Emberidion

Only a child they said, a small ball of flesh with arms and legs. Lacking the ability to speak, too scared to step out of line. Its not his deprovision of a voice box, but the fear of his opinion. If he had his way, the world would run like clock work, eventually breaking when the time is right. Whirling in an endless loop unable to stop. Well they could stop if their lives weren't intertwined with the cogs around them. It was time to take a leap, a jump into the unknown on experimental terms, terms that only made sense to a simpleton, a mere child. What if we weren't members of one body? Able to stop, unable to continue maybe. After all, in his world we have the freedom of speech we were once entitled to - before the collapse that is. Adults and children, no space for someone to straggle in the middle. Its as if these days, my red hoodie was a symbol of stupidity, or my white trainers took away my right to walk on the feet I was given free of charge, my jeans weren't even that flashy. What hurts the most is when the Fisdon can't bare to look at you, they're supposed to help you, but you can guess the key word in that sentence. They lock the doors to your future, and sometimes open a few.

They serve one purpose, to enlighten the raw demands of The Child. They process you, put you through tests and challenges; or they say they do. Its pure torture. A way to break you to ensure you won't cause the Democracy no harm. So, so fragile. One wrong move by The Child would cause imminent collapse. A chain reaction crumbling the world as we know it, as although we have little liking for The Child, he gave up stability, no other countries dare derive him, as they face the pure wrath, and will suffer a fatal blow below the belt.

Some did try, but failed. He rules with the grip of a primate, frigid as an un-bendable bar of iron. Men lie before his feet, as if scouring to the top with a hopeless hope.

He speaks only when necessary, mainly when telling the firing squad to pull the trigger. Stragglers. Yes that's me, I made this group and I am proud. Together we retaliate, to live a little longer. Some make it too the Transition, but many loose their lives in agony. Mentally distorted, left to rot. What leads them to their tragic but necessary death, I will never know. Now you see, I am different. Every few hundred years, a rare child is born. Brought into this world with a single yet pointless purpose. Some are gifted with pure knowledge, going on to discover the scientific laws behind the collapse, some to die to save many others's lives. There is NO balance in this gift, its either pure or tragic. However there is a hope. Yes I said the H word, that word that is echoed through the streets of what was once a calm city purged by an armada of pity. Self pity. A Singularity was born, an anomaly in the coding, a mistake in the craftsmanship. My purpose was given to me by an old friend, a being so pure his existence threatened the entirety of The Childs masterpiece. I am that Singularity, that spark to ignite the well needed spring clean, an excuse to purge the Dictator of his many sins.

There is one little spec of light that spells over the horizon. It calls to me, takes a firm grip of my hand and fills it with passion. Grasps my waist and thrusts my body to the side, and holds me. I wish she never left the tepid sheets of my bed, nor left me lying cold and displaced. I understood her way of seeing things, anything. But to leave without notice, to abandon me in my home, the one place I stay to clear my head you filled with remorse and neglect. What did I do wrong? I hope I didn't go too far. No. You understand right? Reader? No. Instead you are curious and endorsed, now you feel how I feel. Its funny now I think about it. How the way an author can word a piece and brainwash someone with a pen and paper. She loved me and left me, confused my emotions into suicide. Now I fight for control, not only for the power that runs through my endocrine and subtle incline of mental stability, but the power I felt when I was with her. Stability flowed through my Cerebral Cortex, influencing the good inside me. Its as though the demon that thrived with glory inside me became perplexed by an imminant beauty. A beauty I have only ever seen in her. Oh god I miss her. Why.

Being a Singularity is a curse not a gift, because no one should have such a purpose. Sacrificing yourself for a greater principle. Your purpose serves no greater fate than that of death. You have nothing but a choice, fulfil or instil. Many see this as a way to look at life, a surrogate for death.

A location left behind in the lost and found section, only there to stare you down when you walk past, not to obscure any attention from you. A mere taunt. A tease. They have a name for it.

Emberidion. A place of purity, where no sin may come close. I was not a religious boy, but many turned to the Church when not a soul could help us survive. Although we had my friend to point us in the right direction, he passed with his purpose fulfilled. It seems as though everyone I come close to dies a horrible death, a death so unimaginable I wish I never knew them. Many call me unsociable, but realistically I am trying to keep you safe. I can barely afford my own food, let alone afford to loose more friends. It feels as if my ravaged eyes can no longer bare to watch this planet die any longer, buildings deteriorate each day, places that once thrived with vibrance, now grieve in their own ashes.

I carry a burden, a heavy one that I see resting on my shoulders when I turn to look at my past. I walk through a sea of emotions, things I have put aside for the many hundreds of years I have lived. Yes, my burden is my inability to age, left at a constant threat from the Crit, ruthless bounty hunters willing to trade the corpse of a long lost friend for a shot at Transition. Crit were once an ally, people to go to for protection whom risk their lives to help the helpless. They pulled guns to cannons, and cannons to missiles. They brought a knife to a gunfight and walked away with only a scar, a reminder to those who challenged them that they were at the top of this uneven hierarchy. Ruthless killers. They were once children like us but at some distinguished point along the alleyway they went down, a master of death met them, redirected them onto a quicker path. Burn in hell they said they would, turn back and help they say they could, if they did they would do no good, we did nothing but admit we understood. We don't but what reality has shown me, is that no one ever has your back. We are alone in this society unless you get lucky. Luck derives from chance, and there is no chance the Crit would help one of us kids. The most help they have done for us recently is loosen our numbers. Yes they killed them but it is one less mouth to feed, one less body to worry about, and once less pointless speculation whizzing through my empty skull.

Look I didn't mean to get angry at you, I just lost my temper. Its my inability to process whats really going on. The bigger picture you could say, just remember you did not die in vain. Without you I never would have got out of that bed, I could be in a body bag gasping for the left over life somewhere in my body. Thank you. Really. Thank you.

Jesco.

April 24th, 2602.