The Void

I have always heard that fear is paralyzing. That the sensation floods your body, rendering you immobile, all the while your heart is racing. Your breath catches in your lungs, and your stomach drops heavily as if laden with rocks. Your muscles tense, adrenaline courses through your nervous system, and you tremble. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I could not remember the last time that I experienced it, perhaps I never had.

My heart beat steadily in my chest, and I felt nothing. Not the chill of the mist around me, nor the ground beneath my feet. I could not feel my legs, and yet, they carried me forward. I might have been weightless, gliding toward the platform as if propelled by some unseen force. I stared straight ahead, careful not to look down, but I heard my own footsteps thudding lightly over the creaking boards under my shoes.

I tried not to look at the crowd that gathered around me. Everyone came. It was not optional. I focused on the hill that stood on the other side of the pit that lay before me. It was high, but sloping, shrouded in mist. Lush green moss clung to the cold, harsh surface of every rock and boulder. It softened their appearance, and gave them an air of comfort. Plush and inviting. Deceiving.

I inhaled deeply through my nose longing for a few more moments with the familiar scent of damp, cool earth, but I was disappointed. Instead of the refreshing aroma that usually accompanied grey, cloudy mornings, I was met with a nauseating sweetness. Too thick, and out of place. It took only a moment for me to realize that the smell wafted up from the catacombs below. Reflexively, I looked down, searching for the source. I felt it, then. Fear. It gripped me suddenly, completely, as I peered over the edge of the platform where I stood. My stomach knotted, threatening to empty itself of the last earthly meal that I would ever enjoy. The fissure opened wide, but appeared to narrow the deeper it sank into the earth, enclosed on all sides by walls of rock, creating a natural well with incalculable depth. Fog settled inside of it, leafy branches of determined trees peeking through the low-lying cloud. Grey, green, blue, blackness. I knew what rested at the bottom of that void. I could not see them of course, but I had witnessed for myself, those who had plunged into the chasm. Was it willfully? Did they tremble with fright before they catapulted over the edge?

How had we reached this point? Why?

For years, humanity seemed to be declining. People became primal, feral almost. They were unaffected by the knowledge of their own mortality, and they did not live in fear of death as they had for so many millennia before. It seemed as if they longed for it, now. It might have been a beautiful thing, to not feel restricted by mortal dread, were it not for the way that the nihility of that dread made people callous, cold, and cruel.

Industry halted, and everyone just lived their lives. Not happily, not angrily, indifferent but still unwilling to give up. Governments collapsed, and the wealthiest families lorded over the lower class, mercilessly. There were no varying degrees of wealth, you either had it or you did not. Them versus us. They imposed laws, but did away with order and justice.

It did not happen all at once, of course. It took several years, and a number of well-timed tragedies. The cost of living increased steadily, while the average person’s wages remained unchanged. Only the very wealthy could afford to own property, and most houses were now inhabited by two or more entire families. Everyone struggled to survive, and worked themselves to the point of exhaustion and disease. Strangely, each person became hostile toward their neighbor, blaming them for the current state of things, just as the media had taught them. Everyone was blind. Everyone was stubborn. People became set in their ways, distrustful and less tolerant of others.

There were no histories, no schools, no libraries. Nothing except stories passed down from one generation to the next, and the more they were told, the more they were twisted and exaggerated. There was very little reason to even learn to read or write, it certainly was not encouraged, but some still made the effort. It always seemed to be those who showed the greatest interest in educating themselves that asked the most questions. It was those who were least content with what had become “normal life”.

Food was hoarded by the upper class, private gardens were outlawed. Rivers, streams, and lakes were fenced off, and trespassers were not even granted the courtesy of last words. Basic necessities funneled down from the richer to the poorer, rationed to the point that excess was an unattainable goal. Unattainable, at least, for those who did not already possess it.

I did not know the reason for this custom, I do not think that anyone really did. Few people questioned it, and those that did were never given a satisfactory answer. “It’s just the way things are.” I questioned it. Years ago, late on the eve of the ceremony, I asked my mother. “Why?”

“Hush,” she told me, “it’s what we have to do to survive.” That was her answer for everything.

Every third month, in the early morning on the day after the full moon, everyone in The Center gathered together to bear witness as one luckless individual, chosen at random, surrendered their lives for the greater good. They called it “tax time”, and yet when they said it, it sounded like a joke that only they understood.

The crowd gathered at the gorge, forming a half circle around the platform where I stood. I scanned their faces, some familiar, most not. They looked expectant, maybe even anxious, but it was not concern for me that furrowed their brows. Their stares were curious, but detached. Eager in the chilling way that made my knees threaten to buckle. They stood, silently waiting for the moment that I succumbed to the call of the void.

There was no light in anyone’s eyes, no sparkle of life, no fiery passion. It did not exist here anymore. Every person was dressed similarly, black or grey garb, unremarkable designs. It was a stark contrast against the vibrant green of the hillside upon which they waited. On any other day, I might have been moved by the subtle artistry of the assemblage, the aesthetic and the colors. Not this day.

Without signal, each person in the crowd extended their arms out to their sides and clasped hands with the strangers next to them. They appeared to be praying. Not to God, and not for deliverance. There were no miracles in this place. If ever a god had occupied this city, he was long since gone. They prayed to themselves, believing in their own divinity, for they were spared. For now.

I stood still for a minute or two, and I think time did as well. Supposedly, your life flashes before your eyes in the moments before your death, but as I stood on the literal precipice of doom, I thought only of him.

My right hand reached for the golden locket that hung from my neck. I had been allowed this trifle, this one precious item that I would take to my grave. I ran my fingers over the edges, the hinge, the clasp, the chip at the bottom of the heart its only flaw. I considered the contents, a single picture of the only boy I had ever loved. His big, bright, grey eyes, the pile of soft, unruly blonde curls that framed his rosy cheeks. His smile was so warm, so sweet. I had missed him for too long. I craved the feel of his hand in mine the way that I craved my next breath. Instinctually, vitally, hopelessly. I yearned to brush my fingertips over the soft skin of his cheeks, to pull him close, to feel his head resting on my shoulder. I was desperate to hear the sound of his melodic voice, and I remembered the way he cupped my face in his tiny hands and asked, “Where are you, Mommy?” when I seemed too far away, trapped in my own daydreams. “Where are you?”

Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot against my skin, warring against the coolness of the misty morning air. I sobbed, sorrow wracking my body, overwhelming the dread. I clutched the locket against my palm and proceeded forward until my toes hung over the edge of the platform. Deep breath in. Out. I allowed my strength to leave me, and collapsed, pitching forward as I fell. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, seeing the cherubic face of my precious boy. Hoping for the first time, and the last, that Heaven is real and that I would hold him again.