literature

Impulse

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Literature Text

“June 1, 2041
‘In the past, society had taught the human mind what we call reasoning. This is what allows us to make decisions, and have control over our actions. Without it, our bodies are merely the playthings of our own impulse.’
My name is Andres, and I am of the only generation who still possesses this trait. When the First Ward was developed, society’s main focus was on the Airborne  Plague, a shipment of air polluted with shrapnel left over from The Great War. Our ancestors adapted, and the plague became part of our bloodstream, an inescapable ailment whose only cure was the injection of a government-mandated combatant virus to eradicate the remainder of the harmful substance in our veins. The only known medicine with a one hundred percent success rate--all citizens were required to be injected at the age of eighteen. However, the initial patrons injected with the virus began to show a slow decrease in impulse control, turning them into savages within a few years, a race of people who would do whatever it took to get what they wanted, included the suffering and death of anyone who stood in their way. The ward had been destroyed and rebuilt upon itself several times over by the children of each new generation, soon forced to suffer the same fate. That is where I live, the Fourth Ward, quarantined by a rusted metal dome, its history unknown to the outside world. But I won’t lose control. Today is my eighteenth birthday. Today is the day I leave the ward.”

Wind blew across the barren street of the Fourth Ward. A thin ray of light shone down through a hole in the dome on the warm concrete of the buildings that lay toppled down in ruin as if the war had only just occurred. However, the streets outside the buildings were bustling, filled with peddlers and vendors no older than sixteen selling a variety of woods and metals and fruits. This was what was left of the ward; outside the square were condemned sections of the city and arid badlands, surrounded by fences covered heavily in barbed wire. The iron-clad dome loomed in the sky.  In the middle of the square was a pile of the once-living, vultures circling overhead. The crowd of people continued like a wave, separating in the middle when it hit the bloodbath; this sight was common, and had become little more than an inconvenience for the townspeople. Andres shifted under a thick brown garb. His dark hair was draped over his eyes, the rest of his face covered by the brim of his hood. He moved slowly through the crowd, avoiding the regular shoving matches and altercations of the marketplace. An old man dressed in rags sat against a crumbled building, his arms outstretched. Andres dropped a faded copper coin into the beggar’s hand. The man sneered, and jumped at Andres, ripping a piece off of his cloak. Andres began walking faster, but remained facing forward as if he were unaware of the peasant’s trying to make off with his tunic. The man began to follow closely behind, drawing a dagger and pointing it towards Andres’ back. He soon stopped in his tracks and raised his hands. “I don’t have any money,” he said, “that was my last shilling. Just leave me alone.” At that moment, the old man thrust the knife toward Andres’ back. Andres whirled around and caught the blade, flipping the dagger over into his own hand and holding the it up against the beggar’s neck. He glanced down at the man’s frail fist, still clutching the portion of his garb that he had torn off, out of which hung a tarnished pocket watch. “I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to hurt anyone, just give me back the watch.” In response, the man dropped the watch and stumbled backwards. “Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Putting the newly acquired dagger into a vacant pocket in his cloak, Andres proceeded through the marketplace, opening the pocket watch to reveal a water-damaged picture of himself and another boy of lighter hair next to a folded piece of notebook paper that seemed to be a pencil-sketched map of the ward resting in the clock mechanism. Following the map, he began descending a warped staircase into a condemned subway system. Behind him loomed the shadow of a tall man holding a revolver.

The subway system was musty and dank, the walls littered with brass cogs and brown metal pipes, the floor covered in planks of wood and rubble. Wires hung from the ceiling, giving off a spark of electricity every now and then. Andres held a plank up to one of the wires. This created a dim torch which gave off enough light for Andres to see where he was going, but not enough to be seen by anyone further away than about one hundred feet. He continued down the collapsed tunnel for what seemed like an eternity before he noticed a subway car resting on the tracks, in front of what appeared to be a solid wall. Inside the car, a light flickered and the faint sound of a record could be heard echoing throughout the tunnels; the car appeared to be working.   Slowly he trudged to the back of the car, but suddenly a hand grasped the back of his cloak. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he felt a needle sink into his arm. He staggered backwards.  A man in a black blazer was standing behind him. “You turned eighteen today, if I’m not mistaken?” Andres felt weak. “You’ve made it this far, it’s a shame you can’t put what you’ve discovered to good use.”

“Why are you doing this to people?”

“Impulse control is a dangerous thing. Man can’t be trusted with that kind of power over his actions.”

“What’s dangerous is what people become when it’s removed from the equation. Have you seen what’s become of the ward since you came up with that medicine bullshit? What about the plague?”

“There is no plague. We needed a reason to give the injections.”

Andres glanced at the photograph of the lighter-haired boy in the pocket watch.

“What about my brother?”

“Aran? No one would believe in the plague if there were no casualties. Consider yourself lucky you weren’t the one we took.”

Andres drew the dagger from its sheath and held it in his cloak.

“You’re a monster.”

“Man is the monster.”

Andres thrust the dagger into the man’s heart. He collapsed and took his final breath. Standing up against the wall of the subway car, Andres began to cry. “Our bodies are merely the playthings of our own impulse...”

A slightly macabre sci-fi story about a boy's escape from the clutches of impulse.
This is sure to feel out of place amidst my more lighthearted visual entries, but I couldn't pass on sharing this one. Let me know what you think!
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