Act One
I’ve had three loves in my lifetime. Number one; Methadone. Methadone makes the whole world better. If you’ve never tried it, it’s going to be a bit hard for you to follow my description, but try anyway. It’s like the trees are golden, have always been golden, and yet I’ve never noticed. It’s like the whole world shines like the moon reflected in my glass of my wine. The tragedy of this beautiful vision is that it seems just as ethereal as the reflection of the moon.
This is where my second love comes in; benzodiazepine. Benzo lets you understand the beautiful world you now seem to inhabit in all of its grandeur. In a moment, you don’t have to hold the moonlight, you don’t have to drink the wine, you realize that it’s being there is enough, and that all you must do is to look and appreciate it. This is the grand vision of the world that used to greet me every day. That vision brought on the need for my third love; someone to share the vision with.
Brandy is my third love, and she makes the other two loves look like childish infatuations. She’s the one who ties it all together, because what are all the pretty sights in the world if you have nobody to see them with? Her hair and eyes are a deep pelican black, and her fingernails are red. As red as the wine in both our glasses as we sit at the table on my balcony that overlooks the city we both live in.
The city looks like a thousand glittering stars from here. I’m only a story up, but here, I couldn’t be farther from the people on the street. Sitting here holding her hand, there’s nowhere I could go that I could be farther from their hustle bustle and normality. This is perfection, or so I believe. We’ve lived here for about four years now. We both work, and the work buys the food and the drugs, and the drugs pay for everything else. Inside the house, there’s some food, a few chairs, a bed, nothing special, but it’s ours.
The world we live in is a beautiful balance of hypocrisies. The government tells us that drugs have taken over our lives, but the government is made of men who all want their fix. The war on drugs is still officially on, but the two sides have reached a happy peace. By peace, of course, I mean one side finally realized what a losing battle they were fighting. There’s a dealer on every corner, and a politician on every corner, waiting in line.
Is this a bad thing? I think our forefathers might have thought so. Then again, I really doubt the forefathers could imagine the world that I can see, a story up, in the arms of my three loves. I guess it’s a question to leave to the philosophers.
The night passes and the sun drifts slowly upwards, while we still slumber quietly on the porch. My alarm watch rings at seven, and I am off to pay the bills. I kiss Brandy as she doses. She doesn’t have to wake up for another hour. I dress quickly, finding a shirt and pants that have been washed in the last few weeks. I pop a few vitamin pills as I comb my hair after eating a tuna sandwich. It’s amazing how well you can live off vitamins and tuna.
I walk out the door after putting on my coat. Quite a treat I must look, in the finest clothes I own. Brown shirt, red vest, dull blue jeans, all topped with a fine brown trench-coat. The coat was my father’s. I wear it in all seasons. It doesn’t get too warm around here. It’s where I got my nickname: Browncoat Bailey. I march down the steps of my palace and begin my stroll down main street, tipping the hat that I’m not wearing to all those I pass.
After a few minutes, I pass the speaking wall. My friends and I are all far away from each other, and cannot keep in touch, so the speaking wall is all we have to keep us together. When one of us passes the wall, we describe our kingdom to our fellow shahs so they may imagine a slice of the splendor that is not theirs. I see the scrawls and with a small marker from my pocket, add my own, near the others I have written.
Golden Trees
Placing the marker back in my pocket I quickly move onward down the streets which are now beginning to bustle with life. The kings of the city come down from their towers to join in common toil. All must suffer now and again for their kingdoms. Many of them I recognize from the last time I journeyed this long way. I think it was yesterday. I tip the hat that I’m not wearing, and they tip the ones they wish they were wearing. Nobody speaks, there is nothing to speak about. This is the lowest point in our lives.
That was a lie. The lowest point is what comes next. Work. Toil. Struggle. For the sake of my love I must persevere. All three of them. All told, even work is glorious in service of my kingdom. I work at a cannery a few blocks from my palace. The work is dull and degrading, but it must be done. At the end of the day, I leave my post, clock my time, and receive my wage. My employer lives a thousand miles away. I’ve never seen his face, and he’s never seen mine. Computers have made everything much simpler in the workplace.
I start back from work with a spring in my step. I walk down a street to my left, veering off my path home. It’s time to do the shopping. I walk up to Little Ozzie and smile. His face responds in kind, with an automated smile on the holographic screen where the mannequin’s head would be. I insert my wage card into the nearby slot. The machine asks me if I want the usual. I nod my head and within three minutes, it’s sitting in several large brown sacks next to me. Computers have made this particular relationship a lot less taxing as well.
The walk back to my palace takes me again past the speaking wall. I view once more the blue, red, and yellow messages that have been left by so many before me, and wonder what I will be writing here tomorrow. I see exactly the man I was looking for, exactly where I was expecting him. A small red-haired man whose name I’ve never bothered to learn is slitting on a small mat next to the wall. For anyone else, it would be a dangerous place to be at this time of day, but this man is untouchable. This is the man who supplies me with the keys to the kingdom.
I hand him the cash I took off my wage card at Little Ozzie’s, and he rummages in his pockets for a while, looking for what is mine. No words need to be spoken, I’m a regular. After a few moments, he hands me two small bags. Two loves in hand, I move to peruse the third. The walk to my house doesn’t take long, and before long is taken, I’m in her arms again.
