New Haven

A faint sound, a ringing, maybe that of an alarm clock, the old-fashioned kind. The sound of something lost under a pile of whatnots stuck in a corner at the bottom of a basket. One can't really be sure if the sound exists in the real world or in the cobwebbed crevices of the mind. At any rate, there has to be a way to make it stop, to quiet the agonizing droning on of the annoyance.

Stumbling just a bit, but regaining poise heading into the dark and dreary space of the dank and musty root cellar, the light filtered in with just a sliver of hope. Not much though as the smell of musk and the heaviness of dust lingered under the floor boards. You could hear the sounds of ghosts walking through the rooms, it most surely would be ghosts, for the people were long gone. If time were correctly remembered, this figment of imagination belonged to good people. Good, hardworking people who kept to themselves and guarded with their lives the knowledge of what lie beyond.

Maybe this is imagination at its greatest and most vivid, surely the cellar is not pulsating and heaving with despair with each step forward. How is it that the space is getting tighter and more constricted with the slightest movement? Perhaps a few steps back would increase the space and dispel the deep darkness. Now that would be the mistake I pray to live to tell about. It seems the sound of the darkness has synchronized to that of the alarm and magnified the decibels directly into my mind. No longer coming from without, I hear it distinctly within and though my feet point toward the exit, the pulling won’t loosen one bit.

Shaking off the feeling of terror, feet now point in the direction of the origin of the calling. The ground beneath each step seems to give way to sheets, no, layers of earth on top of random items. An old bicycle tire, spokes jutting out. The parts of what must be a handheld vacuum, the slinky piece hopefully is the hose. Some things that are soft and fluffy, please just be old throw pillows and nothing more. The joyful feeling of feet firmly placed on a floor is a welcomed thought if ever there was one.

Close enough to reach toward the sound and now seeing the top part of a heart shaped locket attached to part of a chain, the noise becomes less annoying and more hypnotizing. At this point, return is not a thought nor an option. Reaching in to grab the chain throws balance off landing me face down in a gooey, blob of who knows what and causes a gag reflex like no other. Trying not to heave, a quick lunge secures the piece and causes a cataclysmic chain of events. Caving in on me, I can’t breathe.

It seems the heart shaped locket is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. It sizzles and sears the shape of the heart into my hand and throws me against the cellar door. The impact knocks the door off its hinges and flings both me and the door out into the tall grass. I’m dazed and for a moment can only think of the butterflies, no, moths that are circling above me. “Get up”, I hear, but not from without, from within. More of a warning and command, much less of a request. “Get up.” Obedience causes the knee jerk reaction and rising from the grass and not a moment too soon.

Now, I’m running with a full head of steam, away from the cellar and toward the openness of the field. Slowing to rest on my hunches and catch my breath, I remember the locket. Looking into my hand, it is gone and only a burned outline remains, the look of a poorly done tattoo. Strangely enough, there is no pain associated with the image only a weird glow that emanates from the soul. No noise, no emotion, not a scent, feeling or anything that should be here. All that remains is the visuals and they are bombarding the mind. There are skulls and bone fragments, boards from an old barn, parts of an asphalt road, rubber in all forms and lots of dust bunnies, fireflies and floaties.

Walking for hours or maybe days at this point, the remnants of the city come into full view. Moving in that direction seems useless as the city keeps receding with each step. Turning away from the city, my feet leave the pavement and begin to gingerly pat along the soft dirt path going in the other direction. Turning around seems the most logical thing to do, so I do. I go in the other direction, away from civilization. I walk toward the earth and begin to look at it through a different lens.

Just as I begin to see more clearly, the joy and laughter, the unity and the people smiling, I hear the sound of the refiner coming through. Refiner, that’s just a humane way to say, sweeper robots will get rid of all the carnage from the last incident and clear out the paths for the other bots that will follow. It’s gray here and not just in the color before your eyes, but in the feeling down in the soul. It was all a dream; the heart, the soft earth, the joy, but it was also a glimpse into what could be. My mind was made up, for sure this time, I’m done with New Haven.

Grabbing a few belongings and stuffing them into my bag, I look at the locket. It was a found thing and until now, I never saw it as it must have been originally. It could very well be a heart, just the bottom was chipped away leaving an irregular shape when it folded together. But, now with this dream inspired vision, I pull the sides apart and yes, it could be the top of a heart. I like that thought. Looking through the slotted wall panels of my unit, I give a final acknowledgement to the people on both sides of the wall. No words, just a knowing nod, this is goodbye, not see you later, but farewell.

One might be inclined to think, just by looking at the surroundings, that we were inmates in a prison. The straight lines, square edges, cold metal and depressing gray, the mindless tasks that were repetitive in nature. But it was not a jail. The doors did not lock. The gate keepers were symbolic for the most part, only intervening in matters of logistics. The only thing that held us here was the promise of a weekly meal and the fear of the unknown. The what ifs… What if I miss the meal? What if it rains? What if there is no one to sweep the streets? What if?

I think long and hard, trying to remember the dream. Trying to remember anything that would give me a clue. Anything that would point the way. Nothing returns, just the hazy look of a heart shape in the lines on the palm of my hind. At this point, my care is gone, anything could top this. Roadmap or not, the time has come, the time is now.

Ear pressed to the door, I listen for the passing of the refiner, knowing there is a few minutes before the next bot, I slide the door open and step foot onto the pavement. Bag across my body, hood pulled over, shoes laced tight, I walk, for hours or days, I’m not sure which. I walk until the concrete gives way to the soft earth. It hits me and my steps pick up until I’m sprinting through the grass. I don’t even know where New Earth is, but I believe it is out there. Waiting on me and the others to take a step toward the possibility.

The alarm was just a dream, but it’s not too late to cultivate a better life than what’s offered. Although we have been placed, through circumstance and chance, it is never set in stone. As long as the door opens, I can step through. So, here goes...