I Couldn't Do It

How do they do it? Every single moment day in and day out. Like a revolving door, a constant cycle of eating the same food, working a dead-end job, and sleeping every thought away.

I had a life before my discovery, if you can even call it a life, perhaps a loose semblance of what living used to be long before my time. I ate a bland nutrition bar for breakfast, an energy capsule for lunch, and canned stew for dinner every night. I worked at the local power plant. Then, I came home and slept until it was time for breakfast.

Eat. Work. Sleep.

This was fine, or so I thought. I grew up in a tightly controlled society. We were taught what was right and what was wrong. On our first birthdays, each and every member of the community was sent to education programming, a curriculum none of us remember but one that cemented the foundations of our psyche.

I never saw any joy, but never any despair either. I was married to the neighborhood girl in a loveless yet non-spiteful union. Just like in every other marriage I’d ever known, we never laughed, but we never cried. Never elated but never depressed. Never made “love,” but we didn’t remain abstinent. We had twins: one boy and one girl. Looking back, the day of my children’s birth should’ve been the day that I couldn’t wipe away watering eyes and a wide grin. But I couldn’t flash a simple smirk, couldn’t show what would have been my first smile. And still, even after that, nothing truly changed. Life was life, and it went on.

Eat. Work. Sleep.

Repeat.

The cycle held true, at least until I cleaned out my mother’s house. She had just passed away, with my father preceding four years earlier. Now stood my childhood home, devoid of life. It hadn’t been filled with much to begin with but always housed at least one sentient being: my parents and I, then my parents, later just my mother, then nothing. Maybe that is the constant of a house’s existence: void. Because at the end of it, does it mean anything if life doesn’t actually happen? We never had heartfelt talks, no emotionally charged celebrations, or the simplest tender embrace: only our daily mandates.

Eat. Work. Sleep.

Repeat.

My parents were your average parents. Like every person of their generation, they received education programming far after their first birthday; the technology simply didn’t exist. Now, to create a perfect society, every member of the past and present has undergone mandatory education, just like those in the future will when they’re brought into this world.

As I stood there in the house, gathering the dust-coated objects of yesteryear, clearing out this shell for another familial unit to fill, I noticed something I hadn’t seen as a child: a locket. Etched with my mother’s name on its outside along with ornate markings, I opened it, unknowingly widening the door to my new life. What I saw inside I had never seen before, something I never knew even existed.

Eat. Work. Sleep.

Repeat?

Now I saw how meaningless it all is, and something had to change. But what should I do? What could I do? I questioned my whole life. My meals no longer seemed adequate. My job was mundane in a way I couldn’t take anymore. When night engulfed the sky, the town’s government-mandated sleep schedule had me suspicious. These problems showed me what I had to do:

Eat. Work. Sleep.

The changes didn’t come easy and felt nearly impossible. I was wired since birth to follow a strict plan. I faked consuming my meals, throwing away the parcels I could while eyes roamed elsewhere. I created a faked illness to skip work, a solution that would last a few days but allowed me to further focus on who I was. Just like with my meals, I avoided sleep.

___? ____? _____?

I was numb. Even after changing my whole lifestyle, I was still numb. Forever was I damned to be a cog in the rewardless and detached societal machine. And with that, I returned to eating, to working, to sleeping. I wanted to forget what my mother’s locket possessed. There is bliss in ignorance.

Eat. Work. Sleep.

Repeat.

Months went by, and I couldn’t get the cheap piece of jewelry out of my head. No longer did I recognize my family. My wife, my children. This wasn’t my life. It couldn’t be my life. I was stuck in this system, right? A perfectly refined specimen filling his perfectly defined role until the day he expired. I sure as hell knew that’s what happened to my mother. If I wanted to see some real change, I had to push myself. Do the unthinkable.

No. No. No.

Stop.

I walked to the town square. As I stood on the pristine fountain’s ledge, glares focused on me. I shouted for their attention, and a crowd of enigmatic faces amassed. I spoke of my discovery at my mother’s home. I begged and pleaded with my peers to listen to me. We couldn’t keep going on like this; they had to see that now.

I was met with blank stares, inattention, and the occasional scoff. And, for the first time in my life, I released a deep cry of sorrow. It felt... natural. I just couldn’t understand why this was happening. How can they not realize the mundanity and manipulation of their lives? I don’t know what we were controlled by, but, frankly, I don’t care: all I wanted was change.

I must’ve been so overwhelmed with emotion that I unconsciously rewrote the mental framework put into place for me when I was a baby. When my children were born, I didn’t know what I now know, all thanks to my mother’s locket: I had no clue these feelings were possible.

I started another bout, this time more emotional and powerful. My voice modulated in pitch and tone to the astonishment of the onlookers. As passion filled me and flowed out of my mouth, I realized I had never felt this alive before. Which was quite ironic, considering what came next.

Bang.

After my life flashes before my eyes, I stare at the photo in the locket as I lie on the cold, hard ground. Clutched in my dying hand was the image of my mother and father smiling, happiness radiating off of their young faces. My eyes tear, and the corners of my mouth rise as I finally feel what they had.