Brandy and I are one again. The separation was harder on her than it was on me, this I know. The time spent at that dirty school must only be non-stop anguish for one as lovely as she is. Those filthy children, pulling at her hair, harassing her to the point of madness, truly not a life I would have wished on anyone. She takes it well though, as do I my job at the cannery, for we have a life together. This life is grand and beautiful, and all either of us could ever desire, so not an ill word of the day is spoken between us. Tonight not even a pleasant word is spoken. Words are not needed. Some things are mutually understood.
We take the pills.
Out again on the balcony, I revel in the grandeur of my kingdom. At this time of night, all is perfect. The sun’s light is gradually receding, but it has not quite faded from view. As I stare out into the world, I see the sun smile, and then speak. It speaks to me without speaking, a golden language that tells a story of its tragic descent. I am wracked with overwhelming sorrow at its fall, but am still moved at the beauty of its words.
I hear a knock.
It’s them. I knew someday they would come. The war against my kind is all but over, but some still seek to rob kings of their treasures. I’ve waited for this day, and I have prepared. I have two weapons waiting for me to wield them and fend off the attackers. If they are to disturb my tranquility I will make them sway in the somber intensity that is combat. Sadly for all parties involved, however, I am lacking the motivation, or maybe the ability, to leave my chair.
The world is too bright, the sun too low, the night too beautiful for me to disturb it with my motions. I pray I am mistaken, that it is someone else, and that they will leave me be. I pray to any god that will take me that he in his infinite kindness will not take from me what I have.
The knocking continues, and I know that through it all, it is them. They have come. It is time for this beautiful frolic through the fineries of existence to come to a tragic end. I take in the moment, with Brandy’s head resting softly on my chest. This is perfection. This final moment here is the perfection that people seek all of their lives. Having found it, I have nothing to lose. Let them come. Those fools will never understand what I see right now, and for that reason let them take me. If it will add a small bit of meaning to their otherwise devoid little worlds, let them take me. I pity them, for they will never know the golden trees. They will never know the murmurings of the sun. They will wander forever in the darkness, and for this I pity them.
Act Two
Oh to go from the top to the very bottom of the world. They dragged Brandy and I from our places on the Balcony with no gentle touch. As we were pulled through the door of our palace, our hands released each other, and that was the last I saw of her for a long time. We were dragged in separate directions down the long hallway of the apartment complex, before my face was fitted with a black bag to deprive my sight.
I met the darkness and greeted it as a familiar friend. It and I knew each other well through the lids of my eyes. I had the most unpleasant sensation of being lifted and thrown into a vehicle. I was on my back, my hands cuffed behind me, lying on a bed of rope and equipment. The ride then began. In my mind, I kept a slight grasp of the directions we turned, so as to escape and begin to make my way home. Sadly, I soon lost track of the turns, and I figured I may be doomed to suffer whatever fate my captors had in store for me. For nearly an hour we drove, until finally the vehicle came to a rough stop. The stop was abrupt, jerking me into a roll. I slammed against what I imagine was the back seat, and lied there for a few moments.
When the back hatch was opened and I was removed, the black was also removed from my face. Again I could see, and what a world there was to see. The land of my captors was a green sprawl that was dotted with fruit bearing trees. The road ended about a hundred meters from a plain white building that had many windows. Over the door, it said “Home”.
I now faced the man who had taken me here. He was about six feet tall, wore black rimmed glasses and a black uniform, and was smiling. The smile was slightly unnerving to say the least, considering the conditions under which I had arrived. He spoke to me in a rasping voice of a much older man than he looked.
“Welcome, Jordan, to your new home for the next few weeks.”
“Home? I do believe you have just now separated me from that particular comfort.”
“You’ll recall I said “new” home just now. You’ll be living here until you’re free from the drugs. After this, you’ll be free to go.”
“Free me? You merely want to chain me to your vision of the world. What sort of a policeman are you?”
“I’m not a policeman of any sort. I’m a doctor.”
“Where’s Brandy? Is she here too?”
“She’s in another facility, about seven miles to the north.”
“When can I see her?”
“When you’re released. Now go inside. You’ll find some new friends waiting there.”
I entered the white building and waiting for me were three men dressed similarly to the Doctor I had just spoken to. They were kind to me and sat me down in a chair, saying I had a film to watch. That was when me re-education began. Home was a fringe operation run by a few extremists, with a total of six facilities all outside city lines. The idea behind it was to take back society one kidnapping at a time, and to brainwash their captives in to believing in the cause, so they would seek to better the world around them by taking action against the production and distribution of drugs. It was interesting propaganda to be sure. I used the time to plot. I would have to pretend. I would have to be crafty. They would release me only when they though I was ready, so I would have to look ready.
Once the film had finished, the smiley-faced villains took me to my room. They said the night would be hard, but by the next morning, I would be ready to begin in earnest. All guile and charm I nodded and thanked them. I knew nothing of the horror that was to be the coming night.
It was my first night in four years without any of my loves. The first feelings were that of doubt. I doubted myself, my plan, my hope of ever leaving this place. I saw the room, though pleasant looking, was truly a prison. The windows were barred and the door solid oak, and locked tight. There must be some way out, I thought. I clawed at the walls, rattled the door, banged on the glass panes. The doubt changed to panic. I was trapped. I jumped up and down and ran at the door. I slammed my books on the window. I searched for some sort of secret exit, but to no avail. I was trapped.
