Golden Letters

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Why I Write  (E) An explanation of why I write as well as what I believe the purpose of writing should be. #1559875 by Matty Zink

Featured as an 'editor's pick' in the Short Story Newsletter 5/13/09

Golden Letters

"Men and women rarely admit their fear of freedom openly, however, tending rather to camouflage it - sometimes unconsciously - by presenting themselves as defenders of freedom.  They give their doubts and misgivings an air of profound sobriety, as befitting custodians of freedom.  But they confuse freedom with the maintenance of the status-quo; so that if taking action against the oppressive elements of reality threatens to place that status quo in question, it thereby seems to constitute a threat to freedom itself."
-Paulo Freire

Thoughts trip and stumble through John’s mind as he is led down a dull corridor. The walls are an endless series of repetition; numbing and drab. Right, left, through the doors and around the corner - it's all the same. John glances up, the man remains facing forward. Even from the side it’s obvious he’s carrying the usual stoic expression that all young men loath. All the men carry that look, even when conversing with one another. His grip on John's arm tightens, sending a bolt of pain through his body. He catches a glimpse of the book in the man's left hand. The golden letters on it's spine are dull in the poorly lit hall.

         To John it seems so long ago but it was only six short months. No one can be sure since there is no way to track the passing of days; this is the way it has been all of his life. Despite this, everyone's caregivers spoke of the sun. As they would tell of its warm glow, always present light and beautiful colors that it would produce when setting against the horizon, they would be overcome with tranquility.

         While they walk, John continues playing over recent events in his mind, analyzing every step, contemplating every move, trying to convince himself that things could have turned out differently.   

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It was well past curfew, and John knew it. Breaking curfew the first time resulted in a warning, the second time involved punishment. Knowing this he worked for months to chart out the sentries’ movements. The young man managed to map out every cycle and rotation with precise times down to a ten-second differential.

John bundled himself in several layers of gray sweaters; it was the kind of night where one could see breath cut through the crisp darkness. Decayed tree trunks lined the back lots that John sulked through skillfully. The remnants of forest life came in handy as they provided excellent emergency cover. The patrols rarely went outside the city border after twenty-two hundred hours.  It was all part of a ploy to save resources cooked up by the then new Commandant.

           John ducked between the stumps, crawling along the hard dirt, heading north. Skillfully he slid through the darkness, waiting for sentries to pass before resuming his course. The rancid smell of decaying scraps and human waste was almost unbearable as he neared the border. Working quickly, John searched along the fence for an opening. The fact that the hole remained for so long was quite an anomaly.

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         “Student number 8-7-7-2-4-9, stand,” the man ordered.

         John closed his text-book while he struggled to keep the images flashing through his mind under control.  However, the thought of the building, the gargoyles, the books, and the maps were overwhelming. His eyes darted around the room.  All the students remained focused on their texts.  The teacher sat at his desk, not even glancing up from his marking of students' grammatical structure as John left the class.

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         The same flat brown dirt with the occasional tree stump and some patches of weeds sprouting through the hard soil covered the land outside the gate. With only a faint light to guide his way, John walked slowly into the darkness.

         It wasn't long before John spotted a building that towered over the remains of plant life. Huge stone pillars supported an awning that displayed words blocked with winding veins. The windows had been shattered long ago, only shards remained around the edges. A large set of concrete steps lead to a doorway where two gargoyles guarded the summit. John studied the creatures and poked at their grotesque faces before he immediately jumped away. The look on their faces reminded him of the men at school. Unlike them however, those gargoyles seemed to be protecting the building; guarding it against unwanted intruders.

         “May I enter?” John whispered.

         After waiting a moment, he moved towards the monstrous rotted doors. They creaked to life with a forceful push on the moldy wood. Dust bellowed down and cobwebs ripped apart. A sneeze forced itself out, the resulting sound echoed immensely throughout the room. He paused, then slowly entered the building. One piece of string suspended a sign that read ‘BE POLITE – BE QUIET’ in large faded letters. As his finger rubbed its side the metallic sign came crashing down. John rushed to the door and body-checked it closed.

         Venturing past the desk, John jumped over a turnstile that had long since rusted in place. He stared in awe at the rows upon rows of empty shelves that covered the floor. While he walked between the aisles, John stopped and wiped away the dust from the name plates, ‘600-650 – PHILOSOPHY’, ‘800-900 – NATURAL SCIENCES’. John headed up the spiraled staircase. The top floor was the same as the first, nothing but empty shelves.

         A mouse ran across John's foot and he gave chase to the small creature. As John rounded a corner he lost his footing on dust that had settled on the tile floor. He tried to grab a bookshelf for support but pushed it over, which sent him to the floor and the bookshelf through a wall. John stood up and hoisted the bookshelf back upright. The gap in the wall was just big enough for him to stick his head into.

         Peering through the hole, he could only see some golden letters glowing in the darkness. He climbed into the hole and shone his light around. Inside was a small room filled with books stacked in neat piles. It was only then that he noticed there was no door.

         One of the books he grabbed contained color pictures and was adorned with a hard leather cover.  The names on the spines of the books were unfamiliar to him.

         “Marx, Plato, Poe, Hemmingway, Orwell...”.
         
         It was hard for him to stand still, he rushed around the room reading all the names he could pronounce.  After making two circles around the room he stopped and picked up the book with the golden letters.

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         “Look front,” the man barks.

         John straightens his posture. The halls are a never-ending maze, the kind where a person unknowingly travels in circles for hours on end. With pure fear pumping through his veins, complete paranoia overcomes him as he tries to imagine the coming punishment. The thought of re-education comes to mind, as does room 101. There are rumors that when someone goes in; they do not come out the same - or just never come out at all. Fact and fiction walk a thin line when the subject is Room 101.

         The man looks down at John. 3:16 flashes on an overhead clock.

         “We’re almost there.”

         The pair turn the final corner. A plaque reading ‘101’ is mounted on the wall beside a metallic door . Sweat beads down John's face into his squinting eyes. The end-day bell rings. Panic overtakes him. One swift punch to the groin brings the man to his knees. The young man bolts around the corner. The man drops the book, which comes to rest with it's spine facing the ceiling. John turns the corner too quickly and slips sideways along the cold tile floor, coming to an abrupt halt when he hits the wall. He tries to get up but is sent back down with a kick to his side. His breathe instantly leaves his body.

         “Where do you think you’re going?” The man who kicked him asks.

         John can only let out a wheeze of air as he lay in the fetal position grabbing at his chest. The other man rounds the corner.

         “He’s not going anywhere,” the second man says while lightly kicking John in the head.

         John bursts into tears as the men pummel him without mercy. One hard kick busts John's nose open. Thin ruby blood streams over the linoleum floor.

         “He's had enough, let's get him in.”

         Each man grabs one of his legs and drag him around the corner. One man kicks open the door to room 101. John glances ahead and sees the darkness within it.

         “No, no,” he mumbles, spitting up blood.

         As they pass the book John tries to grab it. The men look at each other and smirk.

         “He wants the book.”

         “Let him have it.”

               As one man drags him past the threshold of the ensuing darkness, the other kicks the book. The hardcover hits John in the face and deflects to the side. Once in, the man who kicked the book stands in the doorway.

      "One day you'll understand, it's for the good of everyone," he says while closing the door.

      As the last rays of light disappear, John sees the golden letters shine one last time before fading into nothing.