Chaos
The clock on the lighthouse banged loudly. There was nothing new about the new year. It was just like any other time that came and vanished.
I walk on the shoreline, thinking about the days ahead. The world had already seen the worst time during the pandemic outbreak. The waves of the sea make my spirit dance in jubilation. Yet, behind my skull, a doubt rings like a raging alarm clock that something else will happen, or nothing would ever be the same again.
Needless to say, I keep walking, trying to distract myself from thinking the worst of humanity. But I know deep down, I’m correct to fear the unknown, to be pessimistic that nothing will be the same again.
As we’ve seen it, the world is going crazier by the day. I am part of it, a walking dead zombie who’s tone-deaf and numb to his own doings and the effects of his environment.
The year 2021 doesn’t mean anything; it’ll just be another glimpse of time that will soon be forgotten like the craziest year prior to it, which took countless souls by surprise to the unknown world of chaos.
midnightink 7-11-2920
Nemesis
God is omniscient, omnipresent and ever just, ever understanding and ever knowledgeable, the kind of person who can read our minds. So, if all that's been said about the ethereal being still holds some truth, I'm sure he'll grant my wish.
Before date, I had resided in a dingy apartment with naught but rats and their kind as companions, and worst of all, I lived in Nemesis.
Nemesis, the home of filth, promiscuity, and death. An entity who boasted its flourishing dump and its ever increasing number of ne'er-do-wells. So, I was quite grateful, for in my case, a roof supported by hole ridden walls kept me half safe from the dangers of exposure. And also, food existed, the worst kind, but regardless, food existed.
I had lived in Nemesis all my life, and had been numbered with the few who were deemed worthless, but due to the abundant possession of a conscience, accompanied by a generosity which apparently was filled to the gills, my progenitors decided that death was too extreme, and as such, Nemesis was the best choice. I admit, this is not a story of which I was a witness , for I was told of how I came to exist within its gallows by a vagrant. So, being of an age which permitted me the ability to walk, I got up on my two feet and set to fending for myself. I, presently, fully aware of what we refer to as food here, I think God's angels were sent down to our slum to help us babies.
But then, once upon a time, I was told that within our filth, existed a glowing door, made of shimmering gold, one which would lead us prisoners out of their mess of a home, out out of Nemesis, and into a clean society, a society that boasted an unending number of beautiful homes, rising higher than the other before it, homes furnished with plentiful food and opulence, all these, were conveyed to me by the wisest wanderer in town.
Now that I look back, I was extremely stupid for actually believing, but you know, at times, hope is the only thing that keeps us going when there seems to be nothing to live for, when the walls seem to be closing in on you and any sort of redemption seems far-fetched, we hold on to tales which fortell a sort of happiness.
So, as days ran, bleeding into weeks, speeding into months, and accelerating into years, I could do no more than feed, speak, think and drink, dream forgotten and totally resigned to my fate, my life remained as mundane as it always was. But within this period, I did learn something new - money could get you anything, and I mean, anything. But in order to have it in heaps one must know a money doubler. With such prized knowledge earned by digging through heaps in order to find food for the second wisest itinerant, I set off.
Nemesis had small villages, communities, towns, some worse than the other, and some, way better than most, my home was considered as one of the few habitable ones, one of those in which food could be found, not the best quality of food, and not the best water source, yet, we had something. But I was curious, and I wanted more out of my miserable life, and evidently, the last money doubler who had seen the borders of my town, had been absent in town for five years. So, I set off, with a hope almost battered till its last breath, and no other reason to stay back, to me, an adventure seemed to be the best choice.
The nature of filth and their towering masses acted as landmarks, I kept moving, escorted only by myself, and myself alone, acquaintance forgotten, and all trivialities abandoned. I moved for years, searching and searching. My hope, at some point had taken its last breath, and was beyond being resurrected, so, I stopped. Body and soul weak, heartbroken and mind confused, my surroundings became a blur, so, I collapsed. I felt the rough texture of the ground, the sharp and hot grains of sand, all digging into my skin coaxing it into breaking. On that day, the sky looked glum, it looked exactly the way I felt, and with mind, blank and tired, I shifted my eyes away from the sky and to my environment. Silently taking note of the change in scenery, I noticed him, the odd one.