The panic turned to a rising disgust in my stomach. The disgust turned to a churning writhing pain. The coiling serpent in my stomach tried to crawl up my throat, but I depressed it with thoughts of the home I was working to reach. It was just a step away, just a leap, just a few hours, just a few days. I could do it. It was right there. The ladder I was climbing to reach safety fell from beneath me. The serpent lunged. I lost what I had eaten that day.
My body drained of its stuffing, the top half of my form plunged forward, no longer able to support itself. I fell into my own stomach acids and twitched in revulsion, this twitch sending my body twisting forward into a half-somersault landing my back firmly on the ground, my eyes to the ceiling. The ceiling itself swam before my eyes, than I realized it was my eyes themselves jerking from side to side madly. I felt the twitch again, this time in my arms. They hopped and skipped in a quick uneven rhythm until their waltz ended and they fell exhausted at my side. I felt one moving on the floor for another dance, but its partner quickly jumped to hold it down, using all of its strength to cease the left hand’s fatal tango.
I felt the serpent write again where I had thought there had been nothing. Suddenly, the mad dance partners joined in the common cause of preventing the serpent’s escape. Cupped together in their final samba over its burrow, they prepared to battle the serpent. As it struck through the dancers the vile creature left its venom spewed throughout my chamber, covering me on my resting place on the floor. I wanted to move. I wanted to clean myself or at least move from the sea of venom I lay in, but I could not. I could do nothing. Nothing but pass out.
When I awoke, my first thought was that the world seemed clearer. I could see colors sharper then I previously thought possible. I could hear the slow steady breath of mother earth in all things. I was clean again, in more ways than the lack of vomit on my chest would suggest. I was in some sort of hospital wing. The man who had brought me here stood in a white coat. He told me I was now ready to begin.
The next few days went by in a blink of an eye. My days were broken into small periods of different activities. Every day was a blur of reading, exercise, building, discussing. My doctor became my tutor. I became strikingly literate. I developed an affinity for the pen. It became my weapon against pain and loneliness and fear. Through my writing I was able to remember what life was before I had fallen in love.
Love had blinded me. It had confused me. Love makes the best of men stupid, and it had made me far worse. It had warped me, it had hindered me, it had swollen my mind with lethargy. I had embraced it as joy and bliss when in fact it was simply hiding the world as it was from me. I was finally ready to rejoin the world as I knew it.
I told the doctor that I was ready, and he told me that he agreed. He said that before I could go back, it was time to re-unite with Brandy.
My mind reeled. I did not know what to do. Was she just another source of my addiction? Was she another enemy to be feared? I did not know. I could not know. My breath hastened. I could not speak, I could barely move. As the door opened, my heart leapt and flipped and twisted, beating a quickened tempo on its prison of ribs. Then, I saw her. All at once, the emotions flooded my mind. I felt again everything I had ever felt about her. It was like watching a movie in my mind’s eye. When I reached the end, I felt empty inside. It was as though she was an alien artifact of a time long before that my mind simply couldn’t accept any longer.
Clearly she didn’t feel the same way. She rushed forward and held me tightly in her familiar embrace. She was crying. I did the only civil thing and returned the embrace, comforting her as I could. In this state, I could not turn her away, that would be inhuman. I wasn’t sure exactly what I would do, but it was certain I could not keep up the charade of my continued affection forever.
The doctor wiped a tear from his eyes and motioned for us to climb in to his vehicle. It was the very vehicle that had torn us from our world and landed us in this strange place. How fitting that it should be the one to take us back. As she and I climbed into the vehicle, I felt a shiver run down my spine as my mind echoed a simple, almost cliché thought: We were going home.
Act Three
There I was, almost exactly as it all began. The sun was setting, and Brandy was lying again in my arms. I don’t know what I had ever seen in that sunset. The dull yellow light was finally leaving the dingy gray city that I had yearned for in my first days of encampment. After I am sure she’s drifted off, I separate myself from her, as softly as possible, and ready myself for departure. What a fool I had been for the majority of my life. I had to go somewhere, anywhere, nowhere, it didn’t matter. I just couldn’t be there. Not any longer.
The world is so dark, the moon hidden in the sky, the lamps all out; there is nobody who could detect my motions. I make a short prayer, wishing to God that I find my way in this new world that I have known for years. I pray that maybe, I can regain some shred of happiness in this life.
It’s been a few weeks since the return. I haven’t cast off Brandy, nor have I even given a hint of my lack of feelings. Life now is too fragile, far too delicate to snap in such a way. I would not rob her of her apparent happiness with our new lives. I just wish I could see whatever it is that she sees. The cold mechanical whines of the city greet my ears, and I realize I have lost a few moments in this meditation. It is time to move on.
I hear a shot.
This is hell, this city that I’m confined to. I know too much, have seen too much, expect too much, to live happily in this no-mans land ruled by terror and narcotics. Here there is no way for a man to thrive, and just barely enough of the necessities to survive. It turns life in to one giant primal game. I could make enough money to get by, but the truth is now that I just feel hollow.
Another shot.
Hollow and alone. I pass each day waiting for an opportunity. A change of pace. Some semblance of excitement, or even of slight interest. But there is none. Before my rebirth, I had a purpose, I had a focus, but now I have nothing. I could get more drugs, but I cannot force myself to again be a slave. That’s what I am out to find tonight. I want to make a difference. I want to be remembered. I want to try to help the others so miserable as I, and yet unknowing. I want to see what happens when you set the world aflame.
