A Beauty That Cuts The Heart Asunder by Joe Luther

A Beauty That Cuts The Heart Asunder by Joe Luther

“There’s got to be something better than this.”

The gunshot splintered the cold morning silence.

Peering from behind a stack of empty crates and cardboard boxes, a man in tattered gray coveralls grimaced as both the body and the weapon struck the earth with a subdued thud. He waited, eyes fixed on the carcass leaching blood onto the surrounding cement, wanting to be certain no one else lurked nearby. After a few minutes, he rose from his crouched position and carefully scanned the surrounding landscape. Satisfied that no other scavengers, or worse, enforcers were nearby, he dropped down low and scurried forward on all fours. In a blur of motion, he snatched the gun and shoved it into the right front pocket of his coveralls. He tore through the pockets and canvas rucksack of the newly deceased, pausing his frantic search every few seconds to scan the area for passersby.

Despite high hopes, he found little more than a few empty aluminum cans, blackened banana peels, and an empty box of bullets. He cast the rucksack down to the ground, stripped the frayed pea coat from the man, and commenced a thorough search of its contents. Plastic wrappers. A pornographic photo. An old spoon. Nothing useful.

“Damn it.”

He stood up, flung the coat onto the concrete, and raked a hand through his long, matted blonde hair. Tilting his head back, he searched the cloudless, ashen gray sky for some kind of  divine intervention, a cosmic signal, something to direct him forward in a world that felt as alien as he felt to himself. With a heavy sigh, he dropped his gaze back toward the earth and stared at the corpse that lay prostrate in front of him. He strode toward the body, grabbed the ransacked pea coat, and draped it over the dead man’s face. Crouching down low to the ground, he rested his hand against the man’s chest in a solemn, yet somehow disingenuous, show of dignity and humanity. It seemed the right thing to do.

Before he could rise and turn to leave, he felt the pressure of a round, heavy object pressed against his back.

“Don’t even think about it, tough guy.”    

He stood still, raised his arms above his head, and muttered angrily under his breath.

“What’s that? You got something to say? I’m not an easy target like that old man you just wasted.”

“I didn’t -” He turned to face the accusing voice, but before they could meet each other’s eyes, his legs were swept out from under him. His body hit the pavement first with a dull, resounding thud. A searing sensation coursed through his chest. His chin struck the cement last with a sharp crack, and the sharp, bitter taste of blood filled his mouth as the hands of two men grappled to subdue him. With a knee pressed into his back, his hands were wrenched behind him and cuffed together with a flimsy, makeshift restraint.

“Stand him up!”

The silent one grabbed him by the arm, shoved him up against the brick of a nearby building, and spun him around to face the two men. Both wore generic gray jumpsuits with a single large zipper running from the base of the neck to the inside of the right thigh. The pale, weathered fabric bore a single colorful emblem: a red, white, and blue flag stitched above the right breast. Its pattern of eight alternating red and white stripes, with a small blue square in the upper left containing eight white stars, caught his attention as he gasped for air, blood trickling down his chin between ragged breaths.          

In addition to their matching gray jumpsuits, the two men possessed few discernible differences in their appearance. Both were around his height, slightly overweight, and wore silver reflective sunglasses. The more vocal of the two sported a stubbly, uneven beard and pale skin; whereas, the quiet one was clean shaven with a prominent scar running from the bottom of his lower lip to the center of his dimpled chin. Though he had never encountered an enforcer directly, the sunglasses and gray jumpsuits matched the descriptions and stories shared with him by fellow scavengers during his brief time roaming the landscape.

“Did you see that Ray? Tough guy here tried to take a crack at me. I had no choice but to defend myself. How much time are they giving guys like this who take a shot at one of Mel Skoun’s enforcers?”

Ray uttered a guttural snarl, a tacit response to his fellow enforcer’s query, as he pressed the barrel of his rifle firmly against the man in tattered gray coverall’s chest.

“I think you’re right, Ray. He’s got nothing but long hours in the factory and some cold nights in the box ahead of him. What’s your name, shit brains?”

