The Birth of Dystopia

by A. Q. Moser

  Marie had the computer off and had something to say. “If we’re going to the concert, then you’re going to ask Billy about the video. No backing out,” she said with a serious demeanour.

  Seeing no way out of this predicament, I nodded unable to look Marie in the face. I made two big mistakes today; at least this one was not televised.

  “Good.” Marie was pleased. “I’m trying to think about what to wear tomorrow.” She tilted her head back. “Do you think I should wear a dress to a concert?”

  I never gave a thought about what to wear. “I’ll do my usual long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and maybe a hat to cover my face,” I responded, representing my modest wardrobe.

  “How about we dress weird?” Marie perked up at the suggestion.

  “What do you have in mind?” I cringed at the thought of trying something outside my comfort zone.

  “How about we …” Marie waited in hopes of seeing a hint of excitement on my face for what was to come next.

  Expecting some burdensome choir, I drew a frown to what was about to be prescribed.

  “Dress … the same.” Marie rushed the last two words.

  “I don’t want to wear a dress,” I answered back.

  “Dress?” Marie bellowed a laugh that echoed off the walls. When she finally stopped, she looked at me and then laughed some more.

  “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m not doing it,” I projected my voice over Marie’s laughing. I wanted to be clearly understood. People might dress differently than normal at rock concerts; I had no inkling to be one of them.

  “No, silly. We can wear the same coloured t-shirt and jeans.” Marie outlined of an imaginary dress above her knees to poke fun at my response.

  “Oh!” I said, trying not to smile. How simple of me.

  “You can smile; it’s not going to hurt you.” Marie reached for my jaw, showing me how it was done as if I had no idea how to do it.

  “I’m smiling … somewhere,” I mumbled my last word and then sat down on the couch.

  “Well you could have fooled me.” Marie was obviously still imagining me wearing a dress. “This is so exciting.” She laughed and screeched at the same time.

  I had no idea what exciting was. The only thought that crossed my mind was what I was getting myself into. “Try to stop me.” I was sarcastic only to appease Marie.

  “Yeah.” Marie again shrilled in excitement. “We’re going to have so much fun. You have to have fun at a concert. It’s like the law or something.” She pulled me to my feet and hugged me. “Get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She spun around and grabbed the plastic bag with the cookbook and headed for the door.

  “Marie,” I called her.

  “Yeah,” Marie turned to face me.

  “Thanks for everything.” I was gracious for the support especially when things were not going my way.

  Marie reached back and hugged me again. “No problem.” And she was gone.

  Detached from any companionship, I was alone with my thoughts. Tomorrow Marie had me promise to approach some world famous rock star and ask him whether his music video was based on one of my nightmares. Billy was going to think of me as some sort of nut job, or worse, have thrown me in jail for harassment. This was one colossal and expensive mistake.

  Throwing on the chain lock for the apartment door, I locked up and turned off all the living room lights. As I headed down the hallway to bed, I kept yawning the whole way. I was tired; a long day was had. The process of going to bed really bothered me. Like I was forced to watch a bad horror flick with predictable twists and turns, I knew exactly how this night was going to unfold. It was sleep for a few hours, then awakening in the middle of the night by some freaky nightmare and then left to face a long, restless night stuck lying in bed.

  Hitting the washroom first to brush my teeth followed by undressing for bed, I laid down in my dark bedroom. I took several deep breaths through my nose before closing my eyelids. Uncomfortable in my position, I turned sideways with my left cheek on the pillow.

  Exhausted physically, my mind was still up and running. The courtroom drama replayed in my head and the notion of asking Billy about the nightmare just added to the unsettling thoughts. I felt caught up in a harsh playback loop that just would not end.

  Getting into so many unnecessary thinking before bed impaired my chances of falling asleep especially the things that were beyond of my control. The only thing to divert my attention long enough till I fell asleep was the radio. Not just any radio station would do but the kind that offered bleak newscasts filled with exaggerated claims and rampant speculation and biased editorials.

  With my eyes closed, I leaned over my bedside towards the radio. “Radio on.” It was preset to the station I needed to distract me.

  —I have Robert on the line with an anti-political commentary about a failed healthcare system. Robert you’re on.

  Hi Bob. Thanks for having me on your show. It’s nice to have a forum to voice my concerns to the public. I will keep this short and sweet. I have had enough with those posters and commercials advertising about the one-treatment vaccination for viral diseases. How dare the politicians spend taxpayers’ money to tell us what vaccines we need? Why does every member of society need to be vaccinated? Are we slaves to the corporate world who mass-produce this vaccine? It’s absolutely outrageous to me that the healthcare system would even dare to support this corporate junk. Thank you.

  Thanks Robert for the commentary. For those just joining us, welcome to the only Propaganda news station where we are free to discuss everything and anything under the sun. Your topics are our topics and your concerns are our concerns. You got something to say, say it here. Leo, you’re next.

  Hello everyone. My name is Leo and I read on the Internet about a new household product called Cold Pests Control. This product is intended for those pestering houseflies and mosquitoes that are in your kitchen or anywhere in the house. Through a chemical reaction that draws in heat, the flies and mosquitoes are frozen still. Basically, they will drop like flies to the floor. No need for flyswatters, you just sweep them off the floor. It’s also great to cool a room on those hot summer days. I can’t wait till this product is released.

