Is this tomorrow?

‘Harsh screams penetrated the air. A thin stream of blood ran its way through the trees, pooling by my feet. Hands shaking, I stood my ground. I’d like to say it was some heroic sense of justice, but that would be a complete lie. If I had more sense than fear I would have darted. But foolishly, I sat like a deer in headlights.’

I carefully shut the diary, its leather-bound cover had faded and began to peel, mother used to say it was real leather but it was a rather clear fake. Cheap plastic covering fabric, thin ruled paper the ink sept through leaving stains on the reverse and obscuring the writing. According to mother, my grandfather wasn’t a very fancy man. It should fit him, I supposed. I never had a chance to meet my grandfather, but mother always spoke highly of him. As a teen, reading his diary made me feel as if I really knew him. The last few pages didn’t make much sense, I must have re-read them dozens of times now, but I couldn’t piece together anything. They weren’t even dated. I placed the little diary in my bedside draw and sat on the edge of my bed, staring into the void of my off-white walls.

“Are you hungry, David?” called a soft, sweet voice. It was masculine, but still warm and nurturing. The simple familiarity was comforting. “I’m alright John.” I replied, responding to my roommate. Sheepishly, I slinked out of my room and settled silently in the communal kitchen. The look of his gentle smile, his kind demeanour and his bright eyes settled any lingering disturbance in my stomach. As his skilled hands cooked, his gaze locked intently on mine. I would not establish eye contact, but there was comfort in the interest he took in me. I scratched dried food of the table, eyes wondering around the flaking teal paint and yellowing cabinets. John’s voice echoed and bounced around the room, I could detect the change in intonation, but the words were muddled. “I should go get ready for work” I said, standing up from the chair unaware if I was interrupting John’s monologue or not.
I’d say I quite like my daily commute. People used to say that the area is so historic its pretentious, but with the cheap housing after the market crash the area had been overrun with the poor - not to mention the growing population of unhoused. The motivation for my move was no more intellectual than the others, but I still enjoy the architecture; the cobbled roads – slightly dilapidated but still standing strong. The plaster walls and concrete bricks are charming. Even the public transport system had its unique quirks. The busses haven’t run for some time, but I could remember when I would pass the area as a child, and they used to provide a pop of colour to the otherwise greyish brown streets. The chipped paint was picturesque, it felt like something out of an old book or movie. The trains still run, but not often. It got me to work and back so I couldn’t complain. As I approached the station, the archaic announcement system activated - the robotic creak of the speakers masking the exact enunciation. A tale as old as time, the train was delayed. With a sigh I sat on the stairs that funnelled the small crowd towards the platforms. Small metal grates covered buildings that historically were open front stalls but were now small apartments. If I’d of had a better paying job that would have been my ideal home – close to the trains, central to the town, the gorgeous surroundings of the station.

I pulled a cigarette out of my pocket and balanced it between my thin, dried lips. After striking a match to light, I hastily discarded it onto the steps. Occasionally, another person would pass, and a pained expression would cross their face as they waited for the severely delayed train. I took a deep inhale allowing the thick smoke to fill my lungs before exhaling again. In my youth, I was adamantly anti-smoking. I was a model teen, always achieved top grades in school and was a committed cadet. My sentiments had changed as I age, perhaps it was just the increased disregard for my own mortality. The bitter taste of tobacco assuaged my daily stress. My eyes glanced down, looking at the century old stains splattered artistically across the tile. My mother always used to say there was beauty in pain, that every mark left in this world held meaning. When I was small, I quite liked that train of thought; the simplicity of the philosophy tranquilised my uneasy childhood mind. My eyes glanced around, for a moment they fixed on the red-brown trails cascading down the stairs, wondering what could have caused them. Looking up, there were large metal beams that trailed over the curved roof, holding up the large sheets of metal which were slightly rusted through and let in dapples of light. Historians say the roof used to be glass, but it was covered with steel at some point in the 20th century. I would have given anything to see the station in its prime; glass letting in the warm daylight, trains coming and going at all hours and people swarming between the pillars, filtering in and out of stalls.

