Desiree and I are led from the building. My steps are weighted with stone, each one more humiliating than the next. I am impotent, struggling for a rationalization as to why I do not fight back. There is a part of me that believes an honorable death resisting would be better than a fool’s pointless and passive death. That part of me is a hostage to moments that wash one to the next, fluid like waves. I am suspended in them, unable to do anything but be carried forward towards death.
As we are leaving I spy two other ministers jut arriving. I could perhaps find something sinister in their presence. By their appearance I could believe they are too well prepared for all this. The Woman from Security and Resource does not notice me. The man from Efficiency and Entertainment seems surprised to find me here. His eyes follow me before they disappear inside.
Around the corner is a small alley. It is bounded by tall buildings on two sides, and at the back by the sea wall. There is a sewer near the sea wall. I have a mind to through myself over the edge, with full realization I could be seriously hurt. Still, despite that, it might prove my last chance for escape. I fear that I may never see the ruins, but I cannot and will not abandon Desiree, not so long as I can still draw breath.
“Stop there,” says the Minister. We turn, pausing to meet one another’s eyes, as though saying goodbye. I take her hand in mine. She squeezes it tightly and takes a deep stuttering breath. I cannot breathe, my throat growing dry. The minister comes forward and raises his pistol at Desiree. I pull her my chest, bringing her head to my chest, my gaze filled with contempt for the commander.
“If you shoot we die together,” I say bitterly. My intention is rob him fully of even the slightest satisfaction. With that I close my eyes, fully expecting the burning hot stab of the bullet. Desiree and I pull her tightly to me, and breathe in the dusty scent of her hair, savoring that smell in the face of eternity.
“Makes no difference to me,” he says.
There is a sudden volley of shots from beyond the alley. The shot from the Minster’s bullet explodes, but I am already pushing Desiree to the ground. The round goes wide, slapping against the seawall. I cover her with my body. More shots thunder in the alley, the air momentarily alive with bullets.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the shooting stops. I look up cautiously, still shielding Desiree. The air in the alley swims and is bitter with spent gunpowder. The bodies of Section Twenty-one men litter the ground. There is more fighting in the distance near the command center. Beside me the Minister is all but dead yet. He lies on his stomach, a bullet through his neck. He gurgles and chokes out his final breaths. Life runs away from him like the river of blood to the sewer.
Showing posts with label race. Show all posts
Showing posts with label race. Show all posts
Friday, December 11, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
THE LAST MAN:Part Twenty-three
He offers his hand, staring at it as I allow it to hang in space between us. I could let it be, wondering whether he will retract it with a measure of disappointment or with disdain. I could ignore it and teach him a lesson. But what lesson? Do I teach him that he represents power and that offering his hand in friendship reflects his power and undermines my own? Do I teach him there is no bridge between what he represents and what I stand for? But what of us as men?
I take his hand. His grasp is sincere and firm. The pressure, the connection fills me. So simple, yet there it is. I study the connection and revel in it. It is an interpretation, a matter of the heart whether I have taken his hand or accepted it.
“…a revolutionary is always willing to be audacious,” I begin, finding Huey Newton’s words, “to take great risks-to dare to struggle, dare to win.”
“You’ve dared.”
“I continue to dare.”
“Even in the face of certain defeat?” he asks.
“I am one man,” I reply. “A man alone is always defeated. Then again, a man alone has nothing to lose but his dignity, and I will defend that to the last.”
He smiles, almost sadly. “You were marked from the start.”
I ponder the words a few moments and nod slowly. “How much longer do I have?”
His head snaps sharply. I avoid his eyes. The man from the corporation leans closer.
“You have some plan. You will try to escape, won't you?”
I shake my head. “I've come too far to divulge my intentions so easily.”
He laughs out loud. “But you have! You've revealed everything!”
“Think what you want.” He knows, and it infuriates me. I look away.
“Section 21 will come for you tomorrow morning. They will take you straight to court. There will be a pronouncement of guilt and then sentencing.”
“What sentence?” I ask calmly, though I fear my heart may burst at any moment.
“The only one that can be pronounced.”
My head and heart sink. What is at the end of all hope? When precisely is that realization? Certainly it is not a repose for the dead. It must be the when nothing more can be done, or with the besieging of sanity. Perhaps I am an island, and hopelessness is the ocean. The ocean swells now over my shores. But if the ocean is hopelessness, then the breath in my lungs, the swelling of my heart is a boat, and a small chance for escape.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he says with a deep sadness. It is something I have not seen in him before. “It should be comforting to know your fate so fully. Mine is not so easy.”
