The package on my doorstep had my name, but I definitely didn't order it. Knowing there was another Colin Dawes in 'COMPLEX-CYCLOPEA 1', I stooped over the parcel and read the delivery address engraved into the metal.
'COMPLEX-CYCLOPEA 1, LEVEL 517, SECTION G, #19C, WESTPHALIA, PANEUROPA, 48161 VX. 23:56, 4/9/178 ANNO.HOLOCAUSTUM'.
As I picked up the package, a hollow feeling arrived in between my hands. Whatever was inside rolled around the metal box, knocking against its sides. I engaged the re-seal sequence and watched as the door slid back into place. It locked itself, causing the uncomfortable pressure of the vacuum to submerge my ears for a moment. I searched for a free space to place my package. I left it by the dormant, flickering terminal and retrieved my chair from the window that overlooked the wasteland. The dim drone of pipework regulating the release of nitrogen accompanied me as I sat and studied the package. The burnt metal was customary, every package came this way, they only ever varied in size. Tucking my index finger into the semi-circular gap, I slid the internal compartment of the package free. A syringe rolled aimlessly, its only way of saying 'hello'. The barrel of the syringe contained a violet colored fluid. Floating, smoky strands of lilac moved inside it. It looked alive, sentient, as the lilac strands duplicated, bounced apart, then reformed into a new shape. I watched it for a while before finally picking up the syringe to inspect it closer. Twisting it in my fingers, a serial number, printed in black stencil stood out.
'#1415-1920-1-1279-1'
I placed the syringe back in its metal compartment and sat back in my chair. All packages were delivered by the state and I couldn't recall ordering this one. I entered a command into the terminal and it told me the last package I ordered contained a new tube of Receding Paste. The exact tube sat conveniently next to the terminal. It had been squeezed and bullied into a broken curl. I picked it up and squeezed the white stinking paste onto my fingers. Using both hands I massaged the paste into the follicles on my scalp. There would be no growth, no sharp, grey shoots of hair. A denial of hair maintained cleanliness.
Resting my right foot over my left knee, I removed my sock. The skin hugged the bones and I thought nothing of it. I grabbed the syringe with one hand and steadied my foot with the other. The prick of the needle invaded the web of my big toe. I pulled back on the plunger, sucking my blood into the barrel and then pushed down hard on the plunger, forcing all of the fluid into my foot. I removed the needle and dropped the syringe to the floor, unsure if I'd succeeded in hitting a vein. Leaning back in my chair once more, I waited, and stared at the wall above the terminal. Slurried lines of grey mortar both separated and connected the bricks. It was a stubborn construction. I was familiar with it. My focus waned suddenly. The wall before me ranked second, as my vision altered. There was a fuzzy priority. Small oscillations blocked the periphery of my vision. The wall meant nothing to me and a certain ineffable tint began to form. Molecules came together in rows of ambiguous black spots. The ineffable tint was somewhat opalescent, somewhat translucent. Blood warmed my body gently. Breath became precious. I valued its pace. Slow and evenly measured, it released me. The feeling of epiphany greeted me cordially. I used to navigate what was complex until it became clear. What joy that brought me. Separate strands of thought used to morph together into an idea, and then attach themselves to a feeling. The love within me used to stretch and touch lust before coming back as a couple perfect words. I'd speak these words and it was evidence of something inside me. My cheeks and eyes tightened to a smile. Thoughts used to consume me. The future and the past used to stand over each of my shoulders and with nothing more than a sway of the mind, I could entertain either side. I used to dig through my memory like it was rubble. I used to look for a memory that would bring me closer to life or death. Whatever I found was useful. A tormented memory was just as helpful as a blissful one. I used to carry these memories I retrieved from the rubble, and wait patiently to clarify the nature of my being with them.
A blanket of peace comforted my skin like an adornment of strength. People didn't have to be real or exist in order to matter. I used to worry over the plight and desires of people spawned to the mind. They were safe there, none of them were real. I used to envision my unborn children. My eyes produced a thin, clear membrane of fluid. I'd envision watching them grow, envision growing alongside them, knowing they'd never notice that I had grown too. My wonderful unborn children always went from innocent to culpable, finally becoming moody and difficult. They didn't exist but I loved them so much. There was a time where I used to think and wonder so effortlessly. I spent so much time doing so. Countless hours spent laying down, using the motion of my mind to travel. I used to travel in a world outside of the past and the future. It was private, and existed only to me. This world changed every time I visited it, but I couldn't remember anything from it. Now, nothing changed. A big breath, one full of sadness, forced its way out of me. I wished it back and was left with a sorrowful feeling. I was emptier now. A small space inside of me sunk, and for a moment I felt what my room felt when the door engaged its vacuum. Numb. There was less of me. Why couldn't things be as they were? It was sweet then. Better than now. Only the physical existed now, only the physical mattered. The thin membrane of fluid retreated from my eyes and the wall before me came into view again. Presence returned. My breath recalculated itself, and became an automatic whisper. I picked up a syringe that was lying on the floor and thought nothing of it. After placing it into a metal compartment next to the terminal, I stood up and took my chair to the window. As was usual, I sat and observed the glow of orange fog that drowned the wasteland. There were rocks out there. I counted them. It proved difficult as they hid beneath the fog like lesions. Once I'd counted every rock, I tried hard to make out the horizon. It was just as I thought my eye had finally landed upon it, that the dim drone of nitrogen being released through the pipework started up. All hours of the day had passed. I would sleep now.