Back at an old haunt. I see little the little man’s little shack. This was the man who for so long took care of me, let me stay in blissful ignorance of the depravity in lived in. I guess he’s the closest thing to a father I could claim to have, though we rarely spoke in my years of knowing him. Maybe that’s what is going to make the next part so hard for me. That’s a lie, what makes it hard is the lock on the door. I eventually get in, the lights are all off, and the man still slumbers, knocked out from his own laudanum.
In a flash of righteous rage I lash out in vigilante violence, wryly wrecking the long-lasting livelihood of the miniscule man whose name I never knew. He dies not with a bang but with a whimper. I take a match from my pocket, strike it, and leave the deadly flame to etch itself on the home in a dash of bright orange and red. I leave the burning canvas feeling as though I have made a bit of a difference. A bit. Not enough. For every one that falls, ten more will spring up. That’s why the government gave up in the first place.
Walking towards my workplace, I pass the speaking wall. I will come back to this later. It will be the grand finale. I approach little Ozzie and buy what I will need. What a world we live in. His kind smile, the same one he’s given to every other customer for years, seems more like a sneer tonight. A sneer of superiority. As a machine, Ozzie is the only one who doesn’t have to worry about his place in life. I hate it. I smash my hand through the screen. I shriek in pain, but quickly quiet myself. This pain is an almost welcome alternative to the pain of mind I have suffered as of late.
The workplace gets as much attention as it ever gave me. I stroll in the unlocked employees entrance, and carelessly destroy the automation computers. The police will surely have been notified, but they could care less about this side of town. I wish suddenly my employer could see me. That he could see me as I destroy what is his. So that he would know the men he whips to submission are more then the machines he loves so much. After a moment’s reflection, I pull out my marker and scrawl my name across the floor.
As I leave, I realize that unlike the last, this act has not given me any solace. What have I really done but rob the people of this area of their wages? Oh well, what’s done is done, and I have done it now. It is time now for the finale. I walk the next few blocks with a spring in my step, ready for what must be done. I see the speaking wall. I see the messages. The glory stories of those too drugged to see four feet in front of them. I take the last item I purchased from Ozzie. A can of paint. In bright red, I write:
Lies. Lies. Lies.
Again and again I write the word. Some lies large, other lies small. I chant the word as I paint. Some lies dressed in cursive, while some barely readable in print. I cover the whole wall with the truth. I cover the lies with lies. When the can is empty, I wipe my bleeding hand on the wall to create one more lie. There is no more that I can do here. I can only hope that maybe one person will see the truth of my lies.
Home again, home again, and the night is giving way. I can feel within me that daylight is waiting to break its silence. I take off my coat and put on some simple pajamas I have not worn in years. I stare at the coat that once lent me an identity. I rip it apart with my eyes, and then with my hands. I systematically shred the sagging seams, I carelessly cut the cuffs and collar, I rip the whole thing to rags. The end of myself, time to begin anew.
And so I creep once more through the shameful hovel that had once sustained me. The grime of life creates a permanent look of despair through the room. The world I used to know may have been a lie, but I would rather know it for the rest of my life if it meant never having to glimpse the cruel reality that is the world I truly inhabit. Now that I have done all that I can outside of this home, there are only two more tasks to take care of.
I consider to myself killing Brandy. The poor, sick woman. She has seen the sky, and yet does not with to fly when caged. Truly she is worse off than the happy worker bees of this city. It would be merciful, for whatever lies beyond is much less truly cruel than this life. I throw away this idea. She deserves to make the choice to live for herself, the same choice I am debating over and over in my mind.
What is there for me in this world? I cannot stop seeing the depravity short of plucking my own eyes from their sockets. I cannot go back to the way things were. My actions have made certain of this, even if my mind would let me be ignorant once more. If I live out the night, I will be jobless, a little more desperate than the previous day. I have some savings, maybe I could buy a one-way ticket to somewhere else. No, that would be too easy. Life isn’t that easy. It never is. Every city is the same city. There is nowhere for me.
So this leaves me with the incredibly fascinating idea of taking my own life. The idea of for one ultimate moment being in control. King for one victorious moment, and then rewarded with an eternity of dark simplicity. I guess I can make anything sound appetizing when worded properly.
This brings me to the question of how to do it. This is not one that I have to ponder for long. If I am to die, there is only a few ways to go that will serve my lust for irony. I guess there is some preparing to do before my final act takes its course. I gather my materials and lay them out on the table. This is to be the table where I leave behind my last message to the world I cannot live in. I write out the entire events you read before you, and explain what I will do in the next hour, and by the time I am finished, the sun has started to rise.
I walk back out to the balcony. Brandy has yet to wake up. I walk back to the table, box up my manuscript and throw it out the window. It lands on a nearby doorstep with a thump. I write another, much shorter note. I walk back out to the balcony, and hold Brandy’s hand one last time. Tucked between our hands is the note. I take the pills I had hidden so long ago for a rainy day. The effects take hold of me, and I see them again.
Golden trees
As they glimmer and shine, I swallow a bullet from my own gun. This, of course, wakes Brandy, who shrieks. Later she finds the note in her hand that reads: “I always loved you.”
