Tabula Rasa

He stood there up on the gallows, his wings bound to his sides by thick rope. It was mid afternoon and the sun hung heavy in the sky behind him, causing us in the crowd to squint. When these guys get exiled from Heaven, they always end up in towns like ours, just on the outskirts. It’s a shame really, they are meant to pass back down to Earth but a lot of them get caught up in drinking and gambling. This poor bugger ended up getting caught one too many times on the street, passed out in a gutter, so they authorities decided to make an example of him. I headed off before they pulled the lever. I like to hear what they are up there for, but I have no stomach for the actual execution. Makes me feel a bit nauseous. I heard the crowd cheer behind me, so I knew that he must have dropped. Town was busy, people thronging in the streets. A lot of new guys as well. You can tell they are new because they always have a lot of trouble with their robes. Everyone gets a set when they enter, but they take a bit of getting used to — they will constantly slip off your shoulder if you are not careful. I always feel a bit sorry for the new guys, they always seem a bit disappointed. People forget Heaven was established over 2000 years ago so life is still pretty primitive up here. It was a life of luxury and eternal happiness two millennia ago, but times change. Back then, a life of luxury was not being murdered in your sleep by some mongol horde. Now, people expect a bit more. There is still plentiful food and water, so you’re not going to starve, and apparently the hospitals are ok. Sanitation is basic though, and it’s definitely not set up for the number of people who are up here now. It was fine when it was only the real fanatics who were getting up here, but then there was a real recruitment drive. God went down himself and started telling stories and distributing books, getting everyone excited to come to Heaven. It was a genius campaign to be fair, self perpetuating, almost like a pyramid scheme — “Make sure you tell all your friends!” However, the word of religion spread and soon everyone was getting in for a quick prayer and a few good deeds. Overcrowding began to became a real problem and they had to expand massively. There were huge queues at the gates, and St. Peter had to step down from welcoming everyone personally. People had to set up temporary camps, but these camps became more and more permanent and eventually turned into towns themselves. Soon, people were setting up shops and stalls, and thats what my family ended up doing. We’ve been here for centuries now, serving the needs of the people passing though. We all joke that one day we will redeem our pass and pass through the gates, but I am not sure anyone actually knows where theirs is any more. I turned a corner in the road and saw a small group halfway down, a bunch of security guards surrounding a few young men. When I got closer I realised that the young men were representatives from Hell. Heaven’s security doesn’t much like it when these guys start handing out leaflets round here. You’ve got to feel sorry for them really — the finest trick of God was to persuade you that Hell was an awful place. When he starting spreading Heaven as THE choice for the afterlife, he presented Hell as a horrendous alternative. In fact, it’s quite nice. The weather is definitely better, and there are no demons or torture of any of that. There isn’t even a lot of red. I passed them by as they were hustled towards the station. I couldn’t stop thinking of the Angel at the gallows. We seem to be getting more and more of them these days. Guys who are dissatisfied with the leadership in there, they think that God has become lax, resting on his laurels whilst Hell picks up the slack. If people aren’t coming to Heaven then they are definitely going to Hell. The guys that don’t like it, they either kick up a fuss and get chucked out, or they leave on their own accord. Either way they end up here. They’re the only way we know what it’s like in there. No-one else comes out once their in, but they get special treatment, even during their exiling. Though being dissatisfied you never know whether they are telling the truth. Since the queues have been dying down recently I’ve been telling myself I will find my pass one day and head on in. See what it’s like for myself. One day.

