True Love
I can feel the pressure behind my eye, the needle pressing into my occipital lobe—sparks of primordial light race past the outer fields of my vision. Colored semi-circles burn into my retinas as the entire mass of the NetWeb begins to suck out of my brain stem. A final image, an ancient remnant of a bygone past, rips into my vision as the burned image of a capitol building coated in ash is decaled into the yellowing wallpaper in front of me. The image floats alongside my vision as I turn to the Operator next to me, the image floating on his graying patchy mustache.
“The migraine will come soon son, have a seat and grab a bag before you vomit on my nice shiny carpet.” He shoots a toothless smile which soon blooms into a hearty sickening laugh, his graying gums betraying years of inhalant abuse.
“Whatever Comrad.” I stumble into the stained loveseat in the remnants of the kitchen, eyeing ancient stains and stepping over bubbling, checkerboard linoleum. I stumble face-first into the seat, a soft squelching coming from the ancient cushion, as a mildewy browning stain wafts nausea into my face. “Christ almighty.” I double over as the moments bleed together. The migraine subsides from a stab into a dull thudding in the base of my brain. Thump, thump, thump. The screen door screams at me as it slams shut.
“Come back any time my friendly friend!” His cackle echoes me out to the street. A Killteam van drives past me, black thick smog billowing out the exhaust pipe installed overhead. The siren gives a morbid echo of the ambulances that used to drive on this street, now they don’t even bother picking up a new client if they aren’t insured. I'm back at my apartment after a cigarette and a short ride on my bike. Faded symbols of allegiance hang off the flag poles rusting off the cracking brick. My bag slips off my shoulder into a pile of cans slowly but surely obscuring the staticky carpet below.
More letters in the inbox from the Foundation Party, promising more direct action, more budget to the Killteams, and a more comprehensive school program initiative. The ancient new face of the Party shoots a car dealership smile bordered with cut-like red slits. They get creepier every year. Another blacked-out van races down the street, the foghorn shaking the windows in my place.
It stops right in front of the front door. I barely parse the curtain from the window as I edge forward and look down. No fucking way. The brakes scream at me. As the two backdoors are thrust open. My blood runs ice cold. The two scars, two delicate fading fading lines, burn like hot irons being forced to my chest. My world is crashing down in front of me. Fucking mosquitoes, I think to myself as the gas mask-clad officers begin ascending the stairs. Two in plain but clean black uniforms, baseball caps sitting on their heads follow swiftly behind.
My heart starts to pump in my ears. I sprint to the front door and put my face against the peephole. The door on the stairwell slams shut. I hold my breath and watch as the men methodically file in, soldiers taking each corner and pointing weapons at every entrance. How could they possibly know? Did someone tell them? Was it Judah? He knows he would die too right? That being with me will forfeit his own life? My door is the second on the floor from the stairwell. I have moments to prepare.
I sprint back to my bedside table and retrieve a sleek black pistol from the false bottom of the drawer. It’s already loaded. I always keep it loaded. I turn the safety off and set it down on the coffee table, picking up the chair in front of my TV, still playing some state propaganda: A white woman and her equally pale husband pose in front of the camera. They’re both smiling wide, as two small children run into their open arms. Bold black text fades into the screen: Alert your local Peace Keepers of any aliens or perverts! I start to cry as I set the chair in front of the door, some faux cover to prevent from being instantly killed. As I walk away from the chair to retrieve my gun a knock on the door.
They’re not kicking my door in? I wipe the tears from my face and steady myself. I check the peephole and see a man standing there with a small smirk on his face, a black hat with a white emblazoned logo; Peace Keepers in an elaborate font, a white eagle screeching with a cross emblazoned on its stomach in an oddly phallic display. “Just a second!” I push the chair in the other direction and switch the gun to my right hand. I press the barrel into the plastic paneling of the door as I undo the deadbolt.
I open the door as wide as would deem worthy of trust. “How can I help you today officer?”
“Hey citizen, we’re looking for an individual by the name of Judah Paschal, his address is recorded as the 3rd floor of this building.” I start to feel my blood get cold, “But we noticed the door wasn’t recorded. Do you know which one of these doors is his?” He floats the question to me as his smile grows a little bigger. Why are these guys always so happy to do this sick shit?
I begin to drag my arm up to the point, he shifts effortlessly to let my hand point to the door directly behind him. “Yeah.” A hard swallow on my end. “He lives right there.”
His eyes are barely visible now, hidden behind a beaming grin. “Thank you for doing your part in preventing degeneracy citizen! I would head inside and lock your door now, things may get loud if it resists.”
