Tabula Rasa

Mesmerised, perplexed, petrified… I suppose we felt it all. We felt everything. In this moment there was nothing we didn’t feel, or hadn’t felt, or would ever feel again. We felt it all. Time suddenly felt very peculiar, like it had never really meant anything all along. As we stood there, I thought back over our life and couldn’t quite believe it was almost over. Yet, here, now, every passing second was another eternity. The end was in sight but it wasn’t yet upon us. It was peculiar. Time suddenly became a constant, yet somehow benign, threat. Wasn’t that strange? Strange how a concept that once dictated our entire being, our daily meaning, suddenly felt like nothing at all. We squinted. We stood and we squinted. My fingers were interlocked with yours, my left hand firmly tucked into your right. Every few seconds your thumb would caress mine. I don’t know if it was a conscious movement, but I didn’t question it. There was no more time for questions anyway, but if I had enquired, I was pretty sure you would retract the circular motion. So I kept quiet and allowed myself to sink into the feeling on my skin, the one that was drawing from my memory our entire life’s work together. Each rotation from your thumb onto mine took me back another year. I saw everything. I felt everything for the first time all over again. I thought of our children, and wondered if you did too. We hadn’t heard from them, there was no way to hear from them, but I knew they must be glaring into the same sun as we were, standing as strong as we were. My mind raced over the billions of souls on the planet and I felt an overwhelming pang of togetherness. For the first time in history, the earth stood as one, and everybody was looking together. I guess there was simply nowhere else to look. I suppose our side of the earth had front row seats, as it were, but eyes from all over the world would have been as transfixed as our own. When the kids were younger, they used to draw faces on the sun. Bubbly, smiley, sanguine. Yet this wasn’t the face we were looking at now. Far from it. Blaring, searing, seething. This gargantuan sphere of flame hurtling towards us, staring us down. Taunting us, teasing us. Begging for us to make the first move. Yet we were powerless. What could we do in the face of such a monster? There was nothing to do but stand and wait. So we stood. And we waited. We’d stood here once before, years ago. I think it was the night we first met. I remember you vividly because your dress exactly matched the colour of your eyes, it even had the speckles of white and green, like it was designed from the sea in your eyes, and it blew me away entirely. Your eyes so blue. So blue, so deep, and so ready for an escape. So we escaped. We jumped on a bus, the first bus out of there, and we escaped. It was just you and I. (You and me?) I allowed myself one final smile as I imagined your rolling eyes mocking my poor grammar with a jovial intensity. You and me. Wait, was that right? I’m not even sure any more. My mind was wandering away from these final moments, so I pulled myself back to this spot, to your hand, to your caressing thumb. It was keeping me grounded. You were keeping me grounded. Here we were, once again. Isn’t it funny how everything comes back around? How nothing really changes? How nothing changes but everything somehow feels slightly different. I glanced at the trees. The leaves have changed shape over the years. They’re burning away now, but the change was terrifyingly noticeable in this moment. It was moving faster. The sun had never looked so big. It must have only been a few million miles away by this point. Had anybody seen this coming? I certainly hadn’t. Call it naivety, or maybe selfishness, ignorance perhaps, but we had made a life together, and my world was consumed with you. Nobody else had bothered to listen anyway, aside from those crazy few. There wasn’t any saving them either, though, so I’m glad I lived my life in bliss. With you. For some strange reason we were both incredibly calm. There were no tears, no raised voices, no furious, pointless attempts at redemption. Side by side, our fingers traced the lines in our palms, the lines we had carved out over the years, and we squinted. We didn’t need to look at each other, we didn’t need to speak. We knew. We just knew. The heat was almost upon us and I could feel the moisture seeping out through my pores. I could practically feel the life draining from my skin as my temperature rose to levels I have never experienced. I’d never been so aware of my own being before, I could feel every crevice and every follicle as they expanded and were overcome with fire. Coarse fingertips, still locked with your own, had finally stopped moving. Burning arm hair, roasting off with each passing second, left my forearms bare and vulnerable. Firm shoulders, sore at the weight of waiting, slowly sagged with the realisation of finite life. Weathered necks, guttural throats, creaking jawlines, furrowed brows, eyes drier than they had ever been before. From the depths, a single, solitary tear started to roll down my cheek before the heat of the sun stole it, sucking it up through the atmosphere. My final tear. In those final seconds our faces turned towards one another. Dry lips, no words, our final sentiments escaped. I love you. You are my world. My light. My reason. It has been an honour, my eternal lover. Finally we closed our eyes as we collided with the sun.

