All We Have Is Who We Are

A Story by Z.A. B

One’s choice affected the ripples of time, and with choices came unexpected consequences.

He couldn’t go through with it. But all he could think of was what would happen if he didn’t; the agony of knowing its pain, and that he was held captive. There seemed nothing to lose, as if losing was of meaningful contradiction. His mind filled with the drowning constraint of conflict, a whirlpool of the past coursing into the present. He felt his breath go short, the feeling that his life could be sucked out of him at any moment. Nothing of importance seemed to exist now at this time. He remembered life before; it was of simple, quiet days where the energy of the sun brought essence of youth. No chaos, no worry, just acceptance of the possibilities that lingered in the shadows of life. He could still hear the laughter of the children as they skipped on by; their footsteps echoing off the sidewalk like the rolling of thunder. The smell of sterilized cleanser penetrated his nostrils, as his thoughts began to surface to that day when he was still able to make his own choices without them hearing or interfering. But that all seemed so long ago; it had all become the past, for he had no choice because they were now in control. His heart began to beat faster, as if his life were a race to keep with time. His body felt hot and his palms were sweaty. He got up, stumbling as if in a state of ecstasy. He looked into the mirror. It was cracked and faded around the edges where it had been exposed to the sun. He noticed an unfamiliar face staring back at him, a face mapped from the exhaustion of hard labor and the conflicting troubles of everyday life. He traced the outline of his face, feeling every fold and bump that had formed this existence. His hair had turned grayish white at the corners, as if he had just painted and forgot to wash his hair, and his eyes were blood shot and hung heavy from lack of sleep. Readying himself with the scissors, he reached up wearily to touch his reflection, as those words played in his head like a broken record, “All we have is who we are…”

***

They came in the summer of ‘66. Through the little port window, a faint glimpse of the sun was just peeking over the horizon, a blanket of reddish orange canvassing the landscape. It was of natural consequence to wake up to the daily routine of repetition. Life was what you made it, and it was always the same mediocre patterns that contributed to such events. Normally, the routine was always the same; it began with a dose of caffeinated self pity, and ended with the companionship of stale brandy. He remembered why no one was still in his life; he had a tendency to push them away with his set mind and open heart. Everyone was just in it for themselves... He came here because he needed change; a direction that even if the compass had a set point, he was the one who made the choice. One’s choice affected the ripples of time, and with choices came unexpected consequences. Thoughts were formed through careful contemplation, and it didn’t matter that it was un-reciprocated; a thought was like a finger print, no two were the same. Thoughts were a person's identity, enabling personal strength to control mindset. He knew everything, of where every thought was. His mind was like a library, coded, marked, covered, secured with information, documentation. He was the only one here that knew things; the most dangerous thing about knowing was that at any time, his thoughts could be taken or forgotten. With time, every choice became an opportunity to re-invent those thoughts, to keep them safe. He had become the chosen one; the one who would keep the secrets and thoughts, memories and ideas of the past as well as for the future. He did not know the value of his importance and had to protect what could be destroyed. It had become a ritual of sorts, them transferring their collected minds and trusting his power to keep secrets. Knowing his power would become dangerous. Through transference, he could now hear the curiosity, strength, weakness, accomplishments, musings, ideas, power and identity of everyone around him. From this, he did not know what he was to become, or what would become of him…

***

His power was strong. He had to be taught how to control the voices, the thoughts. Things were soon to become different. An air of suppression had now become present, and with it came no more self pity, no stale brandy. He was the past, holding the blueprint of century's past, ideas that had been build and established. Some thoughts had slipped through the cracks of time, but were yet so vivid in wanting to be explored. He was the future, filling every inch and corner of his mind with the ever new, changing thoughts of the younger generation. Providing a hopeful space in his mind for what could come and what was to be. He had become victim to control...
He had come back to this place, the place he had left behind. Everything had changed. He placed his hand upon the door, brushing his fingertips against the cracked wood, dust flaking at his feet. He stepped in. A void space of remembrance flooded throughout the room. He breathed in the stench of recycled air, filtering it with the new thoughts that had come with him. The room was more stuffy, a sense that there was nothing left. It was dark, the shadows and haze making it unbearable to see. But he didn't need to see because he felt. He felt the anxiety of childhood pressed with time extend through the room. He could still hear the misguided laughter seep through the walls and his mother's taunting voice. Everything soon became a spinning accordion of hallucination. He had felt oddly at ease, as if his body hung loosely from his bones, the thoughts surging through his head, clawing to get out, to be free. It had been some time, it felt, since he had noticed a difference. He was out of place, wasn't where he was supposed to be. His surroundings were more vague now, cold it seemed. He couldn’t think, couldn’t remember. At the same moment, a crack came over a loud speaker, and a voice came on, repeating the words “You are not your own. You are not your own...” He tried to think, but all that came were those words. His mind canvased through all he knew, the memories, the thoughts he was to protect. But his thoughts were not his own; everything had changed. The faint drowning of the loud speaker drummed in and out of his head. Filling it with the redundant vibration of nothingness. His fear had now become real: the secrets, thoughts that were held from the past were now exposed to change. They knew he would come back...

***

He had been taught well. He knew that much. Fear did not exist. They always reminded him that virtue was better than value. He began hearing those words at a young age. To live with thought was of importance and to maintain it was of greater secrecy. People heard and listened. They stole and corrupted. Mindset became power and with power came control. To be set straight through memory, was to become a slave to them. To be different became a safe place. The fear of not knowing future choices and the existence of identity had become a natural response. Such questions became answered through taunting; “Be good. Always be good.” He knew nothing more than to be good. He wasn't like most people, and they needed him to keep their memories for them. He now knew their importance. These struggles had now become his own. From self-acceptance came strength, and the only way to survive was to be who you were.