“Yeah, of course.” I slowly close the door, my pistol swiveled to be aimed at the man's head. I could kill him right now. In the chaos, he could maybe get away. I could probably get the soldier posted on the door too. AND THEN WHAT? A shiver runs down my spine. YOU WILL DIE LIKE A DOG. THEY WILL SULLY YOUR CORPSE AND DISPLAY YOUR FLAYED EXCUSE FOR A BODY LIKE AN ANIMAL. I feel nausea rising to my throat, acrid battery acid, and a flood of saliva. YOU ARE A COWARD. I sprint to the bathroom. YOU WILL DIE A COWARD. I empty the contents of my stomach into the bowl in a blend of orange and green. YOU WILL BE KILLED A COWARD.
I sit on the disgusting tile for a while. Letting the stone cool my arms. I heard the shots about 30 minutes ago. One from a soldier, probably into his liver. He screamed for what felt like ages before the officer at my door began screaming at the man. Telling him he is disgusting, telling him he is what is wrong with the world, that he is a pedophile, that he is not what our society needs, and finally before he blew his brains all over his white sheets, that he is not what God will tolerate. The same white sheets we would hold each other in. Waiting for the hallways to get quiet to let me back across that no man's land. Would God tolerate me? What God would tolerate this? I am awake staring at the same stain on my floor for hours. The sun sinks. Then comes back up again. As the perfect abyss of the night is taken from me, the starless sky replaced with disgusting potential, I slip into unconsciousness.
Makers Statement
This is 100 percent inspired by The Parable of the Sower. Not like its characters or writing style, but in the way that life still moves forward in the dystopia. Sometimes the apocalypse happens and you have to keep going to work, pay insurance, and deal with a violent oppressive police force. Unlike The Parable of the Sower, its end is not inspirational, and there is no hope for our titular main character. Nameless and featureless outside of the remaining scars from his top surgery. He escapes the world that has entirely rejected him and his lover Judah. He fails to find the courage to strike back at the fascist force that has naturally arrived from unchecked capitalism. The very stars are completely hidden from view, the streets crumbled to disrepair, and the health of citizens is no longer a key concern as much as culling the ones they don’t want.
The allegory for republicanism is not hard to see, homosexuality and transness are the same to these new overlords as the violation of children and violations of the rules of God. The same accusations that modern-day figures on the Christian right will level at the gay people of today. It is simply an extension of the posturing and pretending our figures engage in right now. It is a legalization of Christofascist terrorists acting on those orders. I intended to have the main character represent a certain neoliberal fear of inflicting massive change on the society they exist in. He has the tool to change the fate of his lover in his hand, the same way members of the working class are unable or unwilling to take up the means in their own hands for fear of retaliation. The full capital inner voice isn’t a divine being reaching out to let the main character know he’s damned but instead the internalization of the shame instilled over years of indoctrination and political programming. In a similar vein to the way politicians and demagogues will inflict weaponized shame upon those they think should hide the way they believe they should live.
Escapism is a common theme in science fiction, especially in more dystopian stories like Cyberpunk, Ready Player One, and Neuromancer. Whether it’s legal reasons, lack of safety, or want to strike it rich in the digital world, the characters of these stories run from the world of reality and attempt to exist outside of the physical plane. Our main character uses copious amounts of drugs, a hallucinogenic by the name of the NetWeb in a crass reference to the internet of old is the only one we see in the scope of the story, but the norm he exists in necessitates either a motivation to improve his material conditions or completely deny the conditions he exists in. Revolting from reality in a way that only destroys him, he is a failed protagonist in that way. Unable to prevent the abject horror of his situation and unwilling to leave the situation due to ties he has built in his life, he is relegated to sitting alone, isolated as the only person keeping him tethered to this world is ripped from his grasp.
To conclude let's dive into the Peace Keepers, colloquially known as Killteams among the less fascist members of the State. They are the police force of this world, and similarly to how the Bladerunners of Bladerunner are the determinners of who is human and who is not, despite the inability for even those who are replicants to tell, these officers arbitrate who is human and who is not with a very flawed and right wing sense of morality. The fury from the officer at the end is not solely from this perceived degeneracy that Juda Paschal (Juda deriving from Judas and Paschal from the hebrew word for the sacrificial lamb) was engaging in, but instead amplified through the fact that he existed in this world without anyone being alerted to this “degeneracy”. In the same fashion that Roy had become human through his experiences our protagonist loses his entirely by the end of the story by attempting to live in the society at large.
Cited Sources
Bladerunner (Ridley Scott,1982).
Butler, Octavia E. Parable of the Sower. New York: Four Walls Eight Windows, 1993
Gibson, William, 1948-. Neuromancer. New York :Ace Science Fiction Books, 1984.
Cline, E. (2020). Ready Player One. Century.
Quintanar, Derek, and Et Al. Cyberpunk. Berkeley, {Calif.}, Talsorian, 1989.