He was the sun, the type you could not look at without flinching. He was beautiful, adorned with vibrant shades of beautiful, a sun adorned with a skin made out of caramel, eyes, a stunning black, hair, stylishly cropped. His lips had a vibrant red carefully kneaded into their soft skin, a red, which regardless of his skin colour suited him perfectly. His teeth were perfect, and so was everything regarding him. I never actually looked anywhere beyond his face, but, at that moment, my joy knew no bounds because, he smiled. At first, I was dazed, flummoxed, but a startling realization hit me, he was smiling at me. Me, his smile was directed towards me. It was beautiful, the kind of smile which could never be seen on a decent billboard, a smile as vibrant as the sun. He exuded so much warmth, a beautiful warmth, and I felt a great joy, a peerless happiness. He was so odd, so so odd, for all the sun which he gave off was obviously absent in all residents of Nemesis. But regardless, he was divine, and I being spellbound, moved, stealth and steady, with eyes wide, and permanently stuck on him, without the slightest possession of mind, my legs closed the distance.
Within this time, his face, a canvas splashed with so much kindness, seeped into a smile, a striking smile, eyes wide with amusement. But as much as I despised it, and really wanted to make so many excuses, I saw a doubt, a confusion, as minuscle as it was, an involuntary twitch, yet, the sure smile remained. He before me, he looked so close, he felt within reach, no more an apparition, but a being, a live being.
I waited to hear his smooth baritone, for since he was so priceless, he ought to have come elegantly packaged, padded with diamonds, and boxed with silk, yet, I paused, breath held in anticipation, I waited, astoundment leaked into my bones, for his voice was not just smooth, it was silk doused in glorious honey.
His name was Dike. Dike, beautiful, majestic Dike, dipped so carefully into a fountain, a fountain of sweet sweet mel, always the centre of my attention. Our conversations from then on were always the same, he speaking, and I nodding, worshipping him wholely as though he were ethereal. But in all honesty, I remember nothing of our past conversations, for once in my life, I thought of nothing, absolutely nothing, but I felt it, everything, the gorgeous quiet, empty mind, the serene solitude which existed in my head, I loved it, all of it.
But I remember a conversation, the talk, one of the few out of thousands of which we supposedly had. "What's your name?" I heard name, name, so, I looked, really looked, " You are beautiful. What's your name?" "Mma" with voice breathy, I repeated,"Mma, it means beauty." He smiled, a unique smile, one I had gotten used to. "Mma" he said, "It's new. It's different." To me, plain old Mma sounded more salient, more significant. Most meetings I'd had with people prior to our encounter were forgettable, more of a nuisance, but ours, to me, it was obsessive, addictive, not unique, not extraordinary, yet, it was all things paralyzing and only because, it was Dike. Drunk inducing and heart stopping Dike. Be it in the softness of his features, the naivete in his eyes, an aura which painted Nemesis in vibrant blues, reds and oranges, an obsession which kept rose tinted glasses permanently fixed on my eyes. Perfumed flowers that masked every insult directed at me as compliments, thoroughly insulting comments played off as nothing, just cause he made them.
But regardless, he became my light, the light at the end of my literal tunnel, he became my sun in the always bleak looking Nemesis. My obsession rendered me useless at everything but at worshipping the floors he walked on, it made me his minion, his servant, his zombie. He reveled in the power he had over me, and he did use it, violently
Days went on as they always did, till one, in our usual one sided conversations and amidst the amalgam of sounds surrounding us, I heard "What crime did you commit to get here?" I ceased, vacating my perfumed mind to look, to listen, to seperate the bird-sweet vibe from the words, and actually take his words in. " What did you say?" flashing his kilowatt smile, his ever verdant smile lighting his eyes with a playful glint, he said, " I've known you for a week and three days, and I'm yet to get the most relevant information from you. What felony did you commit to get here? Cause as far as I know, Nemesis is deemed as being equivalent to or worse than death. We are forced to relinquish our comforts in civilised society and forced to grovel for food in a dump, exposed to so many factors which could lead to an extremely disastrous death. So, what crime did you commit to deserve a fate worse than death?" I halted, shook my head, blinked, then getting my bearings "What do you mean? I was dumped here by my parents when I was just a toddler." The expression on his face said so many things, but the most dominant one seemed to mock me, to classify me as an idiot, with all the conviction that I was born with a hole in my brain. Then, he said, "That is impossible, we are outcasts, dumped here based on the