The man had arrived six months ago, riding on the train that goes from the sea to the mountains, carrying sea water for the royal beaches at Palermas (it was a sight to see apparently, the beaches in the mountains). The train rarely stops in our town of Espartinas, but you knew when it did because the smell of the sea would waft through the town and the strange cry of seagulls would pierce the air. He had arrived with a single suitcase and rented a modest room above the small bar in the main square and did so without uttering a word. In the six months since he had arrived, no one had heard him speak. His features were Spanish, but more exotic, as though he had Moorish blood in his veins, and he always wore the same simple suit, even though it was now the summer months. She had seen him that morning having coffee at the bar, which he did every day. He had coffee at the bar, then he had lunch sent to his room, then he had dinner at the bar — that was his routine. No-one knew what he did for an occupation, he did not seem to have one. She was taking a break from tending to the olive grove to have some lunch. It was a windless day and the heat resided thick amongst the trees, content and wallowing. She saw him walking up the dirt path running between the terraced rows of the gnarled old trunks, the crunching of his footsteps the only sound aside the background hum on insects. She had never seen him outside of the main square before. He continued up the path a little way, then took a right onto one of the terraces and settled on one of the short stone walls. He then lay back with his legs over the wall and stared at the sky with his arms crossed across his chest. She watched for a few more minutes from her position across the grove, but he remained motionless, so she carried on with her work. That evening, the man from the train did not appear for dinner. Nor was he there for breakfast, or any meal that weekend. The dishes piled up on the bar top as the barkeep, so used to bringing them out, did not know what to do now they were not being eaten. On the Monday she returned to work, and saw the man again, still lying there with his arms crossed across his chest. There was a slight film of dust over him and it appeared that he had not moved. She went over and saw that he still had his eyes open, staring at the sky. They flicked to her face as she got near. “I am dead.” He said, his eyes flicking back to the sky. It was the first thing she had ever heard him say. His voice was poetic and soft, a slight arabic accent lilting his speech. The dead tend not to enunciate their position, so this was highly unusual she thought. She fetched the local doctor, who fetched the priest, who fetched the barkeep who’s customers overheard and fetched their lovers and friends. The whole town walked slowly up the hill into the olive terraces in the baking midday sun. The heat slid down the hill towards them and they clashed halfway, breaking out in a sweat. The priest and the doctor stood either side of the man as the town gathered around. The man from the train continued to stare at the sky. “I,” he said, “am dead.” The crowd rustled. They had never heard the man speak. Furthermore, they had never been in the presence of a man who had announced his own death. The doctor looked concerned, that was usually his job. He leant down by the man and felt for his pulse, pausing briefly before nodding his head gravely. “He is dead.” The doctor said. The man from the train nodded in confirmation. Arrangements were made and the man had a funeral on the Wednesday. He lay in his open coffin at the doctors house as the town passed by to pay their respects. Though no-one in the town really knew the man, they felt he was a good man and deserved a proper service. As the final person passed the towns carpenter, who had made the coffin, placed the lid on top and lined up the first nail. Before he struck with his hammer, there was a small knock from inside so he slid back the lid. The man from the train took a letter out from the inside pocket of his jacket and gave it to the carpenter who took it and passed it to the doctor. The man from the train nodded again and the carpenter slid the lid back in place and pounded in the nails. He was buried in the small graveyard behind the church. Afterwards there was a small wake held at the bar at the centre of town. The letter had not been sealed so the doctor slipped it out and read it. Soon the whole town had passed it round. She was one of the last ones to read it. It was written in beautiful, but functional script. Dear Maria, I have waited six months like you asked, but you have not arrived. I know by now you must have chosen him over me, and by this knowledge I have died. Yours, Aslam She passed on the letter and thought about love as the smell of the sea wafted through the open window.