Knowing instinctively that his truthful response of “I don’t know” would simply invite more beatings and more derision, he decided to use the name he imagined for himself – a name that could be traced to a ripped, crumpled, and smudged piece of paper found in his pants’ pocket upon awakening into this place.

“Azon.”

& &&

“Whoa, easy there, buddy!”

Instinctively, Azon thrashed about with his hands and legs, conscious of a hand pressed against his forehead. He bolted upright, eyes blinking rapidly in an effort to shake off the haze of disorientation. An older gentleman stood above him, hands outstretched in a placating gesture, as he slowly backed away.

“You alright there, fella?”

A dull, throbbing ache radiated across his forehead and cheekbones. Unable to cope with the discomfort and reasonably assured by the man’s frail form, he let himself collapse back into the thin stretched canvas of the metal framed cot. A high-pitched squeak issued beneath him. He shut his eyes and pressed his fingers to his face –  a reflexive, yet ineffectual attempt to relieve some of the pain left behind from his encounter with the enforcers.

“Oh man, I don’t know what hurts worse – my head or my back from sleeping in this cot.”

“You get used to it,” the old man replied with a half-hearted chuckle. “It looks like you took quite  a beating before they dropped you off with me. I can take you to get something for the pain, but there are some things you gotta do before they start giving you stuff around here.”

Still laying flat on the cot, Azon opened his eyes and turned to regard the man standing before him with a kind of cautious curiosity. The first thing that struck Azon were his pale blue eyes that sat sunken behind swollen, pouch-like folds of skin. No doubt these eyes had once been handsome, striking even, yet the weight of time and accompanying hardship had resolved to shield them from the world with heavy curtains of flesh. His head bore the familiar crown of age – bald on top with thick wisps of gray hair encircling the sides and back. Despite his obvious advanced age, he possessed relatively smooth, unblemished skin with nothing more than a few faint lines across his brow and a symmetrical pair of soft creases running from the base of the nose to his thin dusty crimson lips. His gait was stiff and slightly hunched, clothed in a loose, ill-fitting navy blue jumpsuit similar in style to those worn by the enforcers, though it bore no emblem or insignia.

“So, where is ‘here’ exactly? Am I in some kind of jail?”

The old man offered a wry smile and lowered himself gingerly to a cot that lay parallel to his own on the other side of the room.

“This place is what is officially known as the Outreach for the Unsettled Encampment, number 106.” His reply was delivered with the practiced declaration of an official statement, yet his voice betrayed a sardonic, even contemptuous edge.

“Now that sounds like a bullshit euphemism for a jail. The guys that kicked the shit of me sure made it sound like I was heading to some kind of jail or labor camp.”

A dramatic guffaw shook the old man.

“The enforcers say lots of things. Problem is there are too many damn people they wanna lock up and not enough folks working for Skoun’s dominion. That’s why most just end up here milling around until one of the bureaucrats gets to dealing with them.”

“So I guess I have to ask again: where is ‘here’?”

“It’s hard to figure what this place is and isn’t. For some, it’s home, for others, well…It’s probably just easier if I show you around and get you checked in. The name’s Francis, by the way, what’s yours?”

Francis extended a bony, emaciated hand – an offer of assistance in physically rising from the cot and, perhaps, an unspoken gesture of camaraderie in an unforgiving wilderness. As the two men pushed open the warped wooden door to the tent, a brisk, early winter morning was before them. The pale glow of a bleached amber sun was just barely visible through the clouds; the air was sharp and crisp. If not for the intermittent, whipping gusts of wind sending leaves, dust, and debris skittering across the landscape, one could almost call it a pleasant morning. As Francis gestured toward the eastern edge of the camp, a cutting breeze swept through, causing the door of the tent to snap shut with a sharp resounding wooden clap.

“I tell you, this has got to be the damn windiest place I’ve ever set foot,” Francis exclaimed, as he zipped his jumpsuit all the way up, his collar now pulled up high around his neck reaching just above the base of his chin. “You’ll be wanting a quick tour, if your body can handle it, and then we can head toward the ol’ thumb scanner. You hungry? They serve food there, too; I bet we can still grab something for breakfast or get an early lunch. I know the cook; he’s a kind fella.”