I’ve had three loves in my lifetime. Number one; Methadone. Methadone makes the whole world better. If you’ve never tried it, it’s going to be a bit hard for you to follow my description, but try anyway. It’s like the trees are golden, have always been golden, and yet I’ve never noticed. It’s like the whole world shines like the moon reflected in my glass of my wine. The tragedy of this beautiful vision is that it seems just as ethereal as the reflection of the moon.
This is where my second love comes in; benzodiazepine. Benzo lets you understand the beautiful world you now seem to inhabit in all of its grandeur. In a moment, you don’t have to hold the moonlight, you don’t have to drink the wine, you realize that it’s being there is enough, and that all you must do is to look and appreciate it. This is the grand vision of the world that used to greet me every day. That vision brought on the need for my third love; someone to share the vision with.
Brandy is my third love, and she makes the other two loves look like childish infatuations. She’s the one who ties it all together, because what are all the pretty sights in the world if you have nobody to see them with? Her hair and eyes are a deep pelican black, and her fingernails are red. As red as the wine in both our glasses as we sit at the table on my balcony that overlooks the city we both live in.
The city looks like a thousand glittering stars from here. I’m only a story up, but here, I couldn’t be farther from the people on the street. Sitting here holding her hand, there’s nowhere I could go that I could be farther from their hustle bustle and normality. This is perfection, or so I believe. We’ve lived here for about four years now. We both work, and the work buys the food and the drugs, and the drugs pay for everything else. Inside the house, there’s some food, a few chairs, a bed, nothing special, but it’s ours.
The world we live in is a beautiful balance of hypocrisies. The government tells us that drugs have taken over our lives, but the government is made of men who all want their fix. The war on drugs is still officially on, but the two sides have reached a happy peace. By peace, of course, I mean one side finally realized what a losing battle they were fighting. There’s a dealer on every corner, and a politician on every corner, waiting in line.
Is this a bad thing? I think our forefathers might have thought so. Then again, I really doubt the forefathers could imagine the world that I can see, a story up, in the arms of my three loves. I guess it’s a question to leave to the philosophers.
The night passes and the sun drifts slowly upwards, while we still slumber quietly on the porch. My alarm watch rings at seven, and I am off to pay the bills. I kiss Brandy as she doses. She doesn’t have to wake up for another hour. I dress quickly, finding a shirt and pants that have been washed in the last few weeks. I pop a few vitamin pills as I comb my hair after eating a tuna sandwich. It’s amazing how well you can live off vitamins and tuna.
I walk out the door after putting on my coat. Quite a treat I must look, in the finest clothes I own. Brown shirt, red vest, dull blue jeans, all topped with a fine brown trench-coat. The coat was my father’s. I wear it in all seasons. It doesn’t get too warm around here. It’s where I got my nickname: Browncoat Bailey. I march down the steps of my palace and begin my stroll down main street, tipping the hat that I’m not wearing to all those I pass.
After a few minutes, I pass the speaking wall. My friends and I are all far away from each other, and cannot keep in touch, so the speaking wall is all we have to keep us together. When one of us passes the wall, we describe our kingdom to our fellow shahs so they may imagine a slice of the splendor that is not theirs. I see the scrawls and with a small marker from my pocket, add my own, near the others I have written.
Golden Trees
Placing the marker back in my pocket I quickly move onward down the streets which are now beginning to bustle with life. The kings of the city come down from their towers to join in common toil. All must suffer now and again for their kingdoms. Many of them I recognize from the last time I journeyed this long way. I think it was yesterday. I tip the hat that I’m not wearing, and they tip the ones they wish they were wearing. Nobody speaks, there is nothing to speak about. This is the lowest point in our lives.
That was a lie. The lowest point is what comes next. Work. Toil. Struggle. For the sake of my love I must persevere. All three of them. All told, even work is glorious in service of my kingdom. I work at a cannery a few blocks from my palace. The work is dull and degrading, but it must be done. At the end of the day, I leave my post, clock my time, and receive my wage. My employer lives a thousand miles away. I’ve never seen his face, and he’s never seen mine. Computers have made everything much simpler in the workplace.
I start back from work with a spring in my step. I walk down a street to my left, veering off my path home. It’s time to do the shopping. I walk up to Little Ozzie and smile. His face responds in kind, with an automated smile on the holographic screen where the mannequin’s head would be. I insert my wage card into the nearby slot. The machine asks me if I want the usual. I nod my head and within three minutes, it’s sitting in several large brown sacks next to me. Computers have made this particular relationship a lot less taxing as well.
The walk back to my palace takes me again past the speaking wall. I view once more the blue, red, and yellow messages that have been left by so many before me, and wonder what I will be writing here tomorrow. I see exactly the man I was looking for, exactly where I was expecting him. A small red-haired man whose name I’ve never bothered to learn is slitting on a small mat next to the wall. For anyone else, it would be a dangerous place to be at this time of day, but this man is untouchable. This is the man who supplies me with the keys to the kingdom.
I hand him the cash I took off my wage card at Little Ozzie’s, and he rummages in his pockets for a while, looking for what is mine. No words need to be spoken, I’m a regular. After a few moments, he hands me two small bags. Two loves in hand, I move to peruse the third. The walk to my house doesn’t take long, and before long is taken, I’m in her arms again.
