle hanging high above its head, the long shadows retreated into the heels of The Collective as they stood under the blue sky; hand in hand; loving as one.

  As the heaviness in his stomach returned, the friendliness in the image retarded as each of the faces turned to look at his conscious eye and he could see that they had holes where their eyes should have been, they had flies aborting in their mouths, they had their hands pressed to their ears and the women were feeding cancer to infants through their swollen breasts.

  The faces screamed and a cloud of locusts swarmed his sight and then everything was black with the buzzing drowning out the voice in his head that whispered that this wasn’t at all real. Something drew his sight, away from the screaming faces. He looked to one of t
he buildings, like in the dreaming. And like in the dream, there was an unlike image emanating in the distance, its form shadowing against the yellow greasy pane of the twelfth floor window. His eyes fixed on the shape as fear orchestrated his comprehension; the eyes from the yellow pane looking down into his soul knowing what he knew; maybe a truth, probably a secret, promising to tell no one, threatening to tell everyone.

  The image pulled him closer; the window occupied his full sight, there was nothing else, only the window and it was massive against the pane of his conscious eye.

  A demure hand smeared the yellow grease and behind the glass he could see a figure in grey. The hand then pulled on the hood that covered the knowing invisible eyes casting light onto the void. From within the blackness came an explosion of white like a dying star, sucking his sight into its vortex, shredding his senses into unusable molecular waste. Behind the bright star, a menacing shadow of an elephantine figure; maybe man or beast, maybe both walked up to the light and cast its right hand on the bright star’s shoulder and its left cradled somewhere below.

  The face of the bright star turned and the light shone upon the shadowy menace; The Behemoth pulled his index finger to his lips.

  “Shhhh,” he said and then brought a child into the light; an infant, the cord still attached to its belly, the placenta sitting on the floor. The Behemoth released his hand from the figure’s shoulder to take the placenta from the floor in his right hand, smearing it against the pane, bringing a cloud to Marcos’ conscious eye, the reds and browns coming together, swirling into a black until everything was zero.

  When he came to, awaking from his delusion, the courtyard and corridors were quiet. He could have been out for some time, he would not have known except for the sound of forced laughter coming from the room to his right. He went to the door and leaned in his ear, listening to The Woman welcoming her Children At Love. The heavy sinking sensation in his stomach started to wane as the sound of her voice filled his ears.

  He wondered for a moment if The Behemoth was right in his evaluation of his sanity.

  Was he losing his mind?

  Did he choose only to see what he wanted to see?

  The Collective.

  The Nest.

  The Philosophy.

  The Forever New Dawn.

  The Woman.

  The Girl.

  And why the girl?

  Why was everyone so focused on this one girl?

  And what did these delusions mean?

  Was he losing his mind?

  Was he right all along?

  Was he becoming like them?

  Is this what it was like to be Famined?

  Did anyone ever answer these types of questions?

  “Am I really special?” he thought.

  Marcos stumbled away from the doorframe and headed down one of the far corridors to his right; where he had seen The Behemoth and the scientist colluding the day before. He kept his sight firm focusing consciously on one: forming the sink in his mind, pulling the plug and allowing his conscious filth and stains to wash down the hole into oblivion.

  His mind returned to a metallic shine; a state of one. When his focus returned; with it his determined state of assured brilliance; he caught sight with his conspiring eyes of four men in white coats speaking at the end of the corridor where he was. One of them was The Elderly Scientist he had seen yesterday.

  The four men turned and walked down another corridor, one that seemed completely unfamiliar to Marcos. He followed, driven by a sense of discovery and mistrust.