Azon nodded and reached out to clutch the old man’s right arm for balance – his body still rigid and aching. As he and Francis plodded and shuffled forward, Azon found himself struck by the relative quiet amidst the maze of so many densely cramped together tents. The only audible sound came from the flutter and undulation of the large olive drab tents with each passing breeze – one after the other moving wavelike in their uniformity of coordinated motion like one large, interconnected organism. Though he could remember nothing beyond the events of the last few weeks, an eerie, uncanny sense of familiarity settled within him as they traversed the desolate camp. 

“A lot of tents out here, but not a lot of people. Where’s everyone at?”

“Work. You really don’t know anything about the encampments, do you? I would have figured word would have gotten around about these places.”

As they continued on, several buildings came into view. One read “Information and Provisions”, their intended destination after the tour. An equal number of others were marked “Technology and Entertainment”, all identical in terms of their dull, yet functional design.

These “welcome centers”, as Azon imagined them, were large, more permanent looking metal structures composed almost entirely of sheet metal panels that reflected the growing glare of the amber-hued sun. Above a large black metal door, the words “Information and Provisions” were stenciled in black spray paint, the lettering, though still legible, had inevitably faded with the sun and the passage of time. The unimaginative, yet efficient division of the camp had become clear: the western half was reserved for living quarters, while the eastern edge was dedicated to various amenities and services for its occupants. Azon lingered for some time at the far eastern edge of the camp where a large open area replete with steel benches faced a tall chain link fence. This, explained Francis, was the departure point for residents awaiting transport to various assigned work sites.

As Azon approached the chain link fence and peered down the perimeter of its cold geometry of seemingly infinite, interwoven steel diamonds, he surmised that the entire encampment was enclosed by this towering fence, reinforced with thick metal posts spaced evenly every eight feet. Atop each post, a small surveillance camera sat in silent vigilance.

As they journeyed south down the wall of chain link fencing, Azon beheld an imposing 40 foot tall guard tower located at the southeast corner. At the top of each tower was a kind of lookout station or sentry box shrouded in mirrored, opaque glass. The assumption was that one or more guards stood watch behind the glass, though Francis admitted, no one had ever been able to conclusively verify this.

“Have you ever known anyone to cause trouble around here?” Azon asked, breaking the silence between the two.

“Well, there was one guy. He came through here a few years ago and told everyone he was gonna lead a rebellion with a mop handle and a no bullshit attitude.”

A wry grin crossed Francis’ face that elicited a meek smile from Azon in return.

“In all honesty,” Francis’ smile faded. He let out a sigh and continued. “There have been a few. I wish I could tell you what happened to them, but that’s the best kept secret around this place. No one knows how they punish trouble makers. They get swept up and never come back. Do they kill them? Move them somewhere else? Let them go? No one knows. I suppose the best punishment is the one that you never see coming with no way to know whether it’s merciful or severe.”

Azon nodded, not just in agreement, but in grim acknowledgement of the unspoken imperative for obedience.

“There’s five of them towers total,” Francis remarked, as he gazed up at the tower shielding his eyes from the sunlight and blustery winds. “One in each corner, and then one dead center in the middle of the camp.”

As Azon, too, brought his hands over his eyes, he could see that in the middle of each tower’s reflective watch post, a large camera-like eye rotated slowly on a kind of horizontal band or track, its circumference rimmed with a halo of brightly glowing lights to, no doubt, aid at night in the continuous, sweeping surveillance of its section of the camp.

Azon shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked a cloud of dust toward the watchtower. 

“So, what exactly is inside “Technology and Entertainment”? I saw a fair amount of those along the way. Can we go in one?”

“Sure, you can,” Francis said, wincing and sputtering as a forceful gust of wind caught him in the mouth mid-sentence. “But there won’t be much for you to do in there but window shop. Once you start working and build up some credits with Skoun, you can go in there and purchase just about any piece of technology you want: phones, laptops, games, tablets. If you can think of it, they got it. That’s one thing that most everyone appreciates about this place – all the technology you could ever dream of is here.”

