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In the darkest hour of the eve, The Teller told his tale of tantalising terror. It whispered itself into the sleep of all the Mothers, Children and Fathers who lay together At Peace; its voice at first no louder than the sound of a tiny gust of air passing gently through the slips in a doorway; a sound that was sweet and curled into their ears, creeping into their thoughts to mask as their own conscience before forming to fill the space in their minds and to inturn paint their perception, describing the dream in avid detail; the despair that fed from the erasure of this City; the sprawl of greyish emptiness, their conscious purgatory.
As The Teller finished its readings, its voice had contorted and built to a calamitous shriek as The Collective, in their suggestive sleep, tossed from one side to the other, unable to escape their cerebral torture as new truths unfolded in their minds until a word was spoken which invoked a gentle calm that fixed them into a longing slumber, one that would have their conscience quiet and at ease.
Outside of the dormitories, in the highest part of the complex, The Behemoth prepared, pondering over the coming dawn. Below him, men were circling and building fronts while, beyond them, the stampede of desperate legs gained velocity and volume. They would only have several hours before the wave of violence was spilling at their shore. There was no time for complacency.
“Have The Woman brought here,” said The Behemoth to a White Heart who stood guarding the entrance.
The soldier left his post and stormed through the complex, sneaking into the dark of the dormitory; from where The Teller had just been and not where it now was. The White Heart grabbed the woman, holding his hand over her mouth to quieten her fright then carrying her over his shoulder out of At Peace and through the complex while she continued to bask in a deeply unconscious state, led to water by The Teller’s tantalising tale. He then propped her lifeless body on a leather sofa next to where The Behemoth stood.
A man in white entered and passed some salts under her nose which dragged her violently from her unconscious state, kicking and punching at first the man in white, then the White Heart trying to hold her back until he was ordered to leave the room. The Behemoth leaned down and undid her binds then returned his sight to the window.
“This must all be very confusing for you,” he said.
“Is that supposed to comfort me? Is this you reaching out? You’re not very good at it” she said directing her stare around the room.
She could see so much of Marcos everywhere she looked and she felt so angry; not for his intention, but for fulfilling it. He had wanted to leave her behind and no matter where she went or how far she got, he would have succeeded in his wish.
She wished he was alive so she could scream at him and tell him that’s it’s not fair, that despite what happened, she didn’t deserve this. But, deep down, further than the echo of narcissus in her immolated whining; her first passage of truth where she negotiated all the terms of negation, she knew that wasn’t the case.
They both deserved this. Maybe not he; he didn’t deserve any of this but she; she most certainly did and her second wave of negation brought her to the belly of her subconscious where she confused herself into thinking she was accepting of the truth; recovering, but this fancy was just the other side of the same coin.
It wouldn’t be long until her mind told her she was wrong again. And so, as quick as she found peace and reason, she lost it again; thinking that he was gone and would never come back, turning to anger and spite to protect herself from the sapping neediness of her yearning.
“You will be travelling with myself and two Children. You will mother them through this change” said The Behemoth.
“What reason do I have to leave? My husband is dead, his idea; his grand creation is dying and the people he loved are tearing the last of it to shreds. Why should I run? So that I can perpetuate this foolish evasion and be chased by my own shadow and inevitably fall and die, with panic and desertion as my premise? Is this why I should run? Is this what you are running for? Marcos would never have run. His life was in building this nest, this home that has served us well for a decade and one that you abandon without an inkling of guilt. How can you not feel it? Why the fuck should I go with you?” she screamed, throwing a glass through the window and sending thousands of tiny shards showering down on the men below, causing them to cower to the floor, their skin cutting, their hands tied to their heads.
“Why should I go?” she said.
“Because one of the Children,” he said, “you carry in your womb” he said.