Authors: TA Williams
Porcelain Light on a Dying Sun
On the mantle above the gas fireplace sat a few knick-knacks, an old broken hunting rifle, framed pictures of Elizabeth’s little brother
, her mother, and her blue-collared bearded father. A picture of the four of them together, taken on the Lightning Fields in New Mexico when they had stopped there on vacation, stood out the most. Webs of purple painted the sky behind their smiles.
Both brother and father were deceased now. Her father died a year and a half ago, during the most violent stage of the State of Chaos. He was discreetly invited to pick vegetables from a friend’s farm. Thieves and plunderers shot him. A half year ago her little brother, Danny, was kill
ed by an unexpected factor. His kidneys had failed him during sleep. Her mother had contracted the Cash Disease and was still suffering.
Holding a glass of water and four white pills, Elizabeth stood looking at the pictures until she realized what she had to do and headed in that direction.
When she opened the master bedroom door the hinges creaked. She reluctantly went into the dark room and didn’t dare let the door close behind her. The curtains were closed, blocking the daylight. After she managed to flip on the light switch, the ceiling bulb flashed and burned out. Elizabeth equated it to a dying sun. And somewhere in the far reaches of black space, she imagined undulated waves of dispersing fire, and she knew that it was probably true; a sun was dying somewhere in the universe.
“Great,” she muttered.
Mother was worse today, she discerned by the smell. Elizabeth loathed being in here, but she felt the remote sense of Function Love as well. The room confused her, and it had for a year now. She half-believed this place managed to murder light.
She moved as taut as a tightrope. She could make out, as her eyes adjusted, the IV stand placed next to the bed, the plastic shine of morphine and saline drips. She stepped closer, nearing her mother’s silhouette, thankful her countenance remained behind shadow. She didn’t wa
nt to view her. When Anne was healthy and working, she had contracted the Cash Disease from handling money at the bank. Some 100-million others had contracted the disease within months.
“Mom, you ready? I'm going to turn on the nightstand lamp.”
There was no answer, only breathing. No longer awaiting Anne's consent Elizabeth flipped the lamp switch, causing Anne’s pupils to contract as a migraine squirmed from the front to the back of her head. She moaned like a ghoul, and Elizabeth believed for a moment that maybe there was reason the room suffocated light, after all. Maybe death would be better—maybe it called. For a brief moment she considered euthanizing her and wondered why the Solution hadn’t ever done so.
Elizabeth extended the glass and pills. She wanted to somehow blot out actuality. Anne's skin wa
s mottled with pustules, a few of which would erratically burst and spit buttery blood. From her neck downward random areas of flesh were raked with gangrene. She lived in an uncanny state, slowly devolving into a slab of busted organic machinery.
Elizabeth knew giving Anne medicine was quite useless, but it was prescribed by the appointed Solution physician.
At least someone had been making an effort. She set the water and pills on the nightstand and reached to the IV drips and upped the dosage for the morphine. There was no cure except for curing the pain because the disease was no longer contagious. And a year ago the Solution released a communiqué informing the public of how the Cash Disease worked. ‘The exogenous antigens enter the skin similar to an everyday infection and naturally stimulate a physical response. The infection then destroys all phagocytes and natural fighter cells immediately. The lymphocytes clone infectious cells. These cling to red blood cells and flow to the heart, destroying the aortic valves . . . ’ and
blah-blah-blah
. Something attacked the medulla oblongata. Something proceeded to the forebrain and something turned her into a fading automaton, Elizabeth thought. No, there was no cure.
Just then a glint of dim light caught the corner of her eye. On the nightstand sat a mirrored angel figurine she had bought for Anne years ago. Anne had disliked the angel, thought it tacky however kept the gift because Elizabeth gave it to her.
Then it felt like the butterflies in her stomach had razor-tipped wings as she stared at her mother, lying in a gross tranquility. But she swallowed the feeling, covering it up deep within.
Following a
quick spasm there were no suggestions of life. Elizabeth observed Anne’s ribcage sinking. Then the air in the room seemed to sit still and sunshine attempted to reach through the curtains, bringing an odd realization to Elizabeth. She learned through her past studies that a number of events are uncontrollable, but this is ridiculous. She tossed ideas to formulate a course of action, what in particular to feel (but she could feel nothing), but the ABCs of her thought process became muddled crosswords leaving her with blanks.
Suddenly, in the living room a chipper melody rang as the plasma television cut on, displaying Dr. Reverence.
Ah, the Solution. They know. Of course they know!
Elizabeth left the room, her mother’s body, and went to the living room where the television was.
Dr. Reverence had the appearance of a firm sort of woman, adorning shoulder-length black hair, side-swept bangs, and turquoise eyes expressing such a persuasive conviction that Elizabeth hardly ever allowed herself to miss a word. “Miss Elizabeth Faye Reznick, I’m sorry for your loss. The Solution empathizes with you. We know the wounds of
loss can run to weighty levels, but I assure you there is an existence much more profound awaiting you.”
S
he assured Elizabeth a Solution Consulate would see her shortly, then Dr. Reverence commenced a psychotherapy session. Fifties of times before, Elizabeth had listened to the doctor expound. She even remembered as far back when Dr. Reverence first appeared to the public. She began originally during the State of Chaos. She spoke as a voice of reason during unreasonable times.
“The foundation of depression is certainly happiness,” Dr. Reverence said, “Depression is a fa
llacious ingredient of experiencing reality wrongly. In a life void of Solution refinement you would know depression and not know jubilance and mirth, therefore the remaining emotions are chimerical and there is only one proven source from which your mentality sustains. The Solution is that source. It is crucial, Miss Reznick, that you remain in the sustenance from which an unadulterated wellbeing thrives—especially in today’s world. We are sending a Consulate to help you along and an ambulance to take the body away. The ambulance will arrive soon and the Consulate should arrive precisely within the hour.”