“There was another place along the way, Perpetuity and Propagation, I think,” Azon remarked, running his fingers listlessly along the chain-link fence. “What’s in there? That one’s not labeled quite as straightforward as the others.”

A heavy, forlorn sigh escaped Francis’ lips. His eyes broke from Azon’s and drifted downward to the windblown dust and dirt swirling over his boots.

“I knew you were going to ask,” his voice had grown all at once weary and resigned. “You were bound to find out about them sooner or later, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be today. Some guys visit P and P just about every single day, but me, personally, I just…”

His voice trailed off wistfully, as though carried away on one of the many gusts of wind that swept through the camp. Then, as if retreating from some quiet, aching memory he looked up at Azon with squinted, glassy eyes and said, “I’ll take you there, but based on what I can tell about you, I’m inclined to think you aren’t going to like it.”

After journeying westward for a few minutes along the north wall of the chain link fence perimeter, the two men approached another building, identical in design to the others, though elongated – nearly twice the length and half the width – labeled “Perpetuity and Propagation.” When they reached the entrance, Francis remained still and silent for a time – his eyes fixated on the entrance stirring something evocative within his tired, gaunt frame which deepened the sense of disquiet lingering in the air about the place.

“I’m sorry I can’t go in with you,” Francis said firmly, the sense of melancholy had faded, replaced, instead, by a measured, firm tone of voice. He ran a hand over his face, then let his fingers linger along his jawline, gently rubbing the rough stubble with the tips of his fingers.

“There’s no thumb scanner or check-in or anything like that. Anyone from the camp is free to walk in whenever they please. I’m inclined to insist that you not go in there, but I know how folks are. You tell them not to do something, and that’s all they want to do. I’m also not one for keeping secrets. I do want to warn you, though, you might not like what you see. Don’t panic, don’t yell out, and don’t make any judgments out loud about what you see. There’s an enforcer or two on duty in there, but if a man keeps to himself, does his business, and leaves, they won’t bother no one. We can talk everything over later. You got any questions?”

Azon shook his head and proceeded toward the entrance. Just before stepping inside, he turned back and gave Francis a solemn thumbs up. Francis returned nothing more than a somber nod.

The interior was dim – a small, poorly lit vestibule with thin, threadbare black carpeting and burgundy colored walls. To his right sat an enforcer behind a small, narrow desk idly thumbing through a tablet resting in his hand. The man looked up, nodded at Azon with bored indifference, and returned his attention to the screen. Directly ahead, a pair of thick black curtains hung from a thin metal rod haphazardly mounted along the top of the door frame. Azon parted them tentatively and stepped through into a long, narrow corridor lined on both sides with a seemingly endless stretch of numbered pale hollow-core wooden doors. He walked slowly, glancing at each door’s black stenciled number as he passed – the gentle squeak of his sneakers the only sound cutting through the unsettling, eerie silence. Upon reaching the end of the hallway, he came to a large steel door marked “EXIT” in bold black letters. Unsure of what to do or what he was meant to find in this place, he turned and retraced his steps until he heard what he thought was a faint, muffled cry. Pausing for a time to pinpoint the source of the noise, he eventually leaned in and pressed his ear gently to the door marked “22.”

With his ear against the door and one hand gripping the knob, he caught the faint, internment sniffling of a runny nose accompanied by half-formed, stifled vowel sounds. Uncertain of the rules regarding the place and not wanting to intrude on the privacy of another, he rapped gently on the door. This, however, only served to increase the frequency and volume of the strained, muffled sounds within as well as bringing in the addition of a new sound – a kind of subtle, metallic clinking.

“Hello?” Azon called, opening the door just a crack – a deliberate gesture intended to signal an intent to enter or an openness to retreat should someone call out in protest.

With no audible objection to his entrance, other than the continued muffled whimpers and clinking of metal, he eased the door open. 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he murmured to himself.