  That’s an interesting product description. Leo, do you believe this will be a safe product for public use?

  Yeah, definitely. I can’t stand chasing those pesky flies around. Anything is better than using a boring, old flyswatter.

  It sounds too good to be true. Thanks Leo. Next on the line is Angelo.

  Hey Bob. I want to discuss overpopulation.

  Ah, yes, that’s a good topic. Please proceed.

  I’ve been thinking about the future and how the population of certain countries is reaching extra-ordinary proportions. And to make matters worse, the bigger the population of a country the bigger the divide between the rich and the poor. Does anyone else see this trend? We’re heading towards of future of more poor people ruled by fewer rich people.

  Angelo, you bring up a few interesting points here. Let me add that the bigger this division between rich and poor, the more the poor are exploited. But as history has shown, the poor people will eventually fight back and topple the system. Thanks Angelo. Next we have Kumar.

  Hello Bob. I wanted to talk about global warming—

  6

  Right at this moment, I am walking along a wooden boardwalk adjacent a beach of crimson sand, breathing in a fresh sea breeze. To the distant left, a sailboat drifts in the unsettled waters. On the opposite side of the boardwalk are empty restaurants designed with a staccato exterior and stained in alternating colours of pastel blue, cotton candy pink, and lime green. The view of the background makes little sense to me but I accept it as real scenery.

  As I stagger forward like a drunk shifting his slouched body weight on to each leg, this movement of balancing and coordinating my legs with my upper torso feels like some strange game. I catch a quick glimpse down at my feet as each footstep results in an extensi
on forward. They appear as if I am watching someone else walk since there is no mental connection on my part. The skin of my feet glistens with a dazzle as if they were in the shallow end of a chlorinated pool.

  Self-regulating like a robot running through a set of commands, my eyes study the pristine wooden boards under my feet. Each board is symmetrically spaced and held in place by exactly two nails. The spacing between the boards spews a fine mist that vibrates an unknown resonance. My initial reaction is to focus on the mist, but this gives way to all my attention concentrating on vibrations forming at my soul’s molecular level—if there ever was one.

  Scanning the walkway, it converges to a faint point in the distance. It is like viewing the boardwalk image through a mirror onto another mirror—a repeating collage set to infinity. I approach a point of perpetuity; a feeling similar to what staring at a star for a long time does to one’s perception. I have no sense of time and I do not know where I am going—or worse, being taken. Some strange part of my subconscious is in control over my existence in this dreamy realm.

  Yielding to forward motion, I can sense an opposing force beckoning me to return. The summoning redirects my awareness to my immediate right. A clad-dressed troubadour sits on an inverted plastic bucket sounding his brass trumpet—comfortable without the acknowledgement of an audience.

  Karmic in nature, the enveloping melody of the trumpet reminds me of a sad song I knew as a child—the name escapes me. He plays with his eyes closed and without moving his fingers over any of the instrument valves.

  Navigating my eyes to the bell of the trumpet, the music flows out to the sea, like steam from a kettle, then escaping to the heavens and beyond to the millions of stars above. The stars are not true celestial objects but crudely drawn designs as a child would draw a five-pointed star, a pentacle, without lifting a crayon from the paper for. Each point of the twinkling star folds over into the centre and reopens mimicking the feeding motion of a starfish. The scene is reminiscent of an old man sitting on a park bench feeding pigeons that surround him from all sides.

  “Up, high. There is a star that’s about to fold. Watch it,” the musician plays, expressing his vibrating notes into words.

  On cue, a five-pointed star begins to fold each arm over the central disk following the locomotion of a starfish. I return to the troubadour who discontinues playing and gazes up at me with piercing eyes. His facial expression is startling, as one who never expected anyone to be listening to his music.

  I point to myself. “Did I do that?”

  “It’s not you.” The troubadour shakes his head. “Look at the stars.” He glances at them and returns bearing a gloomy face.

  “What’s wrong?” I question the troubadour’s observation.

  “The stars can see and can point. They show you your chance for peace and unity,” the troubadour warns as a senile old man. “Five points become one.”

  “I don’t understand.” I questioned. “How can shining stars point the way? How can five become one?”

  Like clockwork, I am forced away from the troubadour. I continue my journey down the boardwalk as if it were a mechanized assembly line, never stopping too long at a single point.

  Looking to my left, the waters roar louder and louder overcoming the soothing notes of the trumpet. The beach draws me towards the tide. In an instant, my lower torso is immersed in the harsh water. The coldness of the water spreads over my feet, legs, and stomach. The cold resides within me. I can feel the water calling my name hoping for more of me.

  Hidden partially by the frigid water, a new residential scene unfolds. The water stretches out over a suburban street, flawed by deep cracks in the asphalt. The water level subsides as it drains down the severely cracked roadway just as fast as it rose up. On both sides of the street, houses are adorned with loosely hung Christmas lights, an assortment of colours. The grass on the treeless lawns grows wildly and stands well above knee height. The aquamarine sky is void of any stars that so beautifully lingered earlier.

