LJ Idol Week 13: Open Topic
Jun. 30th, 2014 06:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flipflop_diva[For this week, I decided to revisit the apocalyptic world of this entry, written for Week 5: Build a Better Mousetrap. I don't think it is necessary to read that one for this one to make sense, but I felt I should link it just in case. I hope you enjoy!]
The end of the world happened on a Wednesday night.
At least the end of my world happened then.
It was a very long time ago now, back when I had a real name, a real job, a real family.
A real life.
They would tell me my life now is what’s real, that what came before no longer matters and it is not important enough to remember.
Maybe it isn’t, but sometimes I feel like it is.
Sometimes I think that I do remember my life back then, but I am not sure. The scenes I think I remember twist and turn in my mind, pictures blurring into other pictures, some elements coming into focus only to be torn away and obscured by others, never letting me hold onto any moment long enough to know if it is true or just a shadow of my imagination.
Sometimes I think the machines that put me to work also steal my memories.
But there is one they cannot steal, one I cannot be made to forget, one that is forever imprinted within my soul.
I was young then. Decades younger than I am now.
At least I think it must be decades. Perhaps it is centuries. I am not sure.
I was asleep when it started, the sound whirling around us like nothing we had ever heard before. Louder than the loudest thunder, stronger than the strongest explosion.
It jolted us from our beds, forced us to run for our lives under a blood red sky and through pouring, burning rain.
We found shelter in an old shack. I think it might have been a shack I played in once as a child, but I do not remember now. That memory has been lost, faded away or stolen.
But not this one.
In this memory, the shack was cold, and it was dark.
Outside, the world screamed and moaned and shook, and nothing made sense. Except the look in her eyes and the baby’s cries.
If other people were around, I did not see them. If there was any sound of human life, it was covered up by the earth itself falling to pieces around us.
We stayed there together for hours, huddled next to each other in clothes not made for warmth, as the ground shook and the sounds outside never ceased.
We did not dare to peek beyond our walls. We did not want to see what was happening.
There had been a gun in that old shack. I noticed it just before it ended.
I am not allowed to regret things anymore. Regret is an emotion they have taken away, but if I could, I would regret not using that gun on myself, on her, on our child.
It would have been a better fate.
Instead, I did nothing but hold them as the roof was ripped away from our shack and the walls were torn down.
I did not see what grabbed them, but I felt its strength. Stronger than any a thousand humans could ever hope to be.
It snatched them away from me before I could scream, or even breathe.
I shot to my feet, long after it was too late, ready to attack, ready to fight, but it could not be fought.
As I screamed into the night air, a light shone down. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and for an instant, I saw them. Huge and monstrous, reaching toward the sky, tearing up everything that used to be.
It was the only time I have ever seen the machines from the outside.
The memory ends there. My life now is all I know since then.
But I know somewhere in this new world, my old memories must still exist. I think sometimes they are the key to escaping.
Most times I think it is too late.
The end of the world happened on a Wednesday night.
At least the end of my world happened then.
It was a very long time ago now, back when I had a real name, a real job, a real family.
A real life.
They would tell me my life now is what’s real, that what came before no longer matters and it is not important enough to remember.
Maybe it isn’t, but sometimes I feel like it is.
Sometimes I think that I do remember my life back then, but I am not sure. The scenes I think I remember twist and turn in my mind, pictures blurring into other pictures, some elements coming into focus only to be torn away and obscured by others, never letting me hold onto any moment long enough to know if it is true or just a shadow of my imagination.
Sometimes I think the machines that put me to work also steal my memories.
But there is one they cannot steal, one I cannot be made to forget, one that is forever imprinted within my soul.
I was young then. Decades younger than I am now.
At least I think it must be decades. Perhaps it is centuries. I am not sure.
I was asleep when it started, the sound whirling around us like nothing we had ever heard before. Louder than the loudest thunder, stronger than the strongest explosion.
It jolted us from our beds, forced us to run for our lives under a blood red sky and through pouring, burning rain.
We found shelter in an old shack. I think it might have been a shack I played in once as a child, but I do not remember now. That memory has been lost, faded away or stolen.
But not this one.
In this memory, the shack was cold, and it was dark.
Outside, the world screamed and moaned and shook, and nothing made sense. Except the look in her eyes and the baby’s cries.
If other people were around, I did not see them. If there was any sound of human life, it was covered up by the earth itself falling to pieces around us.
We stayed there together for hours, huddled next to each other in clothes not made for warmth, as the ground shook and the sounds outside never ceased.
We did not dare to peek beyond our walls. We did not want to see what was happening.
There had been a gun in that old shack. I noticed it just before it ended.
I am not allowed to regret things anymore. Regret is an emotion they have taken away, but if I could, I would regret not using that gun on myself, on her, on our child.
It would have been a better fate.
Instead, I did nothing but hold them as the roof was ripped away from our shack and the walls were torn down.
I did not see what grabbed them, but I felt its strength. Stronger than any a thousand humans could ever hope to be.
It snatched them away from me before I could scream, or even breathe.
I shot to my feet, long after it was too late, ready to attack, ready to fight, but it could not be fought.
As I screamed into the night air, a light shone down. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and for an instant, I saw them. Huge and monstrous, reaching toward the sky, tearing up everything that used to be.
It was the only time I have ever seen the machines from the outside.
The memory ends there. My life now is all I know since then.
But I know somewhere in this new world, my old memories must still exist. I think sometimes they are the key to escaping.
Most times I think it is too late.