Before him was a stark, sterile, yet brightly illuminated white room, roughly the size of a standard bedroom. In the far right corner, a naked woman lay chained to a wooden slab mounted to a swiveling metal base capable of lying flat, tilting upright, or resting at an incline. As he stepped inside and shut the door behind him, he noticed that the woman, who was currently in a flat position on the slab, was almost completely immobilized. Her wrists and ankles were fastened with metal cuffs and chains attached to the underside of the board leaving her body and appendages almost completely flush against its surface.

As he shuffled closer to her, he noticed that her eyes were covered by a thick, black blindfold tied in a knot behind her head. The crusted tracks of dried tears ran from beneath the cloth, tracing narrow paths down her cheeks and jawline. Her mouth was sealed by a circular piece of metal, punctured with a dozen small holes. The disc or bit was affixed to a slender harness of thin straps that wrapped both horizontally across her face and vertically over her head, effectively locking it into place. Though she made no sound beyond soft sniffling, shallow breaths, and a trembling hum of speech stifled by the bit, it was clear she sensed Azon’s presence.

“I’m – I’m so sorry,” Azon stammered. Struggling to summon the proper words befitting the situation in which he found himself, he reached out timidly and caressed the young woman’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “I won’t hurt or touch you, I promise.”

After a few minutes, the woman’s trembling began to ease and the strangled pleas quieted. Remaining at her side, Azon stood in silence watching her bare chest rise and fall until it seemed she had drifted into a kind of exhausted state of sleep. Before he rose to go, he gently stroked her hand, and without knowing why, the name “Jessica” inexplicably escaped his lips.   

& & &

“I know you’ve got some questions for me. Believe me, I know what you’re thinking and feeling. Before we get to all that, I want to thank you for keeping yourself composed during and after leaving P and P. I know it’s not easy.”

Francis stopped several meters short of the “Information and Provisions” building and turned to face Azon, whose features remained pallid and unsettled, his silence heavy with unspoken agitation and disquiet. In recognition of the lingering strain and disturbance of what he had just seen in P and P, compounded by the stress of being in an unfamiliar place and meeting new people, Francis was inclined to let the silence play out, the questions form, and the emotions subside naturally with time. He figured, though, that in the interest of safety and keeping emotions in check around others in the camp it was time to talk before they went any further.

“Why?” he stammered, his voice ragged and trembling. “Why would someone do that to another human being?”

“Well,” replied Francis. “If you were to ask one of the bureaucrats, they would tell you it has been done out of necessity. Birth rates have been dropping for years and living like this doesn’t help any. For the dominion, this ‘method’ is the best way to make sure the population keeps growing. A woman is tied up, blindfolded, unable to resist, while a man comes in, does his part, and leaves. The two never meet, they never speak – it’s done. It’s cold, it’s impersonal, but it gets the job done: more humans for the dominions.”

“Rape, you mean? Rape gets the job done,” Azon whispered, shifting away from Francis, his eyes sharp with accusation. “What kind of twisted pile of shit can walk into a place like that and rape someone?”

“Excuse my poor choice of words, fella. I don’t like those places any more than you do. It’s complicated, though. A guy gets lonely. He’s got urges. And that – what you saw – is how they want him to deal with them urges.”

His voice remained low, his manner restrained, yet the froth of seething indignation was perceptible in his clenched jaw and curled lip.

“If a guy tries to take care of it himself – if you catch my meaning – and they catch you at it or someone snitches on you, then you disappear. Punishment – like I told you before. No one knows where you go or what happens to you. You’re just gone. They use the fear. Fear and just enough comfort to keep us quiet and occupied. They give you what you want, when you want it. You want sex? Go ahead and walk on over to P and P, pick a girl, do what you came to do, walk out, and go about your day. You feeling bored? Here’s a tablet, a game, a screen. Waste the hours away, don’t think too hard, don’t think too much, because if you stop and think too long about who you are and what this place has made you – livestock, a goddamn animal – it’ll eat you alive. You know what? Maybe we had it coming. Maybe after everything we’ve done to each other over the centuries, it’s long past time to pay the piper.”