degree of our crimes, and if I'm correct, you are of a town with way better facilities, your crimes weren't as outrageous as ours. And if you actually try to look at anything else aside from me, this part in which we reside is the dump of a dump of another dump. So, be honest, we here, we're all sickos, what did you do?" I gazed at him, puzzled, wondering, and as I thought hard, and long, his words began to echo in my head, echoes, echoes which triggered something. Then, I heard it, an exhale, a sob, the sound of a wail forcing its way out from something, someone, not me, but close to me, and soon, it ceased to hold its anguish back, it grew louder and louder. And soon enough, its origin ceased to be a mystery, for I saw it, I was no longer removed from the setting, I had assumed a role. And before me, a woman crouched on the floor, her pure white chemise stripped of its innocence, marred with blood, her hands, hair, skin, flawless skin, dented with blood. Her head bowed started a snail like rise, accompanied by the rest of her upper body, finally, her bloodshot eyes rested on me, cold, feral, inhumane eyes, rested on me, bleached of all personality, an empty host, her hatred filled gaze rested on me, the only audience present to witness her melancholy, so, I waited, waited for her voice, and for some reason, regardless of the state of her person, I expected a voice, a silky voice, one which had the ability to lull its listener to a beautiful slumber, yet, and to my greatest disappointment, her voiced matched the theme, hollow, angry and scratchy, laced with an unnatural fear, yet, the pride and oozing confidence I had attributed to her, stuck with her. "How dare you? You could have shot her, stabbed her, for goodness sake, you could have even poisoned her, but no, you hacked her head off with a saw." No, that could not be right, so, my gaze moved from her face to my hands, hands that suddenly felt sticky, a kind of sticky mud could never give. My eyes rested on my hands, but I felt her confidence wither, wilt in my presence, then, I felt an emotion radiate from the beauty who resided in my presence, an emotion my host seemed to be so conversant with, hate and disgust, an emotion that consumed the woman of fair skin. My eyes were on my hands, but I had blanched out, too busy taking in the hatred, but then, my eyes focused, and for once in my life, I was unsure about myself, for my hands held the unforgiveable. A brand new saw, adorned with a beautiful royal blue handle, beautifully complimented by the blood which lay on it, slipping of the blade to settle on my foot. My voice, breathy and tired, "Adanna", her name was familiar, too familiar, and with that thought, emotions surfaced, emotions I hadn't felt for a long time, the confusion, a great confusion. I would never, could never, but Nne's words said otherwise, but I would never even.
I felt the onset of tears, my eyes clouded, just a single breath and I would be a wailing mess, but I could not for I felt it, the cold, the searing pain that possessed my body, the fear that he and only he could awaken, his touch, his whispers, painful, poisonous, addictive. A terrible kind of addiction, so, I stood, and expected his words, words that spelt doom, a velvety voice that foretold misery, " What are you waiting for? Your family has been exterminated by you, eviscerated by you, even beloved Ada. Your mother is the only one left, what is one more death. She hates you, do you really think she would protect you in the face of the law. She is your Nne, but that does not mean she supports your actions. Just kill her, rid her of the pain that consumes her soul." His voice, breathy and faint as it was, sounded like trumpets in my head, cold, direct and exact, no hesitation. An ever rising fire ignited within me, a fire of which I was powerless to, but then, his voice, heavenly, a voice which held me, a voice I obsessed over, and then, it hit me, really hit me, Dike, beautiful Dike. A torrent of emotions hit me, hate, pain, anger, shame, all directed at me from me, but soon enough, I froze, I had lost the privilege to own my being, he now dominated, dominated my thoughts, my words, my being. And I felt him, all of him, but not around me, within me, and soon enough, my body was not mine, it was his, all his. THe darkness slowly seeped out of my eyes, but now, there were two corpses, both, headless. Innards lay on the floor, and their heads , they lay in a corner. And I could still see it, the hatred still lay intact in Nne's eyes. Flustered, sad, and angsty, the memory faded, and I awoke from my reverie, but now, I was really awake, not preserved by the ever flying cherubs that fluttered around me, no my eyes were open, and with them, I saw Dike, and within his eyes lay a selfishness, one aided by a cold and calculating persona, a persona perfected with time, a being hidden, masked by a beauty, a celestial beauty. But now, he was a monster, the worst kind, hidden behind layers of vanity, yet, the worst kind. But, I did not run, cause there was no point, but I left, walked out like a queen, a queen whose soul had been shredded to pieces.
