Humanity is a strange and
often complex thing, is it not? For thousands of years humans have
seemingly been ordained by their own DNA to question their place in
the universe and, more often than not, have come up with only more
questions. For a being capable of contemplating its own existence, it
is quite perplexing to consider the fact that humans fail to
elaborate on the possibility that there is no answer, let alone the
conceivable likelihood that they are, to put in plainly, meaningless.
But is anything in nature truly meaninglessness? Without purpose? One
could argue that a parasite has no worth as it literally preys on
others in order to survive, the world ever spinning should their
existence be wiped from the face of the Earth, or would it?
A worthy attempt to
answer the question, for sure, but a grim reality awaits those who
indulge the idea that humanity too is a parasitic organism, and worse
yet, one that takes by choice and not by design. Humanity is quick to
demonize something as frail as a mosquito for having its fill of
human blood, but should they? After all, the insect did so as nature
intended and not by choice but by eons of programmed instinct.
Humans, on the other hand, indeed have a long and dismal history of
taking far more from the world around them than necessary, and there
is no greater example of this than in humanity's most paradoxical
quality, war.
War plays a defining role
in humanity's existence and has shaped the fate of the planet, and
its inhabitants, on numerous occasions. Wars have been conduced by
the human symphony for as long as it has been alive, and yet despite
how loud the voice of humanity may claim that it is a thing to be
reviled, it is never quite as loud and the grinding gears of the war
machine when it begins to awaken once more. If one were to take the
time and look for answers regarding so much wanton death and
destruction, they would find a bewildering amount of justifications
that range from economics to justice. However, should one look
closer, they would find so simple an answer. War is built on the
presumed needs of the human race when paired with the inability to
resolve those needs through language. But if mankind is so evolved a
thing that we can split the atom and ward off infection and disease,
then why is it that humans lack the ability to converse with one
another to avoid the horrors of war?
Again, more questions
with numerous answers and subjectively motivated opinions.
Truthfully, the question one should ask is this - “Is war a choice
or an instinct?” So I ask, is humanity to be judged harshly like
the mosquito, deserving little more than a quick death and a quiet
curse, or does there yet remain hope for something that can conceive
so heinous a thing as war, is there perhaps place in this world for
the parasite?
This is the story of a
man forever shaped by war and his journey to find meaning in that
both damned and celebrated human pastime. A journey that will take
him to the edge of madness by both receiving and inflicting
immeasurable sorrow, pain, fury, and ultimately arrive at an end that
will either see him descend into an unspeakable darkness that would
lash out at the world, or perhaps arise as something more than just a
man, more than a soldier, and find a purpose for the parasite we know
as humanity.
We begin in a dark place.
The air is cold and damp as the sound of running water is heard all
around. Grey trails of light from an overcast day cut the gloom of
the darkness like dull razors from sporadic windows that occasionally
line the high ceilings of this abandoned structure. When the wind
blows, the sound of metal chain links can be heard dancing briefly
with their siblings, echoing throughout the dark from steel walkways
that layer the void between the ground and ceiling. The ground itself
is hard and cold, concrete laid down not too long ago as the
foundation for this now hallow facility which has lost its purpose.
Numerous rectangular pits are spread out roughly every twenty feet or
so with metal pathways built over them for walking make up the bottom
level of the facility. Some of these depressions overflow with
gallons of water that have not moved in months, with the exception of
possibly a heavenly drop of fresh dew fallen from above. Others are
bone dry, as if gasping its final breath as its sense of purpose
becomes truly forgotten. Then there are those like the the one we
draw our attention to, filling up rabidly from several busted pipes
from above, an event made possible by the battle that only recently
took place here moments ago. A sullen figure sits in anguish in this
dark pit. Around him, the water rises steadily with no end in sight,
and yet, he does not move. Time is running out, but he his not alone.
A snickering can be heard
in the dark among the torrent streams of gushing water. Our figure
raises his face to address the sounds with the glaring eyes of a
wounded animal who is not in the mood to be toyed with. His features
are sharp and angular, his eyes deep set with high cheek bones. The
most vague shade of a beard recently shaven crawls across his face.
