“And what would God say? If he were standing in your presence and you showed him your incorrigible lack of faith?”
“I assume God wouldn't say much, as I am created in his image – or so I am told – and more importantly, I am to do his will, whether I agree to it or not.”
“Surely, but my will ordained by God and carried out by me in this very moment, whether or not I agree to it, is to make you see higher things, so you may rest in a higher place. Because – and this is what I have seen, not simply been told: God has requirements that we as incumbents must surely follow, – implicit ones – and would you not regard faith as being inherently without dispute?”
“Not at all.” The man with the gray robes and hazel eyes was leaned far back in his chair with his chin rested in his palm, and he sat up as he spoke, reaching for the chalice of gold on the table in front of him. “I would not regard anything as indisputable, and it would be a cold day before I recognized something of that nature as being inherent. I'd sooner tell this God who demands faith to come down and declare me wrong, since the sheer breadth of the supposition is of such... immensity I wager I'd be doing about the same thing were I to claim its truth.”
“Mercy!” The man across the table playfully slammed his hand on the arm of his chair and smiled widely. “Conversation with you is such a dismal thing. Such a pessimist! You know pessimists die young? I've heard stress is not good on the heart.”
“I believe you're confusing pessimists with idealists, and I am neither; I am a realist.”
“A realist he says! And who isn't a realist in these days of poverish philosophers? In days where humility is a thing of the past? I'd be more impressed were you to simply admit your pessimism.”
“I'd ask why you are so convinced I am a pessimist, considering I've yet to say anything truly pessimistic, but I fear I already know why.”
“And surely you do, because while you are a pessimist, you're surely no idiot -- a class I reserve only for the most benign; a word chosen in absolute irony, I assure you -- and considering the privileged state in which you sit in front of me now, it seems like a safe assumption to make... though we both know how fickle the judgment of the eyes can be.”
“I would hope you judge my intelligence on more than just sight.”
The outspoken man laughed. “Is there any difference? The body is but a mirror of the soul, and that which the body dawns is the mirror of the body. One can deduce, you know?”
The man in gray chuckled. “I would like for us to return to the topic I have come here to discuss.”
“Ah, yes, you mean your sympathies for the benign...”
Walls of rain were driven by the wind into the side of the manor, and the splattering of water falling from the roof could be heard outside. The only window was covered with a black blanket, all of their light coming from the one lit candelabra across the room, and the single candle in the center of their table. The man in gray sipped from his chalice and spoke:
“Yes. Or more aptly, the risk involved with their suppression.”
The outspoken man laughed again. “A pessimist and a worrier. What a stressful combination.”
“I am being serious.”
“As am I. You are being too negative, and your negativity is causing you to exaggerate the threat.”
“Maybe I am exaggerating, but underestimating it is hardly the better option. I don't claim to have a working experience with matters like this, but... Your usage of the word 'benign' bothers me greatly.”
“Are you a moralist now?”
“Hardly, and I am not insinuating you were insulting them.”
“Yet, you compliment them by insinuating they are something other than that – benign, which I might remind you I say in irony, as they are entirely the opposite of benign, and likely the source of evil itself.” He took a long sip from his chalice.
“Listen, my issue is not with their old ways or with our history. The lower class outnumbers us, and assuming any form of unification, they would out strengthen us as well.”
“Prepost-”
“-Now let me be clear. What I am saying is theory, and any consideration of the hypothetical worst case scenario is speculation, and to you, possibly conjecture, but conclusions aside, what I am basing these considerations on is threatening information, and even if my predicted results are – God willing – to never come to fruition, we would be no better for ignoring the problem.”
“And what is this highly important problem, then?”
“The potential for revolution.”
“...Hmpf! How absurd. I will not deny you are right that we, as upperclassmen and nobility chosen by our venerable God, are outnumbered – I would certainly hope! -- and reluctantly I will admit, that say our God were to manifest, and to ride down on a chariot of fire and place the Lance of Purpose into the hands of the devils themselves, and to guide them to unification -- for I would imagine with the haphazard, drunken trudgery that they seem to exhume with every waking moment of life, they'd need nothing less than God to achieve something so unfathomable -- that they could indeed out strengthen us; but you speak to me of considerations, and I hear nothing of options. Even if I were to take this.... what did you call it? Conjecture? Even if I am to take this conjecture as a true threat, what am I to do if not suppress?”
“You must put them to sleep. It is the only humanitarian option.”
“Humanitarian? Mercy, mercy, mercy!” The outspoken man placed one hand on his forehead and covered his face, waving his other in front of him in sync with his articulation. “Maybe I was right. Maybe you are a moralist!”