“So what? We’re all just supposed to shrug that house of horrors off and accept it as part of life. Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

“You don’t get it, do you? There’s no place for heroics or rebellion here, guy. This isn’t an action movie or a book that wraps up with a happy ending. This is it. There’s no fighting it. You’ll just disappear without ever having made any kind of difference. It’ll just be a shout in the wilderness. I’m not saying you gotta like it or that you gotta participate in all of it, but you have to accept it. There’s simply no other choice.”

Azon stared at Francis for a time, until Francis stepped forward to the entrance of I and P and held the door open – a tacit gesture that suggested this conversation about the morality and necessity of P and P was over.

The inside of the building reflected its spartan, utilitarian exterior. A row of chest-height, rectangular metal kiosks lined the entrance wall—each outfitted with a dimly lit screen, a keypad, and a neon green scanner etched with the faint outline of a thumbprint. Opposite the kiosks stood an orderly array of oblong, white plastic cafeteria-style tables, all empty save for a solitary man in a white jumpsuit eating a bowl of soup.

On the far wall opposite the entrance, a rectangular recess in the wall labeled “Provisions” in that same stenciled black spray paint as outside, revealed a service counter and the interior of a kitchen and its staff beyond; an identical sterile cut-out stood beside it labeled “Enforcement” with a man seated inside, dressed in standard issue enforcer attire.

“Well, let’s get you checked in over here at one of the thumb scanners.” 

“It’s pretty simple,” he continued. “Just place your thumb on the scanner and all kinds of things will pop up on that screen. It should tell you about your pending criminal case, your upcoming work assignment, bunk assignment, and how much you owe Skoun for your use of his facilities and such.”

After separating himself from Francis and shuffling over to the kiosk, Azon exhaled sharply and pressed his thumb to the scanner. After several minutes elapsed and Azon was still at the machine, Francis shifted his weight and, with a quiet, yet patient curiosity, strode over to join him.

“What’s this message mean?” Azon asked.

No biometric authentication signature on file. Previous access record unresolved. See administrator reference code 0516.

“It’s just on account of you being new here, and they’re still getting you into the system. I say we just check back later. We don’t want to bother the administrators around here if we don’t have to,” he replied. “The only problem is those folks back there in the kitchen aren’t going to give you anything to eat unless they can charge your account.”

“That’s the second time now you’ve made it sound as though I need to somehow pay for the food and the time I spend here,” Azon began. “How am I supposed to do that when I don’t have any money?”

“Work, my boy, work. You think Mel Skoun is just giving you food to eat and a place to stay out of the goodness of his heart?” he chuckled to himself. “I swear sometimes it seems like you fell out of the sky or something, or maybe those boys just hit you in the head one too many times.”

“Yes, my memory is probably something we should talk about, and this Mel Skoun, too. I didn’t want to say anything earlier, you know, until I was a little more sure about you. As far as I know, or at least as far as I can remember…”

“Francis!” the lone occupant seated at the cafeteria table called out, interrupting Azon’s admission. “Any trouble over there? If someone’s giving you a hard time, I’d be more than happy to throw his ass out of here.”     

“Oh, nothing to worry about, Johnny. Just having some issues with the old thumb scanner. This guy got in yesterday, and the scanner is giving him an error message. You think you could rustle up a little something for him to eat? I sure would appreciate it.”

“You got it, Francis. You two take a seat, and I’ll go back there right now.”

“Come on, Azon, let’s go take a seat with Johnny. He’s a good man. I helped him out, same as you, when he first arrived here from out in the wild.”

The two made their way to Johnny’s table and sat down across from his now vacant spot. On the tray opposite them rested a half-eaten chunk of bread, a shallow bowl of what appeared to be a very brothy soup, and clear glass containing a viscous, bubbly purple liquid.

“I’m sorry, Azon. What were you saying about your memory?”

“Well, like I said, I didn’t want to say anything earlier, what with being in a strange place and all, but I honestly don’t have a whole lot of memory of who I am, where I am, and how I even came to be here.”

“Well, you told me earlier that your name is Azon, and you sure seemed to remember the enforcers beating…” he began, his voice laced with undertones of incredulity and irritation.