The snow gradually thickened until visibility was less than 2 feet, the only evidence of the men ahead was the taught rope leading away from me, tying me to them. The wind rose, snow and ice pelting at us from every direction, the air tearing and grasping at our clothes. Half heard shouts whipped back through the tumult and I tried to run forward to catch up with the group. My leaden feet stumbled forward through the snow though I seemed to gain no ground on the men ahead, the rope stretching ahead into the screaming wind. My legs became tangled and I fell, my rope wrenching free from my waist and slithering away through the snow. I screamed and shouted after the trailing rope, but my words were torn out of my mouth and thrown uselessly into the fray. Knowing I would surely die if I stayed laying where I was I righted myself and staggered forward. I don’t know how long I fumbled through the snow, but suddenly ahead the mist darkened and then coalesced into a cliff face, the opening to a cave punctuated its face like some terrible maw. I tumbled through the entrance of the cave and the whistling and wailing of the terrible wind vanished. The cave receded back into the cliff face, disappearing into blackness. I lit a torch and the darkness pressed in, thick and syrupy, against the unwanted intrusion of the light. I proceeded inwards, the darkness oozing greasily around me, reluctantly relinquishing any ground to my torchlight. The tunnel opened into a large cavern, my torchlight failing to reach the far walls or ceiling. As I edged forward, a sickening unease grew in my stomach at each step, working it’s way up until it gripped my throat with fear. I turned, wanting to leave this accursed place, but I could no longer see the entrance to the tunnel, the blackness stretching endlessly around me. I wheeled about blindly in the darkness, thrusting forth my torch, straining for the tunnel when suddenly my light cast upon a figure. He must have been only 8 feet away but his form and figure were indistinct as though seen through a distant fog, confused and vague in shifting darkness. My light seemed to be unable to penetrate his form, sliding uselessly over him without touching. He spoke in a tongue I could not recognise, alien and harsh, rasping through my mind, tearing and scratching at my thoughts. My fear sublimated and I was overcome. *** They say that I appeared at the tavern speaking tongues, a high fever raging through my body. I lay in a bed writhing and thrashing for 9 days until the fever suddenly broke. I suffered no permanent ill effects, though I must confess I am more sensitive to the light than I ever was. My mind recoils thinking of that terrible place, but on a clear night like tonight I hear the mountain calling me, coaxing me to return.

He’d been dreaming of oranges. Whole fresh ripe oranges. Plucking them from the tree as a light wind stirred the leaves of the citrus grove making them clatter and shake. The acrid smell of the leaves mingling with the hum of overripe fruit. There was another knock at the door and he could hear hushed discussions occurring on the other side. He eased himself up from his position on the bed, stood up and smoothed down his suit. He’d taken to wearing formal suits every day after an unfortunate event a a dinner party many years ago. To cover his embarrassment of arriving overdressed, he had put forth that this is how he dressed every day, and had done so ever since. He crossed the room and opened the door. A wave of heat rolled in. A small gathering of townspeople were at his door. ‘Mr Fernandez, you have to come quick.’ One of them cried. ‘It is Maria, she is sick again, very sick. She is calling for you’. Without another word he went inside and retrieved his hat and his bag and he followed the small group across the square to the house where Maria lived with her husband. The sun glared sharply off the whitewashed buildings and he could feel a trickle of sweat starting to work it’s way down his spine. Entering the cool interior there were more people congregated around the doorway to the next room. He pushed through the throng and entered the room where he could barely move for the amount of people crowding around Maria’s bed. He loudly announced his appearance and shooed a number of people from the room, leaving just the husband, Maria and some particularly important aunts and cousins. He indicated to the husband that he would like to take his place and sat down beside Maria, placing his bag on the floor, he rested a hand on her forehead. ‘Everyone must leave.’ He announced to the room. ‘At once. I must have space and peace in order to work.’ The particularly important aunts and cousins started to file out the room in order of their particular importance, leaving just the husband. ‘You as well señor, I must have complete peace.’ The husband left the room with many worried glances towards his wife. Mr Francesco followed him to the door, closing it behind him and locking it. Maria sat up in bed. When Mr Francesco left his third wife she cried so much she nearly drowned. They had to cut down the door with an axe and the water gushed out into the square, eventually evaporating a leaving a thing crust of salt behind. Since then he had fallen in love with Maria, a patient of his who had been suffering from migraines. Those had long subsided, though he paid visit to her often. He crossed the room and they embraced. Her hair smelt of oranges and he remembered his dream.

