A Few Things I Remember

Aral

Tuesdays were special. On Tuesdays they gave us nearly a half loaf of bread and played happy music on the intercom. They'd let us stroll around like we were kings of the world on Tuesdays. And we did, we'd stroll, we'd lounge, and we'd prosper because we knew it would only be seven more days until the next Tuesday came around. And that's how we made it. In each of our minds we counted down minute by minute, hour by hour, day by painful day in The Flat. The Flat was a big joint, not one of those barbed wire compounds you pass on the highway. I'm talking a twelve-mile square block of concrete patrolled by angels and cursed by god. In The Flat we were punished by those who wrote the law, by those who tempted fate not for themselves, but for others. It must be like horse racing really. I mean, the owners made the rules, determined the odds, blindfolded the horses, and then set them off running down four laps of life. Well it was on one special Tuesday that I decided to shake off my blindfold and run right out the exit gate.

To my surprise nobody stopped me. The year was 2044. Moon Base One was permanent, huge power plants covered the ocean floor, and the rural population of the world nearly ceased to exist. In the city, a combination of hatred, smoke, and radiation created a crimson glow like a sick sunset. Propaganda was the final frontier. In the Tragic Twenties, as they were so often referred to, the Federation of Russian States (FORS) granted complete and total freedom to all of its citizens. You know that crimson glow I mentioned? A deuterium bomb caused it. By the end of the "simulation", approximately four million people had died, Odessa was reduced to smoldering rubble, and the people were begging to be controlled. Oh I can only imagine the twisted look on the premier's face. "What, you want ME, to control YOU?" It must have been some show. Regardless of how it happened, it happened, and the average Russian was slowly eroded into an automaton. "Yes, sir. No, sir" and all that.

I once knew a man who knew everything. He really did. Stefen Rosovik. He knew down to minute details, every aspect of every situation occurring in the world at all times. At first he told people what he knew to try and help them. In effect, he created hundreds of would be Oedipus Rex's. After he realized that his knowledge was hurting more than it was helping, he started shying away from people. He became a loner, never impolite, just a loner. This was before the grain stopped arriving. This was before the permanent wan of daylight. Things weren't desirable, but they were survivable, and at some points, with the help of alcohol, even enjoyable. People banded together to survive. There is power in numbers, some say. In accordance with human nature, the people became frightened of Stefen. He became a ghost, a wizard, a spy, Rasputin reborn, an exile, a cause for disgust, and even a target of open ridicule because he knew too much. They captured Stefen and sent an official report to FORS claiming that this man was a psychological anomaly that should be detained, deprogrammed, and used. They sent over three trucks and four helicopter-gunboats to secure Stefen. I can still remember when Stefen and I caught guppies in the creek, and tried to catch turtles. It made no sense to me that anybody would want to hurt Stefen. It made even less sense that Stefen would be potentially dangerous himself. But being the good, law-abiding citizen that they so insist we try to be, I said nothing. The bulletproof glass tank was airlifted in. They put him in it for study. Ironic that an unarmed prisoner is guarded by a platoon of armed soldiers. "Who should be on which side of the bulletproof glass" I wanted to ask, but I didn't. They used shock therapy to mold Stefen into a drone. This was an up close and personal personification of the iron will of FORS. He was punished for being what he never wanted to be. He was punished for being what he was.

His was a suicide we all expected.

At this point I'm fairly certain that all rain is acidic.

I stole twenty-four watches from a pawnshop. I was a thief. The intercoms said that thieves go to jail. So that's where I went. My punishment was self-inflicted and therefore all the more torturous. FORS relies on the fact that the individual conscience no longer exists. When the intercom says, "We can't eat this week" than the fact is that we can't. When the intercom tells you you're guilty, you're guilty. You ask me why I even went in the first place? I'd ask, "Have you ever been an ant?" but I'd already know the answer. Anyone who'd been an ant wouldn't have asked me the question to begin with. I mean, it's obvious. Ants are the happiest creatures in existence. You ask me about Utopia and I'll show you a mound. Ask me where my dreams lie and I'll point out to you a hive. Ask me what I want out of the world and I'll smile, chuckle, and wish to God that I had a thorax. It really is that simple. In a collective, and only in a collective, is the human complete. They quote me Darwin, recently proven mathematically, and I'll object on the grounds of an inherent flaw. Evolution means growing and adapting to become better over time. The flaw is the assumption that we weren't better off to begin with.

So I paid my dues to the Queen, and I woke up. I think when it came down to it; it was those happy songs that really woke me up. The repetition annoyed me. Those thrice-damned tunes, over and over again, inspired us to work for a nation that enslaved us, gave us vitality to perform medial tasks that robots were too good for, and bestowed upon us the knowledge that what we did made FORS stronger. Therefore the harder we worked the better our lives would be. It was that damn tune that woke me from a deep sleep. That damn tune like a checkered flag told me that I had finished my race. Most of humanity would pity that single ant driven to boredom with the monotony of his life. Now I realize he has the best seat in the house. He's finished his race, and can now grab a hot dog and enjoy the view. About three years after I walked into The Flat, I walked out.

As a spectator to the erosion of the human race, I believe it's my duty to write this stuff down. I don't mean to sound cliche, but it all started about twenty years ago. A team of highly trained hypocrites analyzed the nation. People, organizations, and even whole cities that didn't meet or exceed production quotas were destroyed. All natural resources were re-distributed. All individuals below par were sent to drone labor camps. Industry prospered. Commercialism boomed. Human rights were trampled. I remember at first when people objected. Moscow became a battleground between police and rioters. So the populace would throw rocks and write letters while the police shot machine guns and launched missiles. In one terrifying incident, an angry mob went so far as to attack a police station. The battle was one-sided and short. I say "battle," but I mean, "massacre". And ultimately, that's what the entire struggle came down to. Saying one thing and meaning another. The government said freedom and they meant oppression. The people said liberation and they meant vigilante justice. It was a failure at communication. It was a failure at diplomacy. So that was the situation before I went to The Flat. Society was on its way down the gutter and my family was hungry.

One day I was sitting on the ground in the community bathroom listening to water drip from the faucet. I sat there for hours, listening to a precious, life-granting commodity drip down wasted in my shower. I sent a gallon of life down the drain. The sound of death isn't the screaming, torturous, writhing, grief-stricken wails of the dying. The sound of death isn't explosive. The sound of death isn't the grinding of metal on metal. The sound of death is dripping neglect. It was almost laughable. I rivaled Hitler with destructive power. I rivaled Stalin with commanding might. I rivaled Truman with the force of a single decision. The deaths of innocents were in my hands. And by not ending the flow of water from the faucet, I took the reigns of power hard in my sweaty palms. The knowledge that I was choosing the fate of others filled me with a sick yet welcome sense of pride. It is said that "absolute power corrupts absolutely." The fatal flaw is overlooking the small powers, the timid powers. To prove my point I will point out that the lion is known as the king of the jungle. Again, laughable. The virus is the king of the jungle. Smaller yet more numerous. Quieter yet more ruthless. Shorter lived but with infinitely larger consequences. The powers that have warped Russia into a twisted shell of its once honorable self aren't the Czars or the Commie's. The powers that have leveled Russia are those powers given to the people by Russia itself. Those powers that, by tainting with misuse, have caused our self-destruction. Anyone who says that Russia has gone to shit because of "The Government" is a moron. If ever there comes a time when a leaky faucet becomes more effort than it is worth, then the shit has already hit the fan. And we burned all our napkins with the rest of the books.