“I assure you that is not so.”
“And how could that be? You come to me speaking of the most humanitarian approach, when surely you, of all people and of all my advisers, should know humanitarianism brings nothing more than weakness, and weakness is death.”
“Yes, but I submit the idea that humanitarianism, as we know it, is a word convoluted and bent to the advantage of the liberals. Truly: what is best for people is logic, and logic does not consider the feelings of one over the many... or do you disagree?
He chuckled. “Fine then. Tell me of your plan; the one to put them all to sleep. Do you suggest we seek out these savages and lull them to sleep with bedtime stories?”
“If that will accomplish what needs to be accomplished, then I will personally recite children's tales to each and every citizen of our domain.”
“My domain, Comisosa.” The outspoken man's eyes tightened with unflinching authority. “Do not forget your place.”
“My apologies. I did not mean to imply my loyalty to Entus was in the stead of yours, nor did I wish to insinuate it was somehow greater. I simply wanted to convey my authentic concern for the domain, and that is why I sit here, urging you to recognize the salience of my words.”
“Go on, then. What is this plan you speak of?”
“We must operate through the culture and create a scapegoat: a religion, a philosophy, anything; we'll fabricate a purpose, whether authentic or legitimate or entirely otherwise, as long as it is possible to communicate to the lower class. With this, I believe we can appease them. The reason I referred to this as humanitarian is because I am convinced that taking inhuman action in the attempts to guide the human paradigm comes with significant cost, and if there is – God forbid – any chance of revolution at all, than surely it will spark the fire.”
“But there isn't anything novel about what you suggest. If anything, this strikes me as the primary job of a politician – not considering the moralism you have yet to defend.”
“I implore you to disregard all previous understanding of the word 'humanitarian,' as I will again reassert it is merely a liberal hijacking. Humanitarianism is what is best for humanity – nothing more, nothing less. And it is because of this I am convinced that it is an inherent good, though the original understanding is not withstanding. If, for example, the best move for humanity is to commit what the leftists would regard as an unforgivable crime, than, by this definition, that horrible crime against the leftists is humanitarian to commit, despite their tendency to side with what they arbitrarily define as humanitarian, but in reality is senseless moralism.”
“I see. But my question still stands. What is novel about your plan?”
“I am merely offering you up another way for us to handle this, a way that will allow us to keep the liberals at bay, but will prevent a revolution, or at least kill the faint possibility of one. In reality, the only thing I urge you to do is consider and eventually regard this threat as a real one, and then I assure you the rest of what I say will come forthright. Although, I will say now, if you do begin to regard this threat as real, or momentum does begin to grow, than I beg of you not to respond with further suppression. Even if you don't follow my words now, if they do gain truth in the future, suppression, I firmly believe, will only make the damage more catastrophic.”
The outspoken man sat with his eyes closed, and steadily, a smile crept on his lips. “I see.” He paused for awhile, swirling the red contents of his chalice. “I can tell you this. Your urgency has been noted and your loyalty appreciated. I cannot fully agree with the statements you've presented to me today, and therefore I cannot act on them; however, it seems you predicted this to some extent, and in honoring your foresight, I will continue to pay heed to your cautions.”
Comisosa stood up and bowed.
“However, I can make no promises on how and when I shall suppress. My judgment is absolute, and while I trust you, even you need a reminder at times. It goes without saying the lower class, people so prone to forgetting, so much so they seem to fetishize it, will need frequent and aggressive reminders. After all, they need fear me more than they should fear the enemy, otherwise who is to say what the results would be...”
“I understand, my Lord. I merely wished to convey my analysis and conclusions as to the best of my ability, but I shall follow you and your decree, however your judgment may rest.”
“Your advisory is indispensable as usual, Comisosa. Now, if you will excuse me...” The Lord stood.
His toga was sheen white, trimmed with gold fabric that housed small letters of black taken from an ancient language. Around his neck sat a five-pointed star made of solid gold, and on his right wrist was a gold bracelet that hung with an inch of slack. On that same hand was a ring, worn on his ring finger, also made of gold. His hair was a bright shade of blonde and was several inches in length, slicked back.
Comisosa took one last look at his face before turning to leave, finding his skin flawless and glowing in the light, his dark blue eyes turned black from the glare. No matter the whimsy or the excitement The Lord showed, his eyes never responded, never widened, nor did they show any emotion other than anger. His eyebrows would raise and lower and crease in subtle fashion as he threw his hands about, as if reciting a dramatic play, yet his eyes always remained empty.