We poured outside with the rest of them, all looking skyward. Craning our heads to see the precursor to our fate. There it was, of one the dirigibles, lit up against the night sky. Ablaze and tilting violently, veering horribly downwards, falling slowly as it’s crew tried desperately to slow it’s descent. These bloated behemoths that float above our city, carry our stratified elite. Those noble men who rule over this barren land. Puppeteers up high with no idea their strings have been cut. They say that if you went out on a quiet night you could hear their music, their laughter, the quiet clink of their glasses floating through the dust filled air. After the Water Wars, most of the politicians and the rich took to their giant airships to escape the riots. They claimed it was to safeguard democracy, but as the riots subdued they never returned, living among the clouds — gods looking down upon us mortals. Someone in the crowd shouted and it echoed through the bodies. We’ve got it. We’ve hit the right one. The Royal Ship. As it came ponderously down you could hear the crackle of the flames in the cabin. Oily black smoke poured out as it stumbled lecherously towards the ground, debris felling from every orifice. Papers, furniture, a woman. She fell from the ship, her ruffled dress consumed by flame as she tumbled screaming through the air. Someone in the crowd pointed her out and mimicked her screams to laughter around them. She disappeared behind a building. I felt sick. The ship started to dip below the skyline and the crowd surged towards where it would land. You gripped my hand as we were swept forward with the crowd. Surging to see the downed ship and leer at it’s ruptured belly. To behold our slain gods. We turned the corner and could see the monstrous beast laying on it’s side groaning and shrieking, spewing fire and smoke. The air was filled with a greasy black tang and our eyes stung, the heat palpable over a block away. Bodies and other detritus strewn around the wreckage and burning fragments filled the air, swirling and twisting, covering everything with a layer of ash. You didn’t want to move closer but we were part of the crowd now and we moved as one. Turning over bodies with the tips of our boots, straining to recognise faces through the ash and the tears and the blood. Looking for our prize. We stumbled through the smoke searching and retching from the fumes, unable to get too close to the wreckage for the fire. After some time the crowd drifted back, forming a perimeter around the site. Waiting for the flames to die down. I stood and thought of the futility of our actions, my back cold as I stared at this Hydra’s head, my stomach hungry at the smell of roasting meat.

I was one of those men. The second man to be precise. It quite startled the floor of office workers that we fell past. First one, then another, then another. All three of us falling past your window at 11:24 on a Tuesday morning. As I was falling past I caught your eye. Your mouth gently agape, in shock from the first man. Your hand paused in tucking a stray lock of brown hair behind your right ear. You were not quite in shock, there was not enough time. Your senses had detected something untoward but it was not yet in your faculties to be shocked, at least not in any such conscious way. Our eyes locked briefly. Yours blue and mine a light brown. I wished that I had been written in as a better role in this play of our lives. Man Falling Past Window #2 didn’t even have a speaking line, just a brief on-stage presence. A startling one admittedly, but not a main role, merely a catalyst for the main character to undergo some change. Perhaps you will remember me in the dramatic finale to act 3. No, I wished I was written in as the lead in a great play by the second greatest writer in some golden age. We would have met, eyes meeting across the room, much like now. We would have got to know each other, dated and finally married at a small church in your parents seaside town. We would have had children, two, both boys. We would have live happily, retired by the sea and died within weeks of each other, one of us from a broken heart. Instead, I have been cast as Man Falling Past Window #2. I tried to remember my life before I was falling, but everything was indistinct. Maybe I had no other life, maybe this is the only existence I know, falling through my life with great speed. An existence measured in meters. … A man feel past my window today. Well, three men to be precise. My eyes locked with the second man and in that brief instant I realised that I loved him. Not the spectacular love of anguished teenage poetry, but the quiet, simple love of couple long married. A love that doesn’t have to be expressed or even communicated. It just exists, almost as a corporeal thing. With this love came sadness. Regret. I was mourning for a man I loved but did not know, while our eyes were still locked. He slipped past the lower sill and and I knew I would never see him again. I rose from my chair and made my way to the roof. A single moving thing in the reeling stillness of our office at 11:24 on a Tuesday morning. The wind plucked at my skirt as I moved towards the edge. It was cold, goosebumps forming on my skin. I threw myself off. … A woman fell past the window today.