But now, I knew me, I knew my origin, I knew my undoing, for now, I had my memories, terrible memories, questions were now irrelevant. And for once, I appreciated the grace bestowed on me, for in that moment, ignorance was bliss. But now, the veil had been lifted, the spell had been broken. And now, I understand why my home was named Nemesis, it is our retribution. Punishment for our past actions, a suffering I both did and did not deserve, but then, we cannot change the past, but, regardless, I wish I had not been so stupid.
Didn’t miss much
I pour myself a cup of coffee, listening to the cardinals chant their methodical morning tunes, and step out onto the balcony overlooking the ivory snow-capped forests of northern Virginia. Other than the birds, the surrounding area is beautifully silent and still, wrapped in a blanket of tranquility. It's one of my favorite places in the entire house, hell, in the world. My year-long experiment of disconnecting entirely from the world was quite the challenge at first—shirking off my dependency on city infrastructure and having to learn to hunt and live off the land—but I've really come to enjoy the tranquility and solitude. It'll be a shame to head back, to pick up my job where I left off. I have to say, though, I'm really looking forward to cookie dough ice cream again. Can't harvest that from your garden.
I pack up the few things I brought with me up to my remote cabin in the hills and head down to my truck. Every week, I'd come down and run the engine to make sure it stayed in working order, but besides that, I haven't really driven the thing for a whole year.
Once everything is stowed away, I hop into the cabin and start her up again, smiling at the familiar rumble beneath my seat. I admit, like a good southerner, I've missed driving my truck.
It only takes about twenty minutes for me to head down the mountain and into the small town of Wheatfield. It's the closest pocket of people to the Devils Backbone, but still about as far away from civilization as you can get. It was my fallback plan in case my experiment failed, though as I look around, it's not much more than a gas station with what looks like a farmer's market in lieu of your typical quick-mart. I'm guessing no cookie dough there.
I pull up beside one of the two pumps and get out to begin filling up. An eerie feeling washes over me as I uncover the gas tank and look around at my surroundings. There's no one here, not that being alone bothers me after a whole year to myself, it's just something about it seems off, like I'm off balance in just the slightest but I can't tell to which side. Eventually, I shrug it off, assuming people are probably still hung over from their New Year's Eve parties last night. I move to put my credit card in the machine, but then I realize the power's off. A few punched buttons later I give up, assuming it must be busted, and just hope my quarter tank can get me all the way back to Fairfax.
As I'm pulling out, I uncover an old mp3 player of mine from when I was in college in the middle console and charge it up. This should be fun, I think to myself; not only have I not listened to music for a year, but I probably haven't listened to this thing in more than ten years. I turn on the device, grinning at the iconic apple logo that appears, then start playing the Black Eyed Peas, cranking it up as loud as my ears can handle. Boom Boom Pow and other assorted gems from previous decades accompany me along the 66 Interstate for most of the way back; if it weren't the middle of winter, I'd have my windows down, too (yes, I'm one of those people).
About a half hour into my drive, I start to realize there's no one else on the road. It's a bit early for New Years Day, I know, but still, you'd think there'd be truckers or someone. My discomfort and unease only compounds at the sight of the occasional vehicle abandoned on the side of the freeway, and of one route marker that's been spray painted so that it says Interstate 666. I give my fuel gauge another wary look, then decide to pull off at a small town called Marshal. It seems to be a little bigger than Wheatfield; they have a gas station at least, and some places to get food, or so the blue sign says.
I enter the center of the town and pull into the gas station, then get out of my truck and once again try my luck at filling up. I nearly let loose an expletive, though, when I see the pump's dead screen. With a few forceful shoves, I jam my credit card into the receiver in frustration and knock on the pump.
"Come on..." I grumble.
"I don't know where you're from, boy, but those haven't worked around these parts in months."
I turn around, startled, to see an older gentleman rocking back and forth in a chair beside the adjacent mechanic's repair center. He has a long, grey beard that almost reaches the shotgun lying across his lap and a cold stare that seems to pierce straight through me. There's something hanging from his ear; it looks like a cloth mask of some sort with the words Keep America Great imprinted in white letters. "You'll be paying in cash, now, or you'll be on your way."