I had expected my first night to be lying awake tossing and turning, but it wasn't until I opened my eyes that I realized I had fallen asleep early. The light pouring in the windows was unique to the morning, and I could see at least half the kids still buried under blankets, some of their heads buried under pillows.
I looked over at Joseph and saw him sitting up. His bed was made and he was sitting on top of the bedspread, looking down at his hands, seemingly unphased by the cold air. I was watching him, waiting for him to look over at me, wanting him to know I was awake without having to deal with walking across the room and awkwardly reintroducing myself.
I felt paranoid that he wouldn't think to look over, and I began to wonder if he had other friends that wouldn't like me, or if our sudden friendship had been out of convenience. I panicked when I considered that he may have just been testing me, testing to see if I was even worth his time.
I started to wonder if it would be better to get up and go over there, but the longer I laid there, the less I wanted to get up. Slowly, the cold became less of an issue, and I started to dwell on how our second conversation would go. Every few moments I would be hit by a revelation, and I would feel stupid for even being worried, because I would see the day before and I would see how Joseph had spoken to me, and I would feel reassurance; but my mind would soon abstract it, and I would extrapolate different meanings from the events, and I would return to a cycle of paranoia based in what I suspected was something unrelated to reality.
His head tilted upward and I saw him glare at the doorway. I looked up and saw Daughtry walking to the center of the room, his head down, but his steps wide, with an authority that didn't fit my initial impression of him.
“Okay. Everybody? I have an important announcement to make.”
Most of the heads that turned to meet him did so begrudgingly, and immediately I could feel an air of skepticism about the room – as well annoyance, as some of the kids who were asleep tossed in their beds.
“As we all know, times are tough right now. West-End isn't in the best condition, food rations are at an all time low...”
There was a wave of groans as the more senior residents of West-End turned away in disgust, while others scoffed and shook their heads, all of them seeming to have heard it before. I looked over at Joseph, wondering what to expect, but he was staring down at his bedspread, expressionless and distant, more so than usual.
“It brings me no pleasure to announce it, but the Lord has handed down a decree today. He cut taxes again, and, unfortunately, due to the state of the country... cut backs had to be made.”
“The poor get poorer and the rich get richer.” One of the oldest, a boy with dark red hair who normally kept to himself chimed in. Murmurs of agreeance and sounds of unrest followed.
“How much more they t'ink they go'na take from us? Huh?” A scrawny kid yelled out.
“Everybody calm down... We are in the middle of an economic decline. I know it's unfortunate, and it seems like things couldn't get any worse for some of you, but we all have to do our fair share to-”
“-And what about you?” Gabriel cut him off. “Mr. Government employee is gonna lecture us on what it's like to go hungry? The fuck d'you know about it?”
“They're just scared.” It was the boy with the red hair again. “'Cause they know we're coming for 'em.”
“Alright, that's enough! I hear one more word from any of you and it's half rations tonight. I came in here to say the rations are getting cut. You're free to find food through other means, as long as they are legal and morally sound, but unfortunately, this is all we can provide right now... If you're still interested in your free, government-supplied meal, then come to the cafeteria at the normal time. If any of you have a problem with that, let me remind you that we keep the doors unlocked. Any questions? Good.”
Daughtry left as quickly as he had entered, taking with him the relative peace of the mornings, and any hope I once had of him being a trustworthy authority figure. I saw a few kids shake their heads and look down, looking as if they were repressing some kind of powerful emotion, each of them feeling something slightly different, though all of them equally distraught in the end. Gabriel had gotten up from his bed and began pacing.
“I'm just so sick of this shit.” There were a few kids sitting around him, and a few more watching him from afar. “It's one thing goin' hungry every fuckin' day, getting treated like we're fuckin' animals, like we asked for this shit. But for him... the fuckin' dick-takin' government cock-licker motherfuck to come in here and fuckin' lecture us... Fuck that asshole. Fuckin' lecture me about this bullshit. He acts like he's, like he's doin' us a personal fuckin' favor by running this shithole... government-appointed bitch -- He doesn't fucking know what this shit's like! Must be nice, havin' a... fuckin' salary, takin' care of some god damn useless fuckin' kids. Fuckin' sack a' shit.”
“Yeah, they nothin' but a buncha little puppet clones, god damn bastards.” The scrawny boy was sitting down, watching Gabriel.
“Don't let him hear you say that, else'll take away half our rations.” It was the red haired boy, speaking half-mockingly and half-sincerely.