It may have been what you were once expecting, but I have to admit… I’m a little taken aback. I guess I’ve never actually been this high up, I’ve never truly seen this far. I just thought there would be more. (shame) Have you always been so tall? Have you always been so high? That must be nice. You must see things nobody else does. See things like nobody else does. Well I suppose you’ve had years to pore over these gargantuan horizons, haven’t you? Almost a millennia? Yes. Yes, I figured it would have been something along those lines. Has it changed much? Well, that’s a shame. A shame. Shame. (shame) Oh no. No, I’m just thinking. At my age there’s no point dwelling on the melancholy. Who has the time? Oh, well, yes. Yes, I suppose you do. Do you even feel time anymore? It’s okay, I wasn’t ever looking for an answer. (shame) “The world is a fluttering dynamo,” somebody once said. Wholly eternal, and yet morosely finite, I say. A disappointment of the finest quality. With which do you agree? Now, that, is an interesting take. The religion of man has never really been my forte.

I’d heard stories from some of the older guys. They had been around before the increased radiation forced them to shut up the windows, so they had stories, but having never seen outside the ship you cannot get a sense for it. The vastness of it. The sheer infinity of your experience. I tried to remember my training as I spun through space: Never take your helmet off; Don’t panic; Always stay close to the ship. As I spun round, I looked to where the ship was now. I could still see it in the distance, light glinting off it’s fragments. I should have been scared. We were taught to never leave the safety of the ship, it was too dangerous. The radiation was too strong and there was no oxygen. Never take your helmet off. Always stay close to the ship. The ship was an oasis of safety in this desert inhospitable nothingness. After the turmoil of the last days on Earth, safety was everything. My breath was starting to catch — the oxygen meter pulsing red. I wanted to experience the feel of space, this nothingness, on my skin. I took my helmet off. I breathed in. They’d lied.

I was torn. At my core — my red-blooded, primal core — I was fuming. Tom knows we have deadlines. He knows to not fuck with those deadlines. I knew something was wrong. Fear rushed through my body, I shook the fury from my mind. Tom was usually punctual to the point of obnoxious aggression. Something has happened. The phone dialled. I was met with nothing but hypnotic tones. My stomach tightened with every passing pulse of the speaker and I gripped the counter, a wave of nausea crashing into me. Finally the call connected. “TOM!?” I cried out in anxious panic, desperate to know he was safe. Again, nothing. A pure radio silence. I knew it — he was gone. I can’t believe I was so hard on him for this deadline. Our last words together were a vile exchange of pressure and resentment. My head fell into my hands, a wave of emotion went to escape my eyes when I heard a cough on the other end of the line. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM!?” I demanded of the faceless monster, whose life was now mine to end. “Oh hi mate!” Tom Gamon — cool and collected. That bastard.

He picked up. ‘blaargblegarrrblleglaabbbble.’ ‘Hello? Tom, is that you?’ ‘blaargblegarrrblleglaabbbble.’ Someone else took the phone. ‘Hello, who is it please?’ A woman’s voice. Tom’s mum. ‘It’s _______.’ ‘Oh hi ________. Sorry about that, Tom is having a bit of trouble at the minute. I’m afraid he’s turned into a bit of a squid.’ ‘A bit of a squid?’ ‘Well, Tim thinks he’s more of a cuttlefish, but we looked it up and he definitely looks more like a squid.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘Yes, it’s the worst I’ve seen him actually. A touch translucent and clammy normally, but he’s quite bad this time. We’ve had to put him in the bath.’ She paused. ‘He was getting ink on the sofa you see.’ She proffered as an explanation. ‘Well I’m sorry to hear that, I hope it doesn’t get as bad as Mark.’ ‘Oh no, not as bad as Mark.’ They both paused, reflecting on how bad it was with Mark. ‘Me and Tim are sick of calamari now anyway, sick of it. But in these economic times…’ ‘Yes yes, we all understood.’ ‘In these economic times you see.’ She continued, trailing off. The automatic justification of a woman worn down through explanation.