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.

She stood silently and watched him move. She watched his feet, those dragging feet that begrudgingly pulled him forwards. For a moment she doubted herself, doubted her foggy memory. She doubted everything at first. Straining her temples to the point of agony, she forced a memory to the surface, and all at once she was sure it was him. It had to be him. Watching the way the gentle sunlight bounced from his head, the way his hands parted the waves of air before him, she was overcome with longing. She approached him with caution, sure that too aggressive an approach would send him running once more. The fluid air was kinetic, filled with uncertainty, but laced with possibility. Her hands brushed down her thighs as she smoothed the pleats of her skirt into the crisp, clean lines she knew he liked. As her fingertips reached her knees, her skin tingled with anticipation. The same anticipation that was buzzing all around her, bouncing off of every surface. It was infectious, and her mind wondered to that train journey. It must have only been last week, but it felt like an eternity ago. Thinking about it, she realised that she couldn’t actually remember the last time she had seen him. The last time their fingers, lips, bodies, had met. Was it the train? When did he leave? The crowd on the terrace thinned as she edged closer and closer, allowing her a proper look at his face. On came another flicker of doubt. Something wasn’t quite right. There was a line where there hadn’t been a line before. The brow sunk a little too far south than she remembered. She tried desperately to recall the way she traced his jaw with her lips, and was sure the two didn’t align. She shook it off as nothing more than her mind playing tricks on her again. As he turned their eyes met. She forced away the doubt and ran to him, completely overwhelmed with emotion. She threw herself into his arms, engulfing him in infatuation. “What’s happening?” She heard against her trembling ears. Tears pricked at her eyes. The waiting, the wanting, it had all been worth it for this beautiful reunion, everything she had pictured it to be. “I know, I can’t believe it either!” Words were a struggle, getting them out was even harder, syllables fighting against the ever-growing lump in her throat. Her hands pulled his head closer into her, pulling his soul into hers as hard as she could. Sure they would combine as one if she tried hard enough. “No, I mean… what is happening? Who are you?” Slowly she pulled away, sure she hadn’t heard him properly. His face was ashen, and a look of contemplative fury mixed with irreparable confusion glossed across his skin. She had his face in her hands, sure it was a face she knew so well. She studied the rise and fall of his facial topography, making her way to his eyes, looking into them, looking through them, desperately seeking the recognition she desired. There it was again. Instead of recognition, in flooded that flicker of doubt. Something in his face changed. His eyes were no longer green, and the natural curl of his hair morphed into lank, lifeless locks, a shade of mousy brown she didn’t know. His broad shoulders shrank before her eyes and suddenly he was a stranger. She recoiled, the illusion instantly shattered. Who was this man? “Get away from me!” She hissed, throwing his face from her fingers, tearing at the beard that wasn’t there before. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. The knots inside of her tightened and contracted, and a wave of nausea threw her to the ground. Slowly he backed away, murmuring anxious notions as he retreated back into the crowd. Why did she recognise this sick feeling more than she now recognised this man? She was sure it was him. Granted it wasn’t a mirror image, but she thought she could see him in there. How had she gotten it so wrong? Memories flooded through her mind, clouding her sight. Visions of the man leaving her on the train flashed in front of her eyes, and a flurry of dread and fear filled her. Who was he? Where did he go? Could she even remember what he looked like any more? She exhaled. All at once, there was nothing. She may have fainted, she may have merely blinked for a second too long, but when she came back around she was at a market stall. She must have fallen into a daydream and wandered outside, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d done that without realising. She wondered what had happened, but could recall nothing. She looked at her hands, and they were laced with a gentle film of perspiration, facial hair scattered along her fingertips, clinging to the moist surface. Where did those come from? This feeling was becoming all too familiar, the lack of any clarity, of any real memories. How many times had she shrugged off her inability to remember anything? Pulling herself back into reality, she put down the scarf she was holding, letting the silk fall through her fingers. It was hot. Sun was blaring down and she regretted her choice of jeans, the thick material clinging to her as she strolled through the narrow lanes of the crowd. The heat tickled her forehead, and a gentle bead of sweat appeared. A train passed in the distance, its horn pulling her attention. Something niggled at the back of her mind, a memory surfacing. Suddenly she remembered. He stood and he walked towards the carriage door. He turned and faced her, his blue eyes locking onto hers. He opened his mouth. This was it, this was the memory she was willing to die for. Suddenly a light blonde curl caught her eye across the crowd. She couldn’t believe it. She saw him again. The man from the train.