“God damn -- fuck him and his rations. Stupid fucker can't fucking do that. He can't take our fuckin' food away. What's fuckin' next? He gonna take our fuckin' clothes? Cut off our fuckin' hair and sell it?”
“Nah, nah, nah” The scrawny kid laughed. “He'll prob' use it 'imself, glue that shit on his freak body.”
“Fuckin' son of a bitch!” Gabriel punched his bed, his heavy hand moving with surprising speed, the impact resulting in a loud thud. “Fuck West-End, fuck this government, fuck this fucking world, and above all, fuck that slug lookin' motherfucker who thinks he's fuckin' better'n us.”
It was at this point that Joseph came over. Thankfully, the melancholy was gone and his eyes were back to their typical probing, and his leg was back to its unrelenting bouncing.
“What's going on?” I sat cross-legged under my blanket and watched him while he sat on the side of my bed.
“They cut our rations again.”
“You mean the food?”
“Yeah. It happens every once in awhile. We get a few months of things being the same, and then Daughtry comes in here and starts talking about the government and the 'upperclassmen' and about how 'the money has to come from somewhere...'” He looked down and picked at his claws. “Then... less food, yeah?”
“That's... so mean, though.”
“Yeah.”
“Do they ever raise the rations?”
“Nah. They only lower them. It used to be really rare, like once a year even. But lately they're doing it all the time. A lot of the other guys have been saying they're trying to starve us, which seemed kinda dumb at first, but its actually kinda been makin' sense.”
I felt my face contort with alarm. “But... B-but why would they wanna to do that?”
“Politics. You can't just kill a bunch of people, yeah? Causes... problems. Even if they're scum like us. I think people are just too nice. I mean, that's what they think, anyway, but I dunno how nice they really are. I think if they were as nice as they think they are we wouldn't even be living in his fuckin' place, yeah?” He laughed in spite of himself. “But yeah, they just want us gone, y'know? Can you blame 'em?”
“But... you're not scum. We're not. Nobody in here is.”
“It doesn't matter, though.” He chuckled. “We could be saints, yeah? But it just doesn't matter 'cause... they don't see that.”
“You think they see scum?”
“...” He was silent for several moments, his eyes going back and forth between me and his claws, his voice low and soft. “Yeah... I mean, I know they see that. You haven't gone outside yet, yeah? I mean, to town, in front of other people. I know what they see; we all do. And... and, you will too.”
“O-oh...” I was a mixture of profoundly disappointed and taken aback, and saw worry cross Joseph's face the moment he noticed mine.
“W-well, I mean, i-i-it's not everyone, y-yeah?” He paused for a moment and swallowed. “Some of 'em are okay, it's just, I know that like, they don't wanna help us. Or like, I guess some of them... can't... I-I've been hearin' the economy is real bad and stuff. Hard for everyone.”
“What's that?”
“...What's what?”
“What's the economy?”
“Ooh. Apparently it's this super important thing, but it really just boils down to the same shit everything else does, yeah? Money, money, money... the only thing anybody really cares about.”
“Oh... So, that's it? It's just money?”
“Um, I mean, I guess it's... more than that. I dunno, it's hard to explain, but like, yeah, it's... basically money. But like, it's for countries, yeah? Jerry was talkin' about them the other day -- he knows a lot about 'em -- and he was saying they're just scams to force people like me and you into slavery. Like, all that money isn't even worth anything. I mean, what even is it? Pieces of paper? It's not actually worth anything.”
I frowned and flicked my tail in annoyance. “I hate money.”
Joseph laughed. “Don't we all...” He shook his head. “I wish we could just... I dunno.”
“What?”
“I dunno. I was gonna say I wish we could just live without money, yeah? And I mean, I guess I still do, but money isn't all that bad, though. It's just, the people at the top. They've got all of it.”
“Who's at the top?” I felt myself lean in slightly, looking desperately for something to bear the burden of my disdain. “And why do they have it all? How'd they get it?”
“Pfft, you know -- the fat cats. They're the ones at the top. And, uh, I'm not really sure. Jerry was telling me they lie and cheat and do whatever they have to, and he told me taxes are one of the ways they do it, but they have a lot of other ways too, yeah? Worse ways.”
“Are they felines?” I cocked my head, and I watched his expression contort a bit in response, like he was hiding a smile.
“Nah, nah, they're not.” He returned to looking at his claws, but I saw him glance back up at me a couple times.
“Who are they?”
He remained silent for a few moments before I saw him smile, this time making no attempt to hide it. “They're the bad guys.”
“The... bad guys?”
“Yeah. The rich.”
