HELENA (Chapter Seven)

Chapter Seven

It was times like these I wondered if dying could be a peaceful thing. I'd been cooped up the last few days, struggling with the flu--or at least, that's what I thought it was. My nose felt like a delicate piece of china, one sneeze away from shattering me entirely. My throat? Violated. And not in a way anyone might find remotely pleasurable.
I felt like shit. Might as well have been dead already. I'd been sitting here, eyes glued to the soul-sucking glow of my laptop, begging my brain to crank out even one usable sentence. My reflection stared back at me from the black screen. Was that really me? Pale as a ghost, stubble patchy and pathetic, a face blotched with sweat and spots like some sick cosmic joke. I looked like a corpse at my own wake.
Why had I chosen ancient history, of all things? I could have picked English, maths, or even interpretive dance if I wanted to make my life complicated. But no, I had to pick the one subject steeped in dead languages, dusty civilisations, with a career path that led straight to the unemployment line. Studying ancient empires that had already crumbled. Was it because of my childhood obsession with miniature sphinxes? Those rare visits to the Natural History Museum? Or was it because of Artemisia I of Caria and her infamous... assets?
The thing about studying ancient history is that it rips away the comforting illusions of progress. People love to think we've evolved, that we've left behind the savagery of our ancestors. But have we? Sure, we've built taller buildings, faster machines, systems so complex I can't even begin to comprehend them. But at our core, we're still the same selfish, short-sighted creatures we've always been.
Take the pyramids, for example--imposing, awe-inspiring testaments to human ambition. But they weren't built by divine decree. They were built by slaves, backs broken under the weight of one man's vanity. We've moved on, or so we like to think. Now we build corporations instead of monuments. Vast empires of wealth and influence, fuelled by exploitation
just as those pyramids were. Is that progress? Or have we just become better at hiding the chains?
History is a cycle, a wheel that spins endlessly. Empires rise and fall, each one thinking it's unique, eternal. Greece thought it would last forever. So did Rome. Byzantium. Each one bloated itself on power until it collapsed under its own weight. And here we are, marching to the same rhythms,
pretending we've learned from their mistakes while making our own.
Look at us. Politicians promise change, but their words are hollow. They lie, cheat, betray, just like the tyrants we love to condemn. Wars are fought over resources, land, pride--the same primal conflicts replayed on a larger, bloodier stage. We tell ourselves we're better now, more civilised. But are we? Or are we just better at pretending?
Everyone knows the story of Icarus. Fly too close to the sun, and you'll burn. But humanity doesn't learn. Instead of heeding the lesson, we build bigger wings, convincing ourselves that this time, we'll outsmart the heat.
We know we're killing the planet, that we're consuming it faster than it can recover. But what do we do? We double down. We act like we're invincible, like the earth isn't a finite thing. The ancient Greeks fought wars over land
and water; we'll fight wars over oil and clean air. Same story, different setting and this was the decline of all mankind.
Maybe that's why I like ancient history. It's honest. No bullshit. It tells you exactly how terrible people are, and it doesn't try to dress it up with corporate buzzwords or hollow optimism. There's something oddly comforting in that.
I'd have chosen any course that got me out of the fake bullshit back home. Not that I've escaped it here, really. Even now, as I sat in my room, I could hear my housemates laughing through the thin walls. The same ones who'd been whispering about me the last few days. "He hasn't left his room." "What's his deal?" "God, he smells like a fucking dispensary."
Fair enough, though. I'd stopped bothering to go outside for a smoke. Easier to just crack the window. The plate on my windowsill had become a grotesque little sculpture of cigarette butts and half-smoked joints.
I don't know if it was the flu or something else weighing me down. Depression? No, I wasn't exactly depressed. At least, I didn't think so. It's not like I was crying all the time, but I wasn't smiling either. I couldn't stand being around happy people, but I couldn't stand sad people, either. I didn't fit anywhere. Not with the living, not with the grieving, and definitely not with the fake bastards in this house.
The irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, tearing humanity apart with my words, dissecting our endless failures--and in a few days, I'll probably end up at some party, doing the exact same shit everyone else does. Pretending. Drinking to forget. Smoking to feel alive. Wearing a mask to hide how dead I feel inside.
Maybe that's what makes us human--the fact that we know how broken we are, but we keep playing the game anyway. Maybe that's what the ancients were trying to say all along. Life's a tragedy, sure, but it's also a comedy.
And the only way to survive is to keep laughing, even when there's nothing funny about it.