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.

I was a good hundred metres behind you, but I never let you out of my sight. There was no way you could escape me again. I wouldn’t let it happen again. I’d spotted you at the base of the mountain and began the steep ascent behind you. I don’t think you saw me coming. This time I would get you. I could feel it, through the blistering cold I could feel it. Forwards we moved, separated by the space of an endless chase. You climbed onwards. This morning, I thought I had escaped you, but I was wrong. I was always wrong with you. You had such a way of appearing when I would least expect it. I know now I should always expect it. You watched me. I felt you watching me. I knew you were there, although you never spoke. Never breathed a word. I could feel you. The snow didn’t stop you like I’d hoped it would. I tried to move quicker. You were gaining speed. You climbed onwards. Once or twice I thought I saw you turn around and catch my eye. At every flicker of hesitation I threw myself behind the nearby trees. Up until now they had provided me with adequate cover, allowed me to slink and sleuth behind you without giving myself away. The trees were starting to thin out, however, and I was sure you would see me eventually. Really see me. I had to remain concealed for as long as possible, until I was ready. The snow was getting heavier now, I could hardly see through the falling flakes, and I had to reduce the distance between us to keep you in my sights. I climbed onwards. I thought that the further I climbed, the higher the altitude and the thicker the snow, you would begin to retreat. But you didn’t. If anything, the climb excited you even further, made you hungrier for the chase. The snow was so much thicker now. I could hardly move fast enough. Panic started to pulse through me, throbbing my temples and driving me harder up the mountain. My legs were starting to give in as the blanket of fluffy white flakes transformed into an icy roadblock. I pushed harder. I climbed onwards. The cold had started to seep its way into my bones. I thought I could withstand the mountain, but I was starting to lag. I hoped you would falter before I did. I pushed harder. My strides became more determined, there was purpose in every step. I couldn’t forget why I was here. I had to reach you soon. We climbed onwards. I was slipping. I was cold. It was dark. There was no way I could go much further. I had to rest, to breathe, to conceal myself in this overwhelming darkness. I knew you were almost upon me. I had to do something. We climbed onwards. Night was falling. You were desperate. You were afraid. This was my chance.

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.

For a moment, his head was swimming in the putrid heat — a groggy, lifeless lull that was slowly pulling him into consciousness. The dream he had sunken into was one of the sweetest dreams he had ever had. You were there, as always, like in every dream he’s ever had since the day you left. As he dragged himself back into the real world, a sudden dread came over him. A dread of the reality, a dread of his life, a dread of who was behind the door. Was it finally you? He looked around and his lungs ached. Every time he glanced over the hovel around him, he wished you would come back. The curtains were drooping, the damp on the walls had started seeping down onto the floor, and the flies had become a consistent companion. He watched the flies. He imagined their wings, the speed they vibrated at, the heights at which they hovered, and the thought made him nauseous. Their velocity, the vertigo, the momentum. Everything made him tremble. He gripped the side of the bed and tried to steady himself. The knock rang once more. He didn’t move. “Come on man, open the door.” He heard through the thin, creaking wood. “It’s been weeks. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He didn’t open his mouth. He wasn’t okay. He held his breath and slid back under the covers. Back into the safety of the nothingness. “Go away” he thought, just one more insular monologue to add to the anthology. “Just go away.” All he wanted was to fall back into that dream again. The dream he so desperately wished would become a reality. The dream of you. He wanted to take the sweet heat of that room and slink into the unconscious. Everything he needed, everything he loved, it was all in his unconscious. When you left he changed. The colour drained from his cheeks, the gleam in his eye whittled itself down into nothingness, and a bleak air slowly seeped its way into his soul. Slowly he stopped leaving the apartment, the place you’d both made a life together in. For so long he was convinced you were going to come back. Everyday he grew tired, withdrawn, and yearned for you. He yearned for you, and your touch. “You know what?” The voice rambled on. “I give up. I fucking give up.” He heard the footsteps withdraw and finally let out a breath. “Good,” he thought, “Give up on me.” There was nothing left, no thoughts, no feelings. Can emptiness be described as a feeling? Voids on voids on voids, there was nothing but empty space now. When you left you took everything. You took everything but him, and he never understood why. Another knock found its way to the door. This one was different though, it was softer, it was familiar. Was he in the dream again? The heat was there, you were there. Were you there? “James… it’s me.”