“Is that why they're bad? Are all rich people bad?”
“... I guess. I don't really know.” He was staring down at his claws now, not looking up. “What I do know is that a lot of 'em... a lot of 'em are selfish, yeah? They don't care about people like you or me – people who never had a chance to begin with, and they even say its our fault. They call us names at their fancy dinner parties and sometimes to our faces, and they're always going around showing off their nice clothes and eating at nice places, when half of us would give anything to just have a little food... doesn't even have to be good, just something.”
“But that's-” I was cut off by the sudden intake of air into my own lungs, loud enough so that Joseph heard and looked over at me and saw I was staring at the same hand he had been picking. I scooted up next to him, staring the entire time as I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my brows pursed into concern and my lips beginning to part with what felt like a mixture of awe and horror. He slid his hand to his side, hiding it behind the side of his leg, and I could tell from the angle he had balled it into a fist. When I looked up to meet his eyes, they were wide, and his face was rigid.
“Can... Can I see your hand?”
He stared at me for a few seconds and then looked down at his lap, and then over at his left hand, the one he had hidden. Reluctantly, his slid it back on top of his thigh, and slowly unballed it. His claws were evenly chipped away, far past where his fingers began, the furthest a feline could trim their claws before hurting themselves. There was blood densely encrusted on the tip and the visible flesh was red and swollen. Large amounts of blood had run down the sides of his claws and had dried thickly where they met his flesh, and bits had gone further and dried on his finger below where the claw ended.
We were silent for several moments, neither of us moving. I detected his head looking about the room, and then at me. He pulled his hand away.
“D-don't worry about it, yeah?” He was blushing a bit.
“But... Joseph... You were just... You were just...” I couldn't find the word to describe the action, the difference between his nervous habit and the results of it were too far removed to condense into one phrase. All I could think about was the dried blood stuck to his finger, and about how even torn away flesh had not stopped him -- how a steady mutilation of his own body had seemed a worth while trade off for whatever peace his habit brought him.
“I-It's really not a big deal, yeah? Sometimes I forget, is all.”
I had trouble looking up at him. I felt an obligation to help him, to insist it was more than a big deal, but after Daughtry's words that morning, and having experienced the scarcity and brutality that West-End was comprised of, I found myself speechless, despairing over the realization of just how helpless I was.
It was my second day there and I had looked around my new home so few times, and every time I had, everything I saw had been filtered through a lens of my own fear and insecurity. Somehow I had come to the thoughtless conclusion that my feelings influenced the reality of a situation, and with a desperate desire to judge my pain away, I had convinced myself West-End was an evil place, and it housed only evil people.
When I finally took in my surroundings candidly, I did find evil, but it was something far more sinister than I had ever previously imagined possible, and I realized, with great strain, that I was part of it. It was a haphazard collection of government-dubbed 'brothers,' a title born entirely out of necessity. I saw a love between them that was paradoxically selfish and blind, and existed only out of a desperate thirst for that emotion in return.
For an instant, it seemed the mosaic I had not yet seen was complete. It was like the cogs of a machine uniformly aligned at some unspecified location for some unspecified purpose, but it was, if nothing else, realized to have happened without a doubt, and at great significance. And when that instant of time expired, and I forgot the wide breadth of things I didn't know I knew, I was left looking at sorrow, without reason, meaning, or purpose, and without need for any of the above.
I felt a great pressure rise up from my chest as my eyes filled with tears. I tried to keep it in, but a sob escaped, and I felt Joseph look over and down at me. I sobbed again and sniffed, feeling the tears quickly overflowing from my eyes.
He was silent for longer than I expected. I was staring down at my feet, so I couldn't guess as to what he was feeling or to how he looked at me.
“Leo.” He said it sternly, but with a hint of something else in his voice.
I swallowed and managed to look up at him.
He stared at me with wide eyes, but the rest of his expression flat. I could tell he wanted to say something, at least I thought he did, but nothing came out of his mouth, he just kept staring.
“You... You really shouldn't do that to yourself... It's not good for you.”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “I know.”
I wiped my eyes and looked up at him, surprised to find that he was smiling. His leg was still, and thankfully he had stopped picking at his fingers. When I looked in his eyes, he looked over me and his smile widened a bit.
His eyes always looked like they were searching for something, mechanical and closed off, distant as if everything they saw was for some unspecified point in the future. I had seen them relax before, but this was the first time I had seen them so open, and for once, I felt like it was Joseph sitting in front of me -- and not some distraction from an unfortunate truth.
It was nice to see the truth, I thought.
