Saturn's Children

“Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space”

“Or so they say” he retorts. I chuckle a, “How can you possibly argue with that?”

“Well,” he begins, “let’s see…” I shake my head as he grins at me. His lips are cracked, he’s stressed again.

“If someone screamed and you were there. You saw them. Body as if electrified splayed out, their mouth wide with the force of expelling their whole spirit. You’d hear it. You’d hear every note of it reverberate inside of you.” I look up, at the stars, as if imagining the whole event playing out,

“Do you really think so?”

“No, not really. Maybe” he shrugs. But I’m still there, amongst the stars watching the exchange take place between the one who hears and the one who screams.

“The only scream I’d be able to hear is yours. I wouldn’t even need to see you.” We’d made it to the intersection. Here, the orange glow of the traffic lights illuminates the little clouds we breathe out in front of us. The rain had left pools of night on the road, as though if we were only brave enough to step in, we would fall right through to the cosmos. The lights change and we begin to cross. That’s when I said it. Certain to keep my eyes forward, “You know there are things we could do that are louder than screaming?” I feel him look at me.

“We could say your name.” It takes me a few steps before I notice. I look around, he’s stopped. In the middle of the road. He’s stopped. As if I’d already done it. I lurch for him, pulling his arm, “Keep walking you idiot, do you want to get us questioned?”

“Maybe you should be questioned,” he snaps. I crush his hand in mine, “Let’s just get to the river, there’s too many lights here.”

It was a memory we had hidden since we were little. I think we had carved it into something, something connected to — something that crumbled between my fingers. But even that may not be true. That sense could’ve been a detail inserted to replace what used to be there. Memory transferals were becoming more and more common, even for minor offences.

To remember is lethal.

I don’t remember who taught me memory reconstruction. Which I suppose means they did a good job. That isn’t to say that I haven’t tried to remember them in the past, succeeded, and then purposefully forgot again. Which is why I won’t try to remember now. If I have purposefully forgotten it is probably for good reason. But what I do know is they must have been of high rank- only the Apostles of the House were trained in Memory Management methodology. And even then, to reconstruct memory is to create a Contradiction against One Truth; if the kettle is red but now you remember it to be blue, you have committed an act of violence against One Truth.

To create a Contradiction is to go against the Absolute Wisdom of the House. We created a name when boys do not have names.

All acts of individual determination are revolutionary and therefore an act of Terror against the Common Good. Contradiction can only be reversed by the execution of the individuals the Act of Untruth exists within. To remember is revolutionary.

This is why not even the shape of the letters exists in our minds anymore, we made sure of that. What is retained is the Lake and the Underbridge. In that order. There are two other images, but only he knows them. That way if one of us was questioned we could not betray ourselves or the other. The lake, was not like our lakes, not made but instead like the ones we saw in the books of the Old World, with life-in. From the surface of the Lake protrudes the large water-stained columns that hold up the brutal slab of grey of the Underbridge. We promised to go over the images before we fell asleep each night, until they were all that was left of that day. No other images or sounds or smells exist, not in my min at least. There are other days I cannot remember, like the one where I met him. But I could have just forgotten. I’m still figuring out if there’s a way to distinguish between what the different ways of forgetting feel like. There likely could be no perceivable difference at all.

The River, as we called it, was a floodway that knifed through the land, slicing its way to the eastern hills. We were headed for the jaws, the open mouth where its severe steel teeth snarled as the water gnashed its way through. We weren’t too far into the wet season meaning the grate wasn’t slippery enough yet to cause us real worry as we balanced across it’s beam to our preferred side. We were sure not to look down but the vibrations in my feet told me of the surge below. Due to the savage slope of the concrete flank we had to crawl down crab-like, to get as close to where the teeth met the water as we could. This way the wail of the water took our voices with it. We burrowed closer together to combat the cold creeping under our skin from the concrete and spray. Our knees and arms had found their hooks and ledges in one another like this for years. He’s picking at his fingers, I put my head on his shoulder, “Are you worried about tomorrow?”

“I”m excited about tomorrow, what I’m worried about is you, Thea.”

“Do you remember the images?”

“I’m serious, you have to promise me you’ll control your ideas when I’m not around,”

“I promise.”

“Good.” He was always better at thought control than me.

Tomorrow was the second half of the annual Ceremony of Blood. Boys of the age of seventeen are thanked for their service to the House and then are helped through the process of Liberation from Mortal Duty. Many look forward to this day as it is the highest act of honour and ultimate show of his love a boy can display to the House. The only exceptions to this includes if a boy and a girl prove sexual connection to one another, as intercourse of two attracted beings is still considered the most effective way to conceive. This would result in the boy's ceremony being postponed until fulfilment of their duty to the Absolute Love of the House. I’m not sexually attracted to boys, and my friendship doesn’t qualify to keep him here, no matter that the love for him is the deepest I have felt for anyone.

“But your around now” I taunt. He raises his eyebrows, Thea.

“Boys don’t have names,”

“But you have a name. And once a name has been created, shouldn’t it be spoken? You’re abandoning me-"

“I’m leaving you I’m not-”

“I want to hear your name and mine together, once before you’re gone”

“But you’ll have to purposefully forget it so what’s the point?”

“I’ll hear it tonight. And even if I have to forget, I’ll know that for one night, our names were said together. And that will be enough.” He looks at me. I know there’s a part of him that wants to even more than I do.

“Lake, Underbridge,” I whisper. He looks around and then leans in closer to me, squeezing my shoulders tight. He rocks us back and forth gently, I press my thumb into his palm. He gets so close that I nearly cower away as his lips tickle my ear as he moves them to form a barely audible,

“Crow, Angel,”. I hug him now my every muscle tense with excitement. Lake, Underbridge, Crow, Angel.

“Who are you?” I ask.

But before I go on I have to tell you,

This has all happened before. The details may be different the groups may have changed. This will all happen again. This is not a warning. This is a threat. You are being threatened.

It is important for you to make your choice. If this has come to you in it’s entirety - If the many pieces, all written by different hands so as to not point to one singular author have been collaged together and presented as a whole - you must understand that to continue is to commit yourself to knowing. You cannot un-know this. Not when it is written down before you. They will be able to extract this no matter how much reconstruction you attempt. To continue is consignment to Knowing and a perilous act. There will be no returning.

If you are not prepared I urge you to follow the next three steps.

1. At the end of the third instruction, stop reading.

2. Hand this on to the next person in the same manner as it was handed to you.

3. Run.

He puts his head on top of mine, so I can feel the warmth of his neck as he whispers,

“Luca,”

into the night.

I turn around and grab his face with my hands,

“I love you Luca,”

“I love you Alethea” Luca kisses my forehead. I jump up,

“Who are we?”

“We are Luca and Alethea!” He exults. And then we are both frightened by the echo that returns our names from the concrete of the other side. We see each others startles and laugh and hide ourselves in our little ball again whispering our names over and over together feeling it on our tongues and in every part of our mouthes, “Luca and Alethea”.

When our tears had eased, thats when we saw it. A thin lilac ribbon spanning the horizon. The first of the three suns were rising. I shove my face into Luca’s chest wishing it could stay buried there. Taking in Luca’s smell. Listening to Luca’s heart. I wouldn’t forget Luca’s name. Not now it had been spoken. Not now that the water had heard it and taken with it out to the mountains, who threw it up to the sky. Not now that it was carried by the winds and into the clouds and rained back down and swallowed by the earth. The land knew Luca and the land doesn’t forget. There it was, the glow of the first sun, bright and irrefutable.

The Killing Day had arrived.