Brandy and I are one again. The separation was harder on her than it was on me, this I know. The time spent at that dirty school must only be non-stop anguish for one as lovely as she is. Those filthy children, pulling at her hair, harassing her to the point of madness, truly not a life I would have wished on anyone. She takes it well though, as do I my job at the cannery, for we have a life together. This life is grand and beautiful, and all either of us could ever desire, so not an ill word of the day is spoken between us. Tonight not even a pleasant word is spoken. Words are not needed. Some things are mutually understood.
We take the pills.
Out again on the balcony, I revel in the grandeur of my kingdom. At this time of night, all is perfect. The sun’s light is gradually receding, but it has not quite faded from view. As I stare out into the world, I see the sun smile, and then speak. It speaks to me without speaking, a golden language that tells a story of its tragic descent. I am wracked with overwhelming sorrow at its fall, but am still moved at the beauty of its words.
I hear a knock.
It’s them. I knew someday they would come. The war against my kind is all but over, but some still seek to rob kings of their treasures. I’ve waited for this day, and I have prepared. I have two weapons waiting for me to wield them and fend off the attackers. If they are to disturb my tranquility I will make them sway in the somber intensity that is combat. Sadly for all parties involved, however, I am lacking the motivation, or maybe the ability, to leave my chair.
The world is too bright, the sun too low, the night too beautiful for me to disturb it with my motions. I pray I am mistaken, that it is someone else, and that they will leave me be. I pray to any god that will take me that he in his infinite kindness will not take from me what I have.
The knocking continues, and I know that through it all, it is them. They have come. It is time for this beautiful frolic through the fineries of existence to come to a tragic end. I take in the moment, with Brandy’s head resting softly on my chest. This is perfection. This final moment here is the perfection that people seek all of their lives. Having found it, I have nothing to lose. Let them come. Those fools will never understand what I see right now, and for that reason let them take me. If it will add a small bit of meaning to their otherwise devoid little worlds, let them take me. I pity them, for they will never know the golden trees. They will never know the murmurings of the sun. They will wander forever in the darkness, and for this I pity them.
Act Two
Oh to go from the top to the very bottom of the world. They dragged Brandy and I from our places on the Balcony with no gentle touch. As we were pulled through the door of our palace, our hands released each other, and that was the last I saw of her for a long time. We were dragged in separate directions down the long hallway of the apartment complex, before my face was fitted with a black bag to deprive my sight.
I met the darkness and greeted it as a familiar friend. It and I knew each other well through the lids of my eyes. I had the most unpleasant sensation of being lifted and thrown into a vehicle. I was on my back, my hands cuffed behind me, lying on a bed of rope and equipment. The ride then began. In my mind, I kept a slight grasp of the directions we turned, so as to escape and begin to make my way home. Sadly, I soon lost track of the turns, and I figured I may be doomed to suffer whatever fate my captors had in store for me. For nearly an hour we drove, until finally the vehicle came to a rough stop. The stop was abrupt, jerking me into a roll. I slammed against what I imagine was the back seat, and lied there for a few moments.
When the back hatch was opened and I was removed, the black was also removed from my face. Again I could see, and what a world there was to see. The land of my captors was a green sprawl that was dotted with fruit bearing trees. The road ended about a hundred meters from a plain white building that had many windows. Over the door, it said “Home”.
I now faced the man who had taken me here. He was about six feet tall, wore black rimmed glasses and a black uniform, and was smiling. The smile was slightly unnerving to say the least, considering the conditions under which I had arrived. He spoke to me in a rasping voice of a much older man than he looked.
“Welcome, Jordan, to your new home for the next few weeks.”
“Home? I do believe you have just now separated me from that particular comfort.”
“You’ll recall I said “new” home just now. You’ll be living here until you’re free from the drugs. After this, you’ll be free to go.”
“Free me? You merely want to chain me to your vision of the world. What sort of a policeman are you?”
“I’m not a policeman of any sort. I’m a doctor.”
“Where’s Brandy? Is she here too?”
“She’s in another facility, about seven miles to the north.”
“When can I see her?”
“When you’re released. Now go inside. You’ll find some new friends waiting there.”
I entered the white building and waiting for me were three men dressed similarly to the Doctor I had just spoken to. They were kind to me and sat me down in a chair, saying I had a film to watch. That was when me re-education began. Home was a fringe operation run by a few extremists, with a total of six facilities all outside city lines. The idea behind it was to take back society one kidnapping at a time, and to brainwash their captives in to believing in the cause, so they would seek to better the world around them by taking action against the production and distribution of drugs. It was interesting propaganda to be sure. I used the time to plot. I would have to pretend. I would have to be crafty. They would release me only when they though I was ready, so I would have to look ready.
Once the film had finished, the smiley-faced villains took me to my room. They said the night would be hard, but by the next morning, I would be ready to begin in earnest. All guile and charm I nodded and thanked them. I knew nothing of the horror that was to be the coming night.
It was my first night in four years without any of my loves. The first feelings were that of doubt. I doubted myself, my plan, my hope of ever leaving this place. I saw the room, though pleasant looking, was truly a prison. The windows were barred and the door solid oak, and locked tight. There must be some way out, I thought. I clawed at the walls, rattled the door, banged on the glass panes. The doubt changed to panic. I was trapped. I jumped up and down and ran at the door. I slammed my books on the window. I searched for some sort of secret exit, but to no avail. I was trapped.