Why are you driving so fast? I clawed feebly at the passenger door. You grabbed my hand. Menacing, skeletal claws ensnared my own vulnerable talons, causing them to meekly withdraw into my lap. The car tore on. Your eyes are on me, always on me, scorching through my worn-out skin, tearing me apart, desperately seeping their way into my soul. I won’t meet your gaze. Why are you driving so fast? No response. Only more speed. Nothing but your desire to hurtle us into some distant future. Why are you driving so fast? My blurry eyes gazed through the steam of the window. Your eyes, full of fury, locked once more on the road ahead. You pushed the pedal to the floor. I felt the rattling vehicle gain further momentum. The outside world started to blend into one never-ending cityscape, rolling on repeat. Rolling on and on. Why are you driving so fast? You didn’t answer me. You never answer me. Just claws and eyes. Always claws and eyes with you. Scorching and seeping. You looked back at me. I gave in, and for a second I met your gaze, desperately hoping it would be the real you. It wasn’t.

You were mad. Real mad. Your girl’s been beat up by a tough guy mad. I told you to forget about it but you just told me to get in the car. You didn’t tell me where we were going, just get in the car. You were going to deal with it. I tried to see your expression in the steady flash of the streetlights but all I could see were your knuckles on the steering wheel. White. We veered into a side road and stopped suddenly. You didn’t say anything, just sat there with your hands gripping the wheel. You got out and slammed the door. I whispered that I was sorry. You didn’t hear. You stormed round the corner, hands shoved deep into your pockets. That was that last I saw of you. I stayed in the car for a while and smoked a cigarette. Then I got out and walked to the main road to hail a cab. I gave him my husbands address and sat in the back, looking out as the city slid by. I liked you Johnny, I really did, but even good men have to die some day.

Staring at the empty space in disbelief, I gently lowered the lid and looked at all six sides of the container, ensuring it was the correct one. Slowly, I opened it once more, expecting it to be full of its previous contents, sure I had simply gone blind for a mere second. However, once more it was empty. It had gone. It wasn’t there. A single, cold drip of sweat formed on my forehead, a physical cue of my acute fear. “How strange…” I mused in a panicked, yet arguably collected way, “these four wooden walls were once home to something rather precious… Where the fuck has it gone?” I threw the barren vessel to the ground in a burst of adrenaline-fuelled rage and immediately tore the place apart. Every drawer, every shelf, every tiny nook and minuscule cranny I devoured with my hands, desperate to find those treasures once hidden. “This can’t be happening,” I thought, “not again… not AGAIN.” I pulled out my phone, drawing up a fellow comrade I knew had been stolen from before, and was bound to have tactics of brutal revenge to share. “Fuck,” I typed with haste, “Mum’s found my fucking porn again!”

I looked over the lid at the eager faces looking up at me. ‘It’s here.’ I said, forcing a smile. A wave of elation rippled through the crowd, the crashing waters of hope washing over them, washing them of their pain and their suffering, their fatigue, their hunger. They were buoyant. I closed the lid of the small box and stood, closing the clasps. ‘We need to get going, we need to get out of this canyon before dark.’ I said to no-one, but it was received with nods and the group started to move, picking their way carefully back through the remains of the caravan party that had been attacked here however long ago. Judging by the way the bodies were strewn it was those Creatures that had done it. Nothing else would be bold enough to attack a royal caravan like this. Who had taken it then? Probably some scavenger. My chest felt heavy, a weight steadily accumulating in my stomach. They needed hope, and he’d heard dark rumours that there were other ways through the checkpoints without a writ. He glanced at the women and stopped thinking about it.