  Everything is changing so fast. My heart is pulsating just as fast. The unfamiliar environment leaves me feeling lonely and depressed. I feel like a lost child wandering aimlessly through a city jungle. All I want to do is return to whence I came from.

  As I move down the waterlogged street, a disturbing sound erupts from behind. I turn to see an assembly of upright walking beasts. Unlike zombies, they had patches of fur like the mane of a male lion. Their pursuit quickens to a gallop. My instinct is to run and seek shelter. I stagger to the nearby houses only to be pushed away by some invisible force.

  Desperate to get away, I run off the street to an open field. At the centre of the field is a mighty oak tree bare of any leaves. Its short branches are curled-in like a seized hand. The tree is my only escape from the frightening pursuers.

  Inarticulate growling sounds echo behind. I dare not to look back instead I try to run faster and faster. I stumble but regain myself.

  Nearing to the mighty oak tree, I take notice that I am surrounded in all directions by the hairy beasts. Their long arms stretch out to grab me. I can feel their hot breathe over my back. I try to scream in horror but nothing happens. Their magnetic pull tugs at me from all directions, extracting something more than physical—a sort of physical pain mixed with mental anguish. Air is present but it seems not to know the way to my lungs. I open my mouth wide to gasp for air but it chooses not to be drawn in. My eyelids flicker and my eyeballs bulge out. The pain is horrendous as my insides are being pushed outwards. My hair is being pulled and my skin burns as if scalding hot water is being poured on me.

  * * *

  Gasping for air, I opened my eyes. The room is dark with some specks of streetlights trickling in from below the blinds. My head was tilted back facing the headboard and my neck outstretched. My arms and legs ached until the twitching sensation subsided. The musty smell of body odour was present. A V-shape line of perspiration collected around the neckline of my undershirt. My hairline was encircled by a moat of sweat that drained down the back of my neck. My pillow was soaked through.

  Trembling, I reached over to my right to turn on the bedside lamp and sat up against the headboard of the bed. I took a couple of deep breaths trying to regain my composure. The bedroom appeared to have enclosed inwards as if I could touch the opposite sides of the walls at the same time if I stretched out my arms. I was scared so things appeared closer than they really were.

  Once more I had a vivid nightmare. Always at night, always so intense, always out of my control. Twenty years of this pain. The nightmare played out some random images of little sense to me other than to startle me awake. And yet, I would remember this nightmare and all the nightmares since the first one at the age of eight years old. The memory was locked in like having written it on some virtual diary.

  The doctors, the psychiatrists, the priests, the nutritionists, all these specialists had their theories and remedies but nothing worked. Instead, I learnt to keep my mouth shut and try my best.

  Half tired and half awake, there was no way I was returning back to my slumber. I glanced over at the clock—four fifty-four. I moaned at the very thought of having slept only a few hours.

  Extending my right arm, I retrieved an old paperback novel that I had in my possession since high school. The cover was a simple black with a freakish title Immortal Desire for Black Chaos. I read the novel several times, but I never quite understood the ending. The plot was so interwoven it could have stopped a bullet better than Kevlar. On the top of every page was a strange quote ‘Every spoken word and action is an afterthought’—a unique signature common for this author.

  Splitting the book somewhere along the middle, I thumbed through a few pages until I reached the bus transfer I used as a bookmarker. I glanced over the proceeding page particularly the first few letters of each paragraph to try to reacquaint myself to the point of the story.

  … man crossed the grassy knoll heading to the stone reminder of a son’s existence. His drow
ning eyes guided his distressed soul to the final resting place of his heart …

  The reading was too cumbersome to be doing this so early in the morning. It seemed more an exercise to flip through the pages rather than read and understand anything. I returned the novel to its place. I was mentally exhausted and wired at the same time to continue reading.

  Out of habit, I replaced the sweaty pillow cover with a fresh one—a habit I grew into over the years—and switched off the night lamp. The nighttime sweats compelled another must-do habit showering away the unpleasant body odour.

  Navigating through to the dark apartment to the washroom, it was like a ritual. The nice stream of warm water over my body gave a sense of purification from an agonizing night. I lingered in the refreshing shower for a long time.

  Expunged of the physical residues brought on by a bad night, I dressed and headed to the kitchenette in search of a filling breakfast. In the fridge, neatly stacked sliced pieces of watermelon were in an open bowl—seedless of course—prepared by a selfless friend Marie.

  Rather enjoyed in taste, the concept of the seedless watermelon had an unnatural association to it. Nature intended watermelons to have seeds. I wanted the seeds. I wanted the bitterness from accidentally chewing into a seed. I wanted a natural watermelon free from human manipulation. Who had the right to say to the watermelon, sorry no seeds please? Who? I wanted a natural watermelon. I wanted a natural life with its natural problems.

  7

  “I have some very interesting news for you.” The lead scientist dropped a computer tablet on the desk of the Director.

  “What is it?” The Director seemed bothered by the intrusion into his office.

  “One of your chosen ones is in the news,” the lead scientist announced scornfully.