“No?”
“I’m dying,” he says, quite by surprise. “Cancer.”
“Cancer?” I repeat quietly. He laughs, more to himself.
“A genetic disorder. Isn’t that funny?”
“So what of your line?”
“Oh, I have been cloned. He’s a bright young boy, with a future I can only dream of.”
I stand and look down upon him. His eyes are soft blue pools that threaten to burst and rush over his tightening cheeks. It makes me terribly sad. Not for me but for him. This time my hand extends first. He takes and holds it tightly. He lays the other hand over them. His eyes are there for the longest time.
“Then I suppose this is goodbye,” I say.
“Is it a curse or a blessing that we believe our lives must account for something?” he says. “All this was created not by one for one, but by many for many. When the cell asserts itself against the body we call that cancer and cut it away.”
“And do you believe yourself a cancer?” I ask.
“Is that a flaw?’
“It may well be a burden.”
“Isn’t that the same?”
I let his hand fall, and embrace his eyes with mine. With that I smile triumphantly.
“Only for you,” I say. “And only for the Corporation.”
He nods thoughtfully and stands.
“Come,” he says, “I’ll see you home. Not so eager to say goodbye just yet.”
“You’ll forgive me,” I tell him, brushing my finger tips along his sleeve, “but I am.”
I take his hand. His grasp is sincere and firm. The pressure, the connection fills me. So simple, yet there it is. I study the connection and revel in it. It is an interpretation, a matter of the heart whether I have taken his hand or accepted it.
“…a revolutionary is always willing to be audacious,” I begin, finding Huey Newton’s words, “to take great risks-to dare to struggle, dare to win.”
“You’ve dared.”
“I continue to dare.”
“Even in the face of certain defeat?” he asks.
“I am one man,” I reply. “A man alone is always defeated. Then again, a man alone has nothing to lose but his dignity, and I will defend that to the last.”
He smiles, almost sadly. “You were marked from the start.”
I ponder the words a few moments and nod slowly. “How much longer do I have?”
His head snaps sharply. I avoid his eyes. The man from the corporation leans closer.
“You have some plan. You will try to escape, won't you?”
I shake my head. “I've come too far to divulge my intentions so easily.”
He laughs out loud. “But you have! You've revealed everything!”
“Think what you want.” He knows, and it infuriates me. I look away.
“Section 21 will come for you tomorrow morning. They will take you straight to court. There will be a pronouncement of guilt and then sentencing.”
“What sentence?” I ask calmly, though I fear my heart may burst at any moment.
“The only one that can be pronounced.”
My head and heart sink. What is at the end of all hope? When precisely is that realization? Certainly it is not a repose for the dead. It must be the when nothing more can be done, or with the besieging of sanity. Perhaps I am an island, and hopelessness is the ocean. The ocean swells now over my shores. But if the ocean is hopelessness, then the breath in my lungs, the swelling of my heart is a boat, and a small chance for escape.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he says with a deep sadness. It is something I have not seen in him before. “It should be comforting to know your fate so fully. Mine is not so easy.”
“No?”
“I’m dying,” he says, quite by surprise. “Cancer.”
“Cancer?” I repeat quietly. He laughs, more to himself.
“A genetic disorder. Isn’t that funny?”
“So what of your line?”
“Oh, I have been cloned. He’s a bright young boy, with a future I can only dream of.”
I stand and look down upon him. His eyes are soft blue pools that threaten to burst and rush over his tightening cheeks. It makes me terribly sad. Not for me but for him. This time my hand extends first. He takes and holds it tightly. He lays the other hand over them. His eyes are there for the longest time.
“Then I suppose this is goodbye,” I say.
“Is it a curse or a blessing that we believe our lives must account for something?” he says. “All this was created not by one for one, but by many for many. When the cell asserts itself against the body we call that cancer and cut it away.”
“And do you believe yourself a cancer?” I ask.
“Is that a flaw?’
“It may well be a burden.”
“Isn’t that the same?”
I let his hand fall, and embrace his eyes with mine. With that I smile triumphantly.
“Only for you,” I say. “And only for the Corporation.”
He nods thoughtfully and stands.
“Come,” he says, “I’ll see you home. Not so eager to say goodbye just yet.”
“You’ll forgive me,” I tell him, brushing my finger tips along his sleeve, “but I am.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