This wasn’t the bar he remembered. A gentle green neon sign that had never been there before flashed on and off overhead, illuminating the faces of old, worn-out men. BEER $4 Off. Nobody moved, or even stirred. BEER $4 Off. Heads were sunken into hands all along the bar. BEER $4 Off. He studied the faces of these ancient, remorseful relics, encapsulated by the way their lines and wrinkles sagged and swam, creating a map of life across their cheeks and foreheads. He delicately prodded a fleshy face. Nobody moved. It felt like he was walking through a still frame, through a captured moment hanging in neither time nor space. His fingers traced the frayed leather of the decrepit stools, and a faint musky smell filled his nostrils, making him recoil in disgust. He noticed that the sign hadn’t flashed on in a while. Slowly, he turned back to the bar, where a sea of glowing eyes were fixated on him. He had to get out. He turned to run, but the door was no longer in the space he thought it had once occupied. A pair of hands landed on his shoulders, threateningly making their way to his throat.

“Excuse me.” He asked an official looking man near the door. “Is this… heaven?” The man turned round to regard him.He was tall, with dark hair and olive skin, and wearing a suit that wouldn’t look out of place at a funeral. “No.” he said bluntly. “Oh, I just though that I would be coming to heaven”. The man sighed audibly as though he was explaining a simple concept to a child who didn’t understand. “Have you ever lied?” the man said wearily. “What?” “Lied. Told something other than the truth.” “Well, of course. I mean, nothing bad, I haven’t covered up a murder or anything but I’ve definitely lied before”. He replied, getting a bit flustered. “Then obviously you’re not going to be in heaven.” “Really? Just for a lie?” “There was too many people getting in, so they had to raise the standards. It was costing them a fortune. Lied? Hell. Cheated? Hell. Broke a promise? Hell. Didn’t offer your train seat to that women even though you definitely caught her eye and she seemed like she’d had a long day? Hell.” “Gosh. I hadn’t realised.” “No-one does buddy, no-one does. Now follow me, I’ll introduce you.”

As my body connected with the rough surface of the wood beneath me, a sprinkling of dust rose from the ground. Delicate wisps danced through the air. I studied the way they rose and fell, these graceful, floating beings and their heavenly ascension. For a moment I forgot where I was, until the light flickered beneath me. I was pulled back to the cold floorboards, my eyes fixating on the leaking illuminance once more. My sight was transfixed, and I could feel my cornea tighten with every lingering second. After a gruelling glare I knew I was never going to escape, I forced myself to look away, my eyes immediately filling with tears. My lungs ached, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had taken a breath. I was trying so hard to stay silent that I hadn’t exhaled, and I choked on the trapped air in my lungs. I clutched my mouth and pressed my ear to the ground, listening out for any footsteps below me. With a sigh of relief, I turned back to the light source, but it had been replaced by an infinite darkness. I heard the creak of the doorknob turning. They had found me.

I noticed the source of the light, it was coming up through the gaps in the floorboards. I walked over and lay flat on the floor, pressing my eye to the gap. A man looked back. ‘Hello.’ He said brightly. Lying flat on his back with his arms by his side he was wedged between the joists of the floorboards, only inches away from the gap on the other side. ‘Sorry, am I disturbing you? I’ll turn it off.’ He flicked the switch on the flashlight he was holding. ‘No no, please go ahead.’ ‘Oh good.’ He flicked it back on. ‘I don’t much like the dark.’ ‘How did you get down there?’ ‘Down here?’ He replied, gesturing around the space with his eyes. ‘Oh I sort of slipped I guess.’ ‘Slipped?’ ‘Yes slipped, right through the gap, woosh! Got wedged between these two joists.’ He replied cheerily, shifting his weight side to side to demonstrate he predicament. ‘Oh.’ I faltered. ‘How long have you been down there?’ ‘Down here?’ He replied. ‘Not sure really, what day is it now?’ ‘Tuesday.’ ‘Oh Tuesday you say? Must be about twelve years now I guess.’ He shrugged. ‘Ah.’ I ventured. He smiled warmly. ‘Well, mustn’t hold you.’ ‘No. No, I guess not.’ I straightened up and carried on out the door, a faint whistling rising from the floorboard behind.