It was just before midday when the train arrived, a small gaggle of salary men pushed their way into the carriage. I fit in, once again failing to get a seat. “David, d’you hear the Merseyside region reserves were drafted. That’s what, the 40th constituency to be called in now? We’ll be at 50% utilisation of the reserve forces soon” A drab voice articulated. “It’s not a good sign, the country is going to shit I tell you.”
I sighed. “I couldn’t really give a fuck. Just sit and wait for us to be drafted I suppose.”
“So, you’ll just sit like a sheep? To be rounded up and sent off. I thought you liked history; it didn’t do our ancestors any good to sit around on their arses and get walked on over.”
“Sit like a sheep? When was the last time you saw a sheep sit?”
Disgruntled, the man adjusted his collar. My remark probably wasn’t all that smart - sheep probably do sit, I haven’t seen a sheep since I was last in the country, probably over a decade ago. But I doubted he’d seen a sheep in recent years either. I couldn’t place a name to his face, but I was sure he’s familiar. There was something alluring about his sense of justice. He might have just been an idealist fanatic, but he sure cared - too much maybe. If anything happened, he’d probably be the first to be shot. I wondered if he would live longer than me. I doubted it, but I also didn’t think I’d survive very long either. I was sure john would live a little while, as a nurse he’d be able to avoid a lot of the combat. But then if I considered previous wars our combatants wouldn’t hesitate to attack medical tents. John probably couldn’t last all that much longer than me.
It was past lunchtime before the train pulled into the station. I couldn’t recall when I last made it into work on time. I adjusted my work suit before I walked through the wide office doors. The industrial side of the city was a lot more modern; it was quite the juxtaposition to the concrete jungle of the east side. The architecture was mostly made of metal, a lot of the houses were pieced together from corrugated iron sheets that had already began to rust away leaving trails of orangey spots and small holes across the cityscape. The productive buildings were slightly better. It was clear that they had taken a lot of inspiration from more historical architecture, with thick metal beams and solid metal walls that created a tinny echo as David’s footsteps hit the floor. For Every floor a large glass panel was inlaid, letting in the light. I’d of said my hard work in school paid off quite well, I landed I nice cushy office job doing executive work for a canning factory.

I smile to myself, pulling out a binder of documents from the wonky draw in my shabby wooden desk. My grandad wrote about using a computer for work, before he was drafted into the war. I was glad we’ve returned to the good old pen and paper, its more reliable and needs less electricity. As I mindlessly completed calculations for pay rate, I stared to softly chew the plastic blue nib of the pen. A bad habit I supposed. ‘7 to 7 shifts. 12 hours, take one for lunch. 11 times 5, 55 hours a week. Times that by the pay rate….’. I’ve always quite liked arithmetic, this was the perfect job for me. I smiled meekly to myself; computers would have been able to do all these calculations for me.

Before the war, businesses had punch cards that were scanned electronically – and employees would even punch in and out for lunch. Then the computer would read them and scan the data to turn it into hours to ensure they were working the right amount for their salary. Some historians say that if the war had not happened, we’d all be doing work on computerised systems – and eventually all warfare would become computerised and regular civilians wouldn’t be physically harmed only ‘digitally’ harmed. It seemed like a reasonable argument; people were using computers to get to get men on the moon so it was likely such technology could dominate a professional sphere. If governments could have found ways to disarm other countries computers without physical violence it could still upend other countries political systems while reducing the risk of harm to your own populous as retaliation would most likely occur through computerised means.

Although, there was another school of thought that suggests that computers would aid the creation of physical weapons: an increased nuclear arsenal; advanced assault rifles; increased used of chemical and biological weapons and God knows what else. I personally preferred the second school of thought, it’s simultaneously pessimistic and positive but I strongly believed it reflected the nature of humanity. On one hand, suggesting that humanity would inherently make more horrific weapons simply because the technology was available was depressing but, the fact the war was kickstarted in the 20th century and not in the 21st century set back technological advancement decades and reduced the amount of torture that would occur at the hands of more devastating weapons.

I return home before nightfall, with limited delay on the trainline. A pink tint cascaded over the apartment block. Carefully, I opened the door and entered the thin entranceway to the apartments. There was a towering stack of mailboxes, all an orangey shade of brown with identical brass locks. The numbers were poorly hand painted. I pulled out his key chain, fiddling around the mass of keys. I grabbed hold of a small one, brass in colour with a red tab; the coldness of it spread into my muscular. I pushed it into the small keyhole in a box with a scratched ‘26’ on it, in fact the number 26 was barely legible. After a vigorous wiggle, I swung the small door open to reveal the empty black chasm. It wasn’t all black, the paint was lifting in the corners revealing the thin silver metal and there were long white scratches along the walls. I swung the door back and locked it and followed the long yellowing corridors towards his apartment. The door was a soft green, with the old white paint peaking through in small places, below the peep hole was a pearly white ‘2’. It was clean and new, a sharp juxtaposition to basically everything. Next to the new number, there was a small nail and the faint markings of a ’6’ in darker, fresher paint – that spent years hidden behind a number plate.