A half-hour slippe
d by and the therapy ended. Solution EMS had already come and gone, taken the body, but the Consulate had not yet arrived. Elizabeth went back into the master bedroom, expressionless while looking over the vacant bed. All the crossword puzzles in her head neared completion. She hoped and was certain the Solution would have her mother cremated. The services would be classy but quick—none of Anne’s friends had contacted her after she became sick, anyway, or they had simply fled to a better place.
Elizabeth saw the mirrored angel figurine on the nightstand. As she picked it up and held it tight in her hand, she saw a pale light reflecting in it. Elizabeth whipped around, near frightened.
The Consulate, Mr. Spires, had finally arrived. He was a tall man wearing a charcoal gray suit and had big brown eyes. There was neither a friendly or deceptive air about the man. While his face appeared kind and attractive, there was also a peculiarity about him, as if a faculty that would complete him was missing. He could go either way, and she couldn’t figure it out, but Mr. Spires was a Solution Consulate and she found herself trusting him regardless.
Mr. Spires
spoke with a steady voice, rhythmically, “I let myself in,” he said, “Is that ok?
She said nothing.
“
Elizabeth, we
are
sorry for your loss. There was only so much anyone could do. This is historical, you do understand. Your mother, Anne Margaret Reznick, was one of the final victims suffering from Cash Disease.”
“I know,” she said.
“I see you are … surviving the Dysfunction Grief. I implore you to continue. There’s not much use for dysfunction in general. It’s natural, but it's a hindrance.”
Elizabeth stood silent, staring at the Consulate. She noticed he carried a black, slim briefcase.
He said, “If you don’t mind, I’ve been ordered to remain here until I can assure the authorities you are psychologically fit—not many are, mind you. So no pressure,” he said with a smile. “I’ve got to perform a safety procedure to ensure there’re no contagions in your home as well, or in you. Per course, the odds of a contagion are nil, non-existent these days, really.”
“That’s fine,” she said,
“I mean, I know it’s no longer contagious since what, like a year ago?”
“That’s true.
We put a stop to the spread as fast it came out but sadly we couldn’t save the ones that got it. Like I said these are simply routine procedures—overkill as some call it. I’m going to download some information from you later.
“Like?”
“I can record your biorhythms, dreams, and life. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s protocol as well. We can take our time.”
“
How long do you think?”
“Hm
m, one night. I’ve got to monitor your sleep. You
will
be able to sleep, yes? You appear fine mentally, but looks can be deceiving as they say. Even though we might hide and repress certain emotions the brain still registers them, see, and can affect the body and manifest no matter how far into the mind they are tossed down. Hidden things can create literal monsters, in the new condition of the world, at least—the inside makes its way to the outside. This is a dysfunction we are just now beginning to understand, but there’s much we don’t yet grasp. No matter, when it comes time I’ll give you something to make you sleep. Actually I prefer it that way to expedite the process. We have lives, don’t we?”
“
Why do you have to—”
“It
’s a requirement. Do you object?”
“No, not at all.”
"Splendid,” then Mr. Spires gave a grin as to say it truly
wouldn't matter if you did object
.
* * *
A little white dot expanded until it turned into a flickering screen. On this screen a sequence displayed. Electricity ran through a series of wires which morphed into human veins. The veins, carrying a spark of electricity, lead to the mainframe of a computer that transformed into the delineation of a human brain. This was Elizabeth’s brain. Mr. Spires had turned on his tablet computer and wirelessly tuned into Elizabeth’s head enough to discern what might be going on in there.
It was five past midnight, and Mr. Spires
had asked Elizabeth to swallow two sleeping pills thirty minutes ago
.
She had agreed.
Now
he watched and waited, the screen casting blue light against the wall of Elizabeth’s bedroom. She was in her pajamas, this one with cartoon owls, and she was covered by a down comforter.
Mr. Spires said, “A few weeks ago I was
on assignment in the Eastern region. I stayed four days. There’s still conflict there. Everyone’s just scared, but we initially mean no harm. When one is consumed and controlled by any emotion, they may as well be possessed. Men and women out there were fighting our RMS. Do you know what RMS are?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, “but
I’ve never seen one.”
“Good. You’ll never want to see one. If you encounter a RMS y
ou know you will … die, for lack of better terms. It was slaughter out there. RMS pounded heavy artillery rounds shredding the small army of bandits into pulp. Bullets ate flesh and metal. No human lived, literally or figuratively. The RMS destroyed as few homes as possible though, but they stole—no, confiscated— these people’s nightmares and everything human about them. It’s what they’re built for.”
The screen showed an area of Elizabeth’s brain lighting up brilliantly, the area she heard Mr. Spires call the limbic region under his breath.
Nodding, Mr. Spires said, “Violence is another disease. Yes, another disease that needs to be wiped out. Do you agree?”
“Of course.”
“Indubitably," Mr. Spires said, nodding, "And so many lives lay entirely in the hands of the Solution. The era we live in is the most significant period of our civilization, Elizabeth. It’s a thing of beauty, much like every morning you wake up and breathe oxygen—complicatedly simple, completely magnificent. As Dr. Reverence says, ‘Live your dreams well with us, for all of our resources are yours.’ Do you dream, Elizabeth?”
“At times.”
“Of what? Don’t be deceitful. I’ll watch them regardless. It’s important for you tell the truth.”
“What is this?” She said drowsily, the gravity of sleep beginning to pull her down.
“As I’ve previously said it’s protocol, and for this procedure to go smoothly you should tell the truth.”