We’d been waiting for hours, an uncomfortable silence filling the space between us. I was becoming impatient, that restless itch of anxiety clawing at my chest. Johnny, the tall, skeletal creature I’d seen maybe once or twice before, lit a cigarette. His emaciated face catching and immediately dispelling light from the spark. “This fucking ra-,” he tried to whine, before the first trails of smoke fully escaped his lips. The words caught in his throat with an exasperated, guttural splutter, catching us all off guard. Not bothering to finish his lame rant, he stared out into the distance, the empty silence falling upon us again. We followed his gaze to the lone headlights trailing down the long dirt track. “This’ll be him,” Chief stated grimly as he rose from his chair, breaking the perfect circle we had so painstakingly forged. I clenched my fists in apprehension, my knuckles a ghostly white from the crippling chill. One by one we stood, hovering over the shivering form that writhed on the ground in front of us. The truck pulled up, Johnny slithered away to open the trunk, and we faced one another once more. “All right,” I said, “I’ll get the legs.”

Losing the buoyancy of my breath I slipped under the water. I kicked back up, my legs feeling cold and stiff. My mouth rose above the surface, I inhaled. We locked eyes, but we were too tired to speak, our energy focused on treading water. Kicking. Kicking. Kicking constantly against the desperate hands drawing me down, I exhaled. The sound of rain hitting water faded, replaced by the the infinite ocean pressing against me, holding me. A jealous lover coaxing me to remain. I kicked it away. I inhaled. We’d rowed for so long. Rowed away from everything. Rowed from desperation, from regret. From shelter. Safety. We rowed for so long we forgot what it was like to not row. Then she was gone. Overboard, into the sea. So I dove; I swam; I grasped; I clung; I saved. The boat was gone. I exhaled. Under the water the fear, the cold, slipped away. Here it was safe. An embrace, longing me to stay. I refused. I kicked. I broke the surface. I inhaled. She was gone. I desperately scanned the surface. She was gone. I tried calling her but nothing came out. She was gone. I exhaled.

The suffocating heat immediately engulfed her, spinning her head momentarily. In a vulnerable state of confusion, she allowed a wayward throng of strangers to steer her out of the station, barely allowing a moment to pause or take in these strange new surroundings. Eventually the crowd dispersed as the narrow streets opened onto a vast piazza, where a sudden flash of light made her squint against the sun. Gentle gusts of a distant wind caught her tousled hair, forcing her to set down the tattered leather bag she’d been painfully clutching to her chest for the past three days. With this savaged companion resting at her feet, a familiar sound rang through the empty space before her. A distant memory, a voice, filled the space between her temples, which until this point had been violently overflowing with anguished hopes of freedom. Immediately she moved, snatching the bag from her feet, lurching onward, away from the fury that was tearing its way towards her. Picking up speed, trying to avoid the increasing number of eyes fixating themselves upon her, she slipped. He ran towards her, looming over her fallen body with the venom she had so desperately been trying to escape.

A man across the parking lot eyed her up; assessing. She shivered in the night air — it hadn’t been this cold when she set off. He approached. “You here for…” She nodded, cutting him off. He headed back towards the dark squat block behind, a security light illuminating a door on one side. She followed. Approaching the door he pulled out a key and unlocked it. “20 minutes.” She bobbed her head and he opened the door. As she moved forwards he grabbed her arm, handing her a rope “You’ll want this. Tie it properly, we lost someone last week when it came undone. Couldn’t pull themselves back.” She took it and stepped through. The door closed and the room was submerged into darkness. Her eyes adjusted slowly. At the centre of the room, the shoebox. She dropped the rope and approached it, picking it up and lifting the lid. Unwrapping the bundle inside, she saw it — one of the last fragments of meteorite from The Incident. She held the box in one hand and reached in, touching the shard of rock. White. Black. The box hit the ground. The doorman swore. The young ones never come back.