New World

Why do we feel pain as a physical emotion, within our hearts and chest, when we lose someone we love? The definition of bitter-sweet probably derived from how our brains work this way, pushing through all the memories, good and bad, she takes no prisoners.

“It will get better.” Everyone used to say before the darkness crept in…

Clearing away his things was the hardest part. He was the most intelligent and eccentric man I had ever had the pleasure of knowing, and just like that, he was gone. His study was dimly lit, the curtain shying away with what little sun was left in the day. The room was a strange, rectangle shape, so thin it almost looked like a corridor, the magnolia wallpaper was peeling off, and the deep, blue carpet had a shabby look. He had tried to live a simple life, so the study only consisted of an armchair – where you could just about make out the floral design that would have looked magnificent about sixty years ago – a painting with white orchids on the wall as it reminded him of my mother. As I observed the room with my reading glasses, I let off a deep cough as I noticed the dust gathering on the dark, oak bookshelf with an outline of the radio which I had been hopelessly fiddling with for days.

Hours had passed, and the part I feared most was approaching, I could hear the faint distant sound of sirens in the background and a distant chant which sent shivers through my bones. I was hours away from The City, but the silence brought out the eerie echoes. It reminded me of the day we lost him. Am I a sinner for thinking it was a blessing in disguise?

“When you grow older, you’ll understand, my child.” But I would not get to follow through on that promise in this estranged New World.

I reached to the top shelf and grabbed his copy of 1984, as if it were the last copy in a busy book shop, making the books it was so neatly tucked away with, spill onto the floor. As I took a deep breath in, I imagined him reading this on his favourite armchair, with his spectacles on and a bowl of sweet clems by his side. The paper still smelt of his musk, and the scent of clementine lingered in between the pages. I miss the small things, don’t you?

As I abruptly disturbed the haven that he has created, the books, to my lack of knowledge, had slowly started edging off the corner of the shelf and tilting towards me. A quiet shuffling sound approached as the books began to slowly slide…

“BAM!” A tin box rattled before it made a quick attack for where I stored my own fading memories. I was immediately knocked to the ground, and for a moment, everything went black.

Startled, I rose after being knocked out cold. I was angry, tired, most importantly, hungry, it felt as though I had not eaten in days. I would resume my work tomorrow, yes, tomorrow. This headache felt like death. I let off one of those half-coughs, half-laughs. He would have appreciated the dark humour in that joke.

I looked around the mound of books in search of my reading glasses, as I pushed away the fallen books, I saw a reflective silhouette in the carpet, and tried to grab what I thought were my spectacles. Except it was not, instead, I had in hand a little black book placed inside the culprit, a polished tin box, which had knocked me out. Where did this come from? My father was extremely particular about the parchment he would use for notes, they would always have a small print in the corner reflective of the year he had purchased and then wrote in them. This book was different from the rest, a blank slate, no telling what was inside.

My mood had drastically changed, I was cautious and on guard. The bookshelf catastrophe had slithered away from my memory and now my sole purpose was to find out what secrets were hidden inside this shall book. My mind shifted, could it be a secret life he had been living? A memoir? A solution for world peace? Some type of cure? The answer to quantum theory?

I opened the pages, to see a page filled with his handwriting, clear instructions had been given, and suddenly, some hope arose. I had a sense of purpose; I knew what had to be done.

I retreated to my haven, I curled under the torn blanket, and stared up at the pitch-black ceiling, my mind again was racing, yet I did not feel alone, I no longer felt the pain, it was gone this time and, in its place, all I felt was an overwhelming sense of pride. I closed my eyes slowly and before I was even aware of it, I was fast asleep.

Morning came, I had woken several times in the night to fiddle with the radio but as expected, I not a peep. The sunlight crept through the crack in the curtains, but I did not mind. I like waking up this way, I like anything authentic and it provided me with a warm jacket. My mind wandered back to the little black book I got up and lugged my way back into my father’s study, coughing and spluttering as I searched relentlessly for some old ink and a fountain pen.

I began etching and before I knew it, the pages were filled with stories of the glory days, the great games they used to show on the television, the al fresco drinking holes where you’d meet up with friends, being able to cross the borders to explore new lands, attending shows and gala’s with crowds of people compacted together, seeing people’s mouth form a smile and then the last few rallies, movements, open speeches and finally, I ended on the last Christmas of 2019 before the darkness began. My memories came flooding back, it had been so long since I let my mind wander to that life, once the darkness took over it was to the bunkers, and once we ran out of food, it was the wilderness, I was surprised my old house was still standing and had been preserved, instead of scrapped down by the corrupt street patrollers and remaining survivors.

The U.K. had been hit harder than most, there was nothing ‘Great’ in Britain any longer. With the rebirth of paganism, the old religions no longer had a place here and the religious textures we are branded to nothing but just mere stories on a bookshelf. Those with pure intentions we are either wiped out or lived long enough to see themselves turn into what they despised the most. Finally, as Marx predicted, the people rose to power and capitalism fell, this was the New World now.

I was coming to the end of the story, I had preserved the memories of the Old World, and it was time for me to finally rest. I had saved roughly $10,000, which was the cost for a cargo ship to another land, but it was too late. The last of us had boarded and no one would be coming back to this island. When father was unwell, he gave me the cash, but I could not leave him, I owed him a proper burial, a final ode to the Old Religion.

I let off another cough as I placed the ticket money and my story into the tin box that my father used to store his little black book within; I was getting worse and it would not be long until I joined the rest of the names on this bookshelf in front of me: George Orwell, Margaret Atwood, Cormac McCarthy and J.M. Barrie and his lost boys. I knew my story was coming to an end, but I would not let my father down. I was weak, and the infection had entered my lungs.

I can only hope that in years to come, a great survivor will find this box and spread my message, about the glory days, before the darkness took over. Who knew a small outbreak would lead to such a worldwide pandemic with so many lives lost? I had lost too much, but my glimpse of hope resided in knowing that you and I can preserve the memories through the events enlisted. When I am reunited with my father, I shall recite the first line of my story to him:

“Why do we feel pain as a physical emotion, within our hearts and chest, when we lose someone we love?”