Short black hair is pulled away from his features into an uneven mess
with two ragged locks of hair that fall forward against his
forehead. But most defining of all would be a pair of thick eyebrows
that adorn the rims above each of his golden yellow eyes. If such
characteristics were not bizarre enough, his ears are long and ever
slightly pointed giving him the appearance of something that was lost
to human memory, of a time when man fought with beasts for his own
place in the world's savage past.
His attire is something
to be noticed as well, a loose black jumpsuit trimmed on the outer
edges down the body with two striking white lines. Adorned on his
shoulders, elbows, and knees are sturdy guards made of a material
that resemble bone. His hands are covered in black leather gloves
that have a noticeable curved metal claw attached just past the
knuckle on each finger and thumb. His feet, which sat beneath the
slowly rising water level, are covered in slender black leather
boots. His chest is also additionally covered by a heavy military
style combat vest, littered with brass snap pouches and a hard
shielded area over his right pectoral. The trim around his neck is
accented with a fur lining that reaches around the back of the head
and is most likely intended for warmth but only adds to his
animalistic countenance. Finally, and most odd, is a red scarf
wrapped around his neck, tied into a knot below his Adam's apple and
splitting into two long stands that disappear under the surface of
the rising water.
The man's lips part to
respond to the rising volume of laughter. “Shut up.” he says in a
low tone, direct and course. Almost as if to retaliate, the laughter
becomes loud and emphasized in a mocking display of cruelty. To the
outside viewer, the source of this laughter would come as a shock to
anyone, but for our sullen sir, it is no more than an old
acquaintance. About several yards away, floating on the surface of
the water but half sunken beneath the murky liquid, is a skull like
object with dreadful features. A large green bulbous eye peers back
at our sir as razor sharp teeth and fangs glisten with moisture as
the ghastly object very slowly is consumed by the dark waters. As the
skull's mocking laughter intensifies, our sir brings his hands to his
ears to shut out the sound as a painful expression morphs his face
into one of desperation and sorrow. “SHUT UP!” he screams over
and over again, until the laughter stops suddenly. Then, as if to
break the silence, the skull speaks. “Wow, really?” the
voice is assuredly emanating from the skull, an almost raspy voice
that sounds otherworldly to our sir. “...Shit...” our sir replies
and buries his head into his knees, wrapping his arms around them to
hide some sense of embarrassment and stupidity. The skull retorts
mockingly, “If he didn't know where we are, then he sure as shit
does now.” Another long pause. Then the skull speaks again,
“Look, sorry about being a dick...But... What the hell were you
thinking!?”
Our sir raises his head
and takes a long look at his left hand as if the story to his failure
begins there. “I thought that if he could see me. The real me. Then
maybe he would listen.” our sir explains. “Oh, he listened all
right. To the sound of your ass getting beat. Do you even remember
why we're here?” the skull responds. Our sir sits in silence
yet again as he continues to gaze at his left hand which slowly
tightens into a fist along with an ever growing look of determination
on his face. He answers, “Yeah... I remember.” Not satisfied, the
skull retorts, “Really? So that shit you pulled is what you call
covert now? I'm not dying in some fucking hole! So get your ass in
gear! We got work to do!” Almost as if in pain, our sir raises
a hand to his head, seemingly struggling with finding an answer for
his grim companion as well as with the rhythmically dripping sound of
water that he manages to focus on. “I'm trying... But you know how
messed up my head is. I just need to find it again. To find-” His
words are stopped short as his eyes dilate and he is thrust back in
time through memory's doorway with the help of the water's hypnotic
rhythmical drip. Drip, drip, drip, slowly gives form to a new sound-
drick, drick, drick, until reaching a more familiar one – tick,
tick, tick. A sound that our sir remembers well, a sound that marked
the beginning of his journey into that sunken and dark pit. Though to be
fair, he fell into a pit long again and has never come out.
Two weeks earlier our sir
found himself looking far different, hands in strange shackles,
sitting at the end of long wooden table in a white room with gray
trim. The only noticeable things were a long dark window on the wall
to his left, and on the wall farthest from him, a heavy wooden door
that he assumed was locked and of course, there was the clock.
Ticking away incessantly. Many things can make similar sounds, like
pulling back the hammer on a revolver, loading a magazine into an
automatic rifle, pulling the pin on a grenade, and so many more.
Worst of all were the screams that followed such noises. He could
hear them now, growing louder and louder.
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