I take a few steps forward and raise my hand in salutation.
"Excuse me, sir, but do you have any idea what's going—"
The man pumps a round into the chamber and stops rocking.
"That'll be far enough, young man," he says ominously. I halt in my tracks, feeling the blood rush out of my face. What is this guy's deal? Is he actually going to shoot me?
"My deepest apologies," I stammer, somewhat surprised at the sound of my own voice and embarrassed by my atrophied speaking skills. "I'm not from around here. I've been away for a year now. Took a personal sabbatical up in the mountains."
The old man chuckles, low and slow at first, then deeper and heartier, each rolling wave bouncing the shotgun on his belly up and down. When I show no signs of reacting, he wipes his eyes and puts his feet up on an overturned Home Depot bucket.
"You mean you skipped all of 2020 by hiding up in the hills? Picked a hell of a year! Boy, you kill me."
I give him a confused expression and take a seat on the curb of the pump.
"What was so bad about 2020?"
At this, the old man doubles over and laughs so hard it's little more than a wheeze. It takes him several minutes to compose himself, during which he waves his hand in front of his face and has to take several breaks to spit out his dip.
"Jeez, you're not kidding are you?" he says, his face as red as a tomato. "You heard of COVID-19 at least, ain't yah?"
I wrack my brain, flipping through the archives of last year's memories.
"You mean that Chinese disease?"
"Huh, it ain't Chinese no more. Hell, listen closely and you might just hear it singing the Star Spangled Banner. Killed nearly a million of us, infected almost a third of the country. People just stopped coming out after it mutated and they started calling it COVID-20. Still wait'n on what that'll look like."
"Jeez. That's awful."
"Aw, buttercup. That ain't the half of it. I'm not much of a businessman myself, but I'm sure you can imagine what happened to them folks up on Wall Street when everyone stopped going to stores and shops. Anyways, they said somethin' 'bout the next depression and everyone just kinda lost their minds after that. You got food riots, race riots, anarchy riots, riots just for the hell of it. Whole damn country just about fell apart. Some states still tryin'a get control. 'Round October, November you got yourself some killer hornets, them terrorist bombs that took out the power grids 'cross the country, the asteroid we tried to blast away but just ended up turning into a dozen more than rained down on California and Nevada, half the troops we got left fight'n heaven knows which crazy dictator now in the Middle East and the South China Sea."
I have my head in my hands, dizzy from everything he's saying. There's no way all that could have happened in one year, but still, how else do you explain what I've seen so far? What reason could this man have to lie to me?
"So, what about DC? Fairfax?"
"Oh yeah. Good chunka her burned down with the riots. Arlington. Alexandria. What's left got looted soon after. You can understand why I've got Sheila here now, eh?" he says, patting his weapon.
After pondering the man's words a few moments longer, I stand up and make my way back to the truck.
"Where you headed, son?"
I open the door and step up into the cab.
"I'm headed back to the mountains."
He grins and begins rocking back and forth in his chair again.
"Good choice. Happy New Years, kid."
Cracked
They said back at the beginning, either you come out of this knowing how to make a sourdough starter or you develop a drinking problem.
Ariana doesn’t particularly care for bread, or the solitude and desperation that might lead you to make it.
Instead, she finds herself in January 2021, making eggs for dinner. This happens to be the only skill she picked up during quarantine, and when paired with tortillas, happens to complement tequila quite nicely. The tortillas, she doesn’t remind herself, are not bread or homemade.
Ariana tries to crack an egg onto the edge of the pan but instead misses, and egg lands all over the top of the stove.
She laughs and it brings her roommate into the kitchen. Her laugh is not a happy laugh; it is bitter and tasteless, and she wonders if she’s crazy. She wonders if the last ten months have led her to insanity, or a lesser, sadder version of it. She wonders if any of this has occurred to her roommate, the only living soul to have seen her during this time of total seclusion, this slow descent leading to a stovetop mishap and graceless sarcasm.
“Are you okay?”
“Am I… okay?”
Ariana makes a hand gesture, the one where you make quotation marks with your fingers.
She doesn’t remember much after that, but she does remember the touch of her roommate as he tucked her in. Touch she hasn’t felt in months. Touch she doesn’t know how to respond to. What a feeling, to know it still exists.
“It will get easier.”
She still doesn’t know how to make that sourdough starter, but there’s still time.