“No, no. I remember that, but what I don’t remember is what happened before all of that. I remember the beating and something like two weeks before, but that’s it. The earliest memory I can recall is waking up in the basement, you know like the boiler or utility room, of this old hotel. I had the tattered coveralls I probably came in wearing yesterday, a little rucksack with some food and stuff, which is gone now, and that’s it. I don’t know how the hell I ended up there, where I was, or even who I was before that day.”

“Well, shoot. Maybe you got some kind of beating that knocked your memories out of you, or gave you, oh, what do they call it…”

“Amnesia?”

“Yeah, amnesia, that’s it. I mean it’s been known to happen – I remember hearing about that kind of thing happening years ago. Not recently, mind you, but…”

“I mean, amnesia is possible, but it wasn’t from any kind of beating. I woke up completely unharmed – not a scratch on me.”

“Humpf, well, that’s a mighty intriguing mystery. What the hell you calling yourself Azon for then?”

“Well, outside of the coveralls and the rucksack, the one thing I had on me was this thin, waxy slip of paper with a bunch of faded, smudged writing on it. The only letters I could make out were ‘A-z-o-n.’ I’m pretty sure it’s not my name, but it seemed better than just making something up.”

“Here you go, newbie – just like mom used to make,” Johnny said as he slid a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast across the table toward Azon. As he reached over to set a glass of purple liquid beside his plate, Johnny flashed a grin that made Azon pause. There was something effortlessly disarming and inviting about Johnny – those narrow green eyes resting beneath tousled black hair, the sharply defined jawline, the warm, slightly sun darkened complexion. For someone who had once survived for a time as a scavenger, Johnny appeared strikingly handsome as though better suited for a world captured on a 1940s film reel beside someone like Clark Gable.

As Johnny resumed his meal, he suddenly let his spoon clatter against the bowl as he looked up at Francis sheepishly. “Francis, I forgot to ask, do you want anything? Pardon my manners. You sure now?”

“Azon,” Johnny continued earnestly. “Now, you let me know if you need anything else to eat. I remember the first day I came in here, and I was starved. I’m not sure where you come from or what brought you in here, but if you were out in the wild like me, it was getting damn near impossible to survive. It was tough finding food, safe places to sleep, people you could trust, and the winters – forget about it. To be honest, I was kind of glad when they picked me up. I didn’t appreciate the ass kicking they gave me before bringing me here, which from the looks of you I think you can relate. Anyway, name is Johnny, glad to meet you.”

The two exchanged a firm handshake that acted as more than a simple greeting; for Azon, it was something deeper, it was as though a silent acknowledgement of shared hardship and implicit solidarity had been exchanged between the two men.

There was, too, a kind of strangely compelling, quiet magnetism about Johnny that Azon couldn’t fully explain or understand. His demeanor and expression reminded Azon of an old friend or a trusted uncle. It was hard to imagine spending time with him without feeling charmed by the easy rhythm of his voice, the subtle charisma in his features, and the effortless warmth of his gestures. Azon felt as though he had known him for years rather than just minutes. Above all, there was no trace of judgment in his eyes, only a steady compassionate ease that made him feel both seen and understood.

“You all right, Azon? You look like you seen a ghost or something.”

In an overly dramatic flourish, Johnny peered playfully over each shoulder, spun around in his seat, and completed a full turn before landing his gaze back on the two men with a wide, affable grin.

“I’m sorry,” Azon replied, eyes lowered as he tore his toast in two. “I don’t mean to be awkward. You just feel kind of familiar to me, which is odd, because I can’t remember much about myself and like I was telling…”

Fearing the consequences of appearing weak and vulnerable in a place so starkly devoid of compassion and moral certainty, especially in front of two strangers, Azon felt the cold pang of regret settle in the pit of his stomach. With no graceful or believable way to walk back the admission or explain it away, he chose instead to speak plainly to Johnny, just as he had with Francis. After recounting the mysterious circumstances of his awakening, Francis gave Azon a supportive pat on the back – an unspoken nudge to ease up and trust Johnny. It was Johnny, though, who spoke first, offering a few conciliatory words.