The panic turned to a rising disgust in my stomach. The disgust turned to a churning writhing pain. The coiling serpent in my stomach tried to crawl up my throat, but I depressed it with thoughts of the home I was working to reach. It was just a step away, just a leap, just a few hours, just a few days. I could do it. It was right there. The ladder I was climbing to reach safety fell from beneath me. The serpent lunged. I lost what I had eaten that day.
My body drained of its stuffing, the top half of my form plunged forward, no longer able to support itself. I fell into my own stomach acids and twitched in revulsion, this twitch sending my body twisting forward into a half-somersault landing my back firmly on the ground, my eyes to the ceiling. The ceiling itself swam before my eyes, than I realized it was my eyes themselves jerking from side to side madly. I felt the twitch again, this time in my arms. They hopped and skipped in a quick uneven rhythm until their waltz ended and they fell exhausted at my side. I felt one moving on the floor for another dance, but its partner quickly jumped to hold it down, using all of its strength to cease the left hand’s fatal tango.
I felt the serpent write again where I had thought there had been nothing. Suddenly, the mad dance partners joined in the common cause of preventing the serpent’s escape. Cupped together in their final samba over its burrow, they prepared to battle the serpent. As it struck through the dancers the vile creature left its venom spewed throughout my chamber, covering me on my resting place on the floor. I wanted to move. I wanted to clean myself or at least move from the sea of venom I lay in, but I could not. I could do nothing. Nothing but pass out.
When I awoke, my first thought was that the world seemed clearer. I could see colors sharper then I previously thought possible. I could hear the slow steady breath of mother earth in all things. I was clean again, in more ways than the lack of vomit on my chest would suggest. I was in some sort of hospital wing. The man who had brought me here stood in a white coat. He told me I was now ready to begin.
The next few days went by in a blink of an eye. My days were broken into small periods of different activities. Every day was a blur of reading, exercise, building, discussing. My doctor became my tutor. I became strikingly literate. I developed an affinity for the pen. It became my weapon against pain and loneliness and fear. Through my writing I was able to remember what life was before I had fallen in love.
Love had blinded me. It had confused me. Love makes the best of men stupid, and it had made me far worse. It had warped me, it had hindered me, it had swollen my mind with lethargy. I had embraced it as joy and bliss when in fact it was simply hiding the world as it was from me. I was finally ready to rejoin the world as I knew it.
I told the doctor that I was ready, and he told me that he agreed. He said that before I could go back, it was time to re-unite with Brandy.
My mind reeled. I did not know what to do. Was she just another source of my addiction? Was she another enemy to be feared? I did not know. I could not know. My breath hastened. I could not speak, I could barely move. As the door opened, my heart leapt and flipped and twisted, beating a quickened tempo on its prison of ribs. Then, I saw her. All at once, the emotions flooded my mind. I felt again everything I had ever felt about her. It was like watching a movie in my mind’s eye. When I reached the end, I felt empty inside. It was as though she was an alien artifact of a time long before that my mind simply couldn’t accept any longer.
Clearly she didn’t feel the same way. She rushed forward and held me tightly in her familiar embrace. She was crying. I did the only civil thing and returned the embrace, comforting her as I could. In this state, I could not turn her away, that would be inhuman. I wasn’t sure exactly what I would do, but it was certain I could not keep up the charade of my continued affection forever.
The doctor wiped a tear from his eyes and motioned for us to climb in to his vehicle. It was the very vehicle that had torn us from our world and landed us in this strange place. How fitting that it should be the one to take us back. As she and I climbed into the vehicle, I felt a shiver run down my spine as my mind echoed a simple, almost cliché thought: We were going home.
Act Three
There I was, almost exactly as it all began. The sun was setting, and Brandy was lying again in my arms. I don’t know what I had ever seen in that sunset. The dull yellow light was finally leaving the dingy gray city that I had yearned for in my first days of encampment. After I am sure she’s drifted off, I separate myself from her, as softly as possible, and ready myself for departure. What a fool I had been for the majority of my life. I had to go somewhere, anywhere, nowhere, it didn’t matter. I just couldn’t be there. Not any longer.
The world is so dark, the moon hidden in the sky, the lamps all out; there is nobody who could detect my motions. I make a short prayer, wishing to God that I find my way in this new world that I have known for years. I pray that maybe, I can regain some shred of happiness in this life.
It’s been a few weeks since the return. I haven’t cast off Brandy, nor have I even given a hint of my lack of feelings. Life now is too fragile, far too delicate to snap in such a way. I would not rob her of her apparent happiness with our new lives. I just wish I could see whatever it is that she sees. The cold mechanical whines of the city greet my ears, and I realize I have lost a few moments in this meditation. It is time to move on.
I hear a shot.
This is hell, this city that I’m confined to. I know too much, have seen too much, expect too much, to live happily in this no-mans land ruled by terror and narcotics. Here there is no way for a man to thrive, and just barely enough of the necessities to survive. It turns life in to one giant primal game. I could make enough money to get by, but the truth is now that I just feel hollow.
Another shot.
Hollow and alone. I pass each day waiting for an opportunity. A change of pace. Some semblance of excitement, or even of slight interest. But there is none. Before my rebirth, I had a purpose, I had a focus, but now I have nothing. I could get more drugs, but I cannot force myself to again be a slave. That’s what I am out to find tonight. I want to make a difference. I want to be remembered. I want to try to help the others so miserable as I, and yet unknowing. I want to see what happens when you set the world aflame.