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.

I finally agreed to it. After months of lost battles, I finally gave in to you and agreed to escape. We planned to use the alarm as a cover. We’d had these drills before, and knew how people worked during them. This moment had been in the works for months, and your plans were too good to turn down. We had the ploy, we knew what was at stake, and we were ready for anything. Anything for the price of freedom. Everybody filed out of their spots and started towards the door. You said something I couldn’t quite make out. We both fell in line, but you were pulled upstream away from me. I tried to manoeuvre my way through the bodies towards you. I was sure you were trying to tell me something. For the first time I wondered how far you would go. “Hey, D-” “Come on guys, move quicker,” a grating voice bellowed out from the back of the room. “You know how pissed he gets when we’re not there on time.” I bit my tongue and we kept moving with the crowd. Our feet trudged along, the heat of our proximity climbing as we navigated towards the narrow stairwell with an awkward, choreographed grace. I was nervous. As we trudged, I looked around. I looked once more upon the walls that surrounded us, kept us captive, kept us safe. We were safe. The stones this far down had such a strange quality about them — the angles and jagged textures utterly mesmerising. As I went for the first step my gaze was distracted by a new glint above me. I hadn’t seen anything new in a long time. I thought I had every colour, every glisten of this space memorised. I saw it all on the back of my eyelids every time I shut my eyes. Shapes and spaces, visions that relayed themselves over and over. I looked at the walls. The same four walls with four-hundred different shades of burnt stone. The surrounding voices dragged me back to focus. “I’m not ready to go” I thought I heard someone say behind me. Maybe it was there. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was me. In the moment I phased out I had lost sight of you. I tried to push my way forwards to lay eyes on you once more, but you had managed to scale the stairs with a careless ease. All at once I heard a commotion two flights above, right by the surface. Angry jeers and colliding bodies exploded into my vision, and you were at the heart of it. I bolted forwards, desperate to get to you before anything happened. Hands of fury were clawing at your legs, searching for something you were fighting to keep hidden. Your hand shot into your pocket. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, until it was too late. I saw you go for the pin. I changed my mind. “NO! D-”

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.

My time was coming. There were only five other men in front of me. I was number nine. Nine. Nine has always been my least favourite number. A flurry of whimpers, a violent shove, a never-ending scream, an abrupt thud. You could tell when they fell past the window because another round of cheers erupted below us. Then another. It was getting closer. Then another. “I’m not ready to fall.” I heard someone whimpering behind me. I didn’t need to turn around, I didn’t care who it was. None of us were ready to fall. We’d been chosen too soon. We’d been caught too soon. Then another. “I don’t believe this.” More pathetic offerings fluttered around me. One more step forwards. My ankles were starting to grate, the shackles of a thousand mistakes weighing them into the ground. I thought of you. I thought about what I had done to get here. Then another. “I didn’t even do anything!” There was no point in lying any more. We were all guilty. Even if we were here for a crime we didn’t commit, we all deserved this. There was nothing redemptive about a sinner who was too scared to pay for what he’s done. When they found me I knew I had no chance of escape. No chance of pleading my case. No chance of redemption or forgiveness. I was guilty. I gave myself freely, knowing my time had finally come. If anything, this day was long overdue. I was living on borrowed time, as they say. Then another. “NEXT!” It was my turn. I looked over the edge and thought about the fall. About the cheers. The faces of those we had wronged. I felt a hand on my shoulder, the pressure in the fingers increasing, and suddenly I was off. As I fell, I counted the seconds in my head. One. I bet you didn’t think I was capable of such things, did you? Two. That day was a blur. You were an infatuation of the highest degree, and I knew immediately that I had to watch the life drain from your eyes. Three. I planned it there and then. I’d done it before, and somehow gotten away with it. But you were different. Four. I fooled you. I was guilty from the second our eyes met. There was no way for you to know. Five. When the colour left your lips I looked at your eyes properly, for the first time. Six. They were so serene. I looked into those dark pools and swam as deep as I could. Seven. This time I knew they would come for me. You can’t drain a soul and expect to stay safe. I would fall. Eight. The ‘Punisher’s Plummeting Platform’. Some wisecrack had coined the term, truly believing it wasn’t real. Jesus Christ it was real. It was real and it was for me. I was in it. I was plummeting. I fell. Nine has always been my least favourite number.

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.