“Hey, to be honest, most of us came here not knowing what the hell was going on or who they were, so you’re in good company. There’s a select few who can remember, but I’ll let Francis fill you in on that later. Anyway, don’t you worry about all that, we’re here to help you out and get you used to life here.”

“Wait, so you don’t remember much of your life before coming here either?” Azon asked incredulously, his brow furrowing as he tried to process the unexpected revelation.

“Nope. Not a thing, just like you. I got picked up by one of the enforcers for some bullshit crime I didn’t commit and landed here. I was bitter and angry the first few months, but I had something with me that gave me a little hope and just made me happy for some reason.”

“What was it? What did you have?” Azon implored, leaning forward, his voice trembling with desperation.

Beside him, Francis watched the interaction closely, trying to maintain an air of practiced indifference, while his expectant gaze betrayed a restless, bristling curiosity.

Johnny smiled to himself, reached into his back pocket, and produced a crumpled piece of paper, folded small, worn, and softened from years of countless foldings and unfoldings. He opened it carefully, almost ceremoniously, revealing a child’s drawing rendered in bright, clumsy crayon strokes. A large yellow sun dominated the right hand corner, its uneven rays stretching outward towards the puffy, misshapen clouds beside it. Below, a patch of bright green grass covered with towering trees, each trunks thick, shaky line of dark ochre brown. 

In the center of it all stood two figures, drawn with the simple, awkward, yet charming shapes and proportions that only a small child could produce. To the left, a small girl in a long pink dress with a flower in her golden yellow hair spilling well past her shoulders reached towards a taller figure to her right with short brown hair, a black shirt, and blue jeans. Beneath the picture, scribbled in uneven, looping letters (occasionally misspelled) was a message: “Thank you for always helping me with things, daddy. You’re the best. I love you.”

“Jessica…” Azon whispered reflexively, without thought or understanding.

Looking up from the table, Azon glanced at Johnny, who stared back at him thoughtfully, blinking slowly, as if weighing his next words carefully. Frantically, Azon turned to Francis, seated beside him, who let out a long, exasperated breath and ran his hands down his face in quiet dismay. In that moment, Azon felt like a child who had unwittingly uttered something forbidden at the dinner table, uncertain of the nature and significance of the offense, yet keenly aware it shouldn’t have been spoken.

“Damn, Azon, you were so close this time,” Francis cast a sharp glance at Johnny. “When he came out of P and P without saying her name or asking about her, I thought they got it right this time around.”

“Got what right? Who’s Jessica? That’s the second time now I’ve said…”

“What do you mean ‘second time’?”, Johnny’s boyish grin melted away, replaced by a clenched jaw and eyes that had sharpened into a hard, narrow gaze. 

“I said it inside of P and P, before I left. Who’s Jessica? What’s going on here?” He rose from his seat, eyes darting nervously from one corner of the hall to the next. His breath came in short, shallow gasps as he clenched and twisted his trembling hands together in a kind of repetitive, almost mechanical movement in an effort to anchor himself to something real and definite.

“Hey, now,” Johnny intoned. “You just sit right back down. I mean it. Sit back down in that seat and listen to me. Now, don’t you worry about a thing. They’ll send you back over to Sustainability and Continuity and they’ll try again. There isn’t a soul in here who they wanted to get right but couldn’t. It just takes a little more time with some.” 

“What are you talking about? Francis, what is all of this shit?”

“Oh, it’ll come back to you. It always does. Johnny and I are always looking out for you.”

“They need more than your obedience here, friend,” Johnny continued, his tone softening  as the calm, genteel smile returned and with it his almost brotherly warmth and ease. “They need all of you to submit. Every last bit. The only way to do it is to strip you of all those old memories, and especially those feelings associated with them. That’s the tricky part. Those feelings can linger and drudge up pieces of you they thought were gone. Beauty, love, and compassion just won’t do you any good around here. That’s why we just can’t have you remembering and thinking about little Jessica anymore. Don’t you worry, buddy. We’ll be right here with you every step of the way as long as you need.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Joe Luther 2025

Image Courtesy: darksouls1 from Pixabay