Mortal Words

         I’ve found that words, like people, evolve over time. In our society, the word “silence” no longer reflects absolute stillness, but now has the connotation of the incessant clicking of glossy black cameras and the subtle lull of generators powering our city. With this potential for evolution, words are very powerful, another similarity shared with humans. Both humans and words can adapt to certain settings, and mold themselves around different contexts, giving them a sense of flexibility. However, when a human is unable to adjust, they are simply taken away in this day and age. Therefore, it is not a stretch to say that when words are not properly shaped, they are also taken away.

                                                                    **********

         I awoke to a high pitched beeping from the monitor. The beeps clashed with the ceaseless clicking that I couldn’t quite place. Then, a voice interrupted. Without hesitation, I rose from the dusty mattress and dressed myself in my navy uniform as I listened to the robotic monotony of a Host official:

         “Good morning 050065. Today, there will be a Prisoner Walk at approximately 8:45 a.m. Arrive five minutes prior in order to secure your presence. Absence from this walk will be noted by the officials with punishments to follow.”

         The voice from the monitor ceased, and all that was left was silence. I reached for my red hat on the coat rack and yanked it down to reveal a poster. The sign was a portrait of a pale prisoner, distinguishable through the twine binding her mouth and eyes shut, with firm hands of presumably a guard grasping her shoulders tightly. There was an aggressive tension displayed through the white of the guard’s bony knuckles. The caption read, “We are your eyes. We are your mouth. We are your mind.” I stared at the poster, slightly dazed by the fear generated in just twelve words and a photograph. Brought back into focus by the curious clicking, I placed my cap on my head and checked the time. 8:36 a.m.

         I stepped outside my apartment into the dimly lit corridors of Brookline Heights Housing. The halls were crowded with families rushing their kids out the door, making sure to be prompt and on time to the Walk. I was able to slither through the throngs of people with my compact frame and thin, almost sickly build. My neighbors nodded and feebly smiled, but did not offer any greetings towards me, nor did I towards them. The Host has warned us about the dangers of human relationships, particularly how they lead to betrayals.

         By the time I made it downstairs, it was 8:40 a.m. I clenched my fingers around the door handle and wrenched it open. I was greeted with a gust of cold air that sank into my skin, my bones, the enamel of my teeth. As I tugged my red hat down over my ears and stepped out of the doorway, I heard low murmurs on the street about the Prisoner Walk.

         “These prisoners are the most vile and disloyal creatures!” a large and burly man seethed with hostility.

         “I can imagine,” a scrawny and haggard woman agreed, “Good riddance those pesky mutts are prisoners. They deserved to have their eyes and mouth sewn shut for disobeying the Host.” She said, rather loudly, as he smirked and furtively glanced around, as if expecting a thumbs up from a Host official.

         Suddenly, the mumbling ceased, and a gentle padding of feet could be made out. A collection of gasps was heard as the prisoners inched closer. I watched with tense anticipation as the men, women, even children, blindly staggered forward, being guided by guards. The wounds around their eyes and mouth were still evidently pink and fresh, as if they were just recently sewed. The tanks in front and behind the procession rambled slowly onwards before coming to a halt. A dull and stiff silence followed. The prisoners stood lifelessly in the center of the littered street, with the common people gaping at them as if they were an exhibit of wild animals.

         In the midst of the silence, I felt a slight tickle on my foot. I gazed down and saw a cockroach nesting in between the grime of my socks and sneakers. In that a moment, a moan rang through the city. I whipped my head upwards to see a disturbance in the mass of prisoners. A young women, only six feet away from me, was flailing her arms, trying to rid herself of the guard behind her, while also forcing her mouth open as the twine tore the flesh around her mouth. Successfully freeing herself from the grasp of the guard, she threw her body forward and ended up inches from me, lying sprawled on the pavement. I watched with horror as her crimson blood dripped down her mouth, and her raw flesh dangled off her face, giving her a rabid appearance to add to her disheveled blonde hair and ghostly skin.

         “TELL ME... TELL ME, WHAT...” She gasped and let out a small sob of pain. Her eyes were still sewn shut, yet I could see the pupils dancing psychotically behind her eyelids. “WHAT DOES THE MOON LOOK LIKE?”

         A guard arrived, swung the barrel of his gun around and smacked her across the cheek. The prisoner slumped to the ground, clearly unconscious, with her chest rising and falling quickly and in an abnormal rhythm. With a look of pure disgust, the guard kicked her in the ribs with his metal toed shoes, and grinned wickedly at her crushed body. He dragged her back into the street as a voice of a Host official echoed through the city through the public monitor:

         “Thank you. You are dismissed from the Walk.”

                                                                    **********

         I arrived home from my custodial work at 10:00 pm. My first instinct was to go to sleep, as I was clearly the last one to enter my building. However, I was haunted by the events from earlier. What does the moon look like? echoed through my mind over and over until it became of more and more interest to me. I had never wondered what the moon looked like. I had never given it any thought before the Walk. My knowledge was centered in New City and the Host. I knew nothing of an outside world because I simply assumed there was none. I shut the lights off and climbed into bed, covering myself in the filthy, thin blanket. What does the moon look like? My thoughts ricocheted from one side of my brain to the other, leaving me restless and alert. What does the moon look like? The odd clicking fell into a rhythm with my mind, as I silently chanted, What does the moon look like? What does the moon look like? What does the moon look like?

         I bolted out of bed with only one thought in mind. The chanting grew louder and louder in my mind, until I started to whisper it as I ran down the hall towards the door leading outside. What does the moon look like? What does the moon look like? With a new found strength, I hurled the door open and sprinted outside, my chanting growing louder and louder. What does the moon look like? What does the moon look like? I stumbled around, the cold pavement numbing my feet, and the sharp wind whipping my thin pajamas around. Gazing up towards the sky, I searched for the moon, still chanting, still growing louder. What does the moon look like? What does the moon look like?

         Suddenly, I stopped stumbling around, and squinted at the sky. I saw nothing. The heavy smog destroyed and obstructed any view one might have of the sky. I began to tremble as tears ran down my grimy cheeks.

         “What does the moon look like?” I shrieked. “TELL ME, WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE?”

         I sank to my knees and began to violently sob. All at once, the street lights blazed on. The contrast blinded me for a couple seconds. When I had regained my vision, I looked up, staring at a crumbling brick wall, with nothing but the poster of a prisoner staring back at me. The mottos stared me in the face, and I let out a whimper as I heard footsteps of metal toed boots come from behind me.

         “050065, do not move.”

                                                                    **********

         When I wake up, I feel an immediate throb coming from my head. I attempt to open my eyes, but feel an odd tugging sensation as I do. All of the sudden, memories come rushing back. As a film runs through my mind of last night’s events, what does the moon look like? reverberates in the back of my skull. I don’t dare try to open my mouth, as the vision of the young girl’s torn flesh floods into my mind. I slowly bring my hand to my face and trace the rough twine securing my lips and eyes together. Footsteps soon interrupt my thoughts.

         “So, 050065, have you heard the new video cameras?” The man snickers.

I inhale sharply, finally recognizing what the clicking noise was. I let out a strained wail.

         “Ah, because they’ve heard you.”