Back at an old haunt. I see little the little man’s little shack. This was the man who for so long took care of me, let me stay in blissful ignorance of the depravity in lived in. I guess he’s the closest thing to a father I could claim to have, though we rarely spoke in my years of knowing him. Maybe that’s what is going to make the next part so hard for me. That’s a lie, what makes it hard is the lock on the door. I eventually get in, the lights are all off, and the man still slumbers, knocked out from his own laudanum.
In a flash of righteous rage I lash out in vigilante violence, wryly wrecking the long-lasting livelihood of the miniscule man whose name I never knew. He dies not with a bang but with a whimper. I take a match from my pocket, strike it, and leave the deadly flame to etch itself on the home in a dash of bright orange and red. I leave the burning canvas feeling as though I have made a bit of a difference. A bit. Not enough. For every one that falls, ten more will spring up. That’s why the government gave up in the first place.
Walking towards my workplace, I pass the speaking wall. I will come back to this later. It will be the grand finale. I approach little Ozzie and buy what I will need. What a world we live in. His kind smile, the same one he’s given to every other customer for years, seems more like a sneer tonight. A sneer of superiority. As a machine, Ozzie is the only one who doesn’t have to worry about his place in life. I hate it. I smash my hand through the screen. I shriek in pain, but quickly quiet myself. This pain is an almost welcome alternative to the pain of mind I have suffered as of late.
The workplace gets as much attention as it ever gave me. I stroll in the unlocked employees entrance, and carelessly destroy the automation computers. The police will surely have been notified, but they could care less about this side of town. I wish suddenly my employer could see me. That he could see me as I destroy what is his. So that he would know the men he whips to submission are more then the machines he loves so much. After a moment’s reflection, I pull out my marker and scrawl my name across the floor.
As I leave, I realize that unlike the last, this act has not given me any solace. What have I really done but rob the people of this area of their wages? Oh well, what’s done is done, and I have done it now. It is time now for the finale. I walk the next few blocks with a spring in my step, ready for what must be done. I see the speaking wall. I see the messages. The glory stories of those too drugged to see four feet in front of them. I take the last item I purchased from Ozzie. A can of paint. In bright red, I write:
Lies. Lies. Lies.
Again and again I write the word. Some lies large, other lies small. I chant the word as I paint. Some lies dressed in cursive, while some barely readable in print. I cover the whole wall with the truth. I cover the lies with lies. When the can is empty, I wipe my bleeding hand on the wall to create one more lie. There is no more that I can do here. I can only hope that maybe one person will see the truth of my lies.
Home again, home again, and the night is giving way. I can feel within me that daylight is waiting to break its silence. I take off my coat and put on some simple pajamas I have not worn in years. I stare at the coat that once lent me an identity. I rip it apart with my eyes, and then with my hands. I systematically shred the sagging seams, I carelessly cut the cuffs and collar, I rip the whole thing to rags. The end of myself, time to begin anew.
And so I creep once more through the shameful hovel that had once sustained me. The grime of life creates a permanent look of despair through the room. The world I used to know may have been a lie, but I would rather know it for the rest of my life if it meant never having to glimpse the cruel reality that is the world I truly inhabit. Now that I have done all that I can outside of this home, there are only two more tasks to take care of.
I consider to myself killing Brandy. The poor, sick woman. She has seen the sky, and yet does not with to fly when caged. Truly she is worse off than the happy worker bees of this city. It would be merciful, for whatever lies beyond is much less truly cruel than this life. I throw away this idea. She deserves to make the choice to live for herself, the same choice I am debating over and over in my mind.
What is there for me in this world? I cannot stop seeing the depravity short of plucking my own eyes from their sockets. I cannot go back to the way things were. My actions have made certain of this, even if my mind would let me be ignorant once more. If I live out the night, I will be jobless, a little more desperate than the previous day. I have some savings, maybe I could buy a one-way ticket to somewhere else. No, that would be too easy. Life isn’t that easy. It never is. Every city is the same city. There is nowhere for me.
So this leaves me with the incredibly fascinating idea of taking my own life. The idea of for one ultimate moment being in control. King for one victorious moment, and then rewarded with an eternity of dark simplicity. I guess I can make anything sound appetizing when worded properly.
This brings me to the question of how to do it. This is not one that I have to ponder for long. If I am to die, there is only a few ways to go that will serve my lust for irony. I guess there is some preparing to do before my final act takes its course. I gather my materials and lay them out on the table. This is to be the table where I leave behind my last message to the world I cannot live in. I write out the entire events you read before you, and explain what I will do in the next hour, and by the time I am finished, the sun has started to rise.
I walk back out to the balcony. Brandy has yet to wake up. I walk back to the table, box up my manuscript and throw it out the window. It lands on a nearby doorstep with a thump. I write another, much shorter note. I walk back out to the balcony, and hold Brandy’s hand one last time. Tucked between our hands is the note. I take the pills I had hidden so long ago for a rainy day. The effects take hold of me, and I see them again.
Golden trees
As they glimmer and shine, I swallow a bullet from my own gun. This, of course, wakes Brandy, who shrieks. Later she finds the note in her hand that reads: “I always loved you.”
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