He walked nearly twelve kilometres, barefoot, hungry. Most children like him, if they are lucky eat a single meal every second or third day. When he arrived to where the wheat was being distributed, he smiled. He was happy. Grateful. He kissed the hand of the American contractor who took the above photos.

Then IDF snipers shot him. Killed him along with others.

The world saw it.

Soon, in places like Australia, it will be harder to see such things. Aussies love government, love laws banning things. Speech, what we can see, hear, say. But, do the governments need censorship?

Did the Wikileaks cables really shame them?

Snowden, Manning, Assange are names lost to the algorithms. The Afghanistan, Pentagon, Panama papers did they really change a thing? Content creators and political creatures have made money, careers even on things like the Epstein files. We can watch that dissolve and shift in real time according to the necessity of politics. People still work for them, vote them in, appeal to them, empower them.

Does it matter? If there is or isn’t files with names, dirty details, footage and all, would you care? If you did, what would change?

When people are fed on debt, welfare and bullshit jobs, they have too much to lose to care about what comes tomorrow, about the victims of policy, about little boys murdered under a hot sun with empty bellies. They will nod in approval while political professionals like Penny Wong claim that a fighter-bomber has non-lethal parts, when supplied to a nation that is bombing most of it’s neighbours. But welfare, government jobs, fuck the kids.

111 more Palestinian civilians were killed just recently according to Reuters.

Doctors, aid workers, contractors and even IDF soldiers have spilled their guts to the world, what they saw, witnessed and experienced. Only to realise that much of the world, the powerful parts, the Western world, don’t care.

The innocent bleed out in the dirt, the West loves government so much that more blood will be spilled. More, more, like it has in the past, so to will it be in the future.

I wrote a lot more with details, names, places, but why bother?

It won’t bring that boy back. Or save any more. Just useless words. Who reads any these days anyhow. Maybe a TikTok dance will do something?

In those final moments, captured by the camera, he smiled a sweet smile, it was perhaps the happiest he had been in a while. Then…

I’m sorry kid, I wish I was better.

The following is the first draft of a short story for a collection I am working on. I hope you enjoy it. Cheers! –Patrick

On the morning of my first kill, I woke up before Mom had come to get me. I gazed up at the concrete ceiling, where the night before, Dad helped me array a night’s sky of glow-in-the-dark stickers. A cool breeze wafted through the cracked-open window, carrying with it the hum of the slumbering city.

In that predawn darkness, I pondered what Roddy had told the other boys on the bus the week before.

“…and its chest just exploded,” he yelled, arms hooked over the back of his seat. Josiah, sitting ahead of me next to the aisle, gasped.

“My parents are taking me this weekend,” Josiah said.

“Me too,” Levi muttered, turning his gaze out the window.

“What’s it feel like,” Josiah asked, his eyes like dinner plates.

“Like better than when you get off the roller coaster in Dorsey,” Roddy responded.

“It made me sick,” Levi said, watching a ticker tape of manicured estates pass by the window.

“Never mind him. Some of us just don’t got the guts.” Roddy side-eyed Levi.

Levi turned to Roddy, his face oscillating between sorrow and disgust. For a few moments, their eyes fizzled.

“Hey, just—” Josiah began, holding up his hands.

“You’re all the same,” Levi cut in. Shaking his head, he turned back to the window. “You. Mom. Dad. Everyone.”

“That’s right, look away,” Roddy turned back to Josiah. “Like I said, never mind him. It’s like what Mr. Stevens says, it’s actually good for them. If we don’t keep their numbers down, it’ll cause all kinds of problems. Besides, everyone’s real happy and proud when it’s done. It’s like a party. When we got back, my parents gave me this.” Roddy surveyed the school bus, where the other kids chattered, and glanced at the bus driver. From his cartoon-themed backpack, he pulled out a Ka-Bar in a leather sheath. He shoved it into Josiah’s hand.

“Woah,” Josiah fawned, examining the knife, “is that—” he began, pointing to splotchy discolorations on the sheath.

“Yep,” Roddy said, clearly pleased, “I’ve used it ever since.”

Josiah removed the knife from its sheath. It caught the sun through the window, gleaming brilliantly. It was well-maintained except for a few notches in the spine near the hilt.

“Oh, it’s broken,” Josiah said, fingering the notches.

“Think again,” Roddy waved his finger. “That’s how many.”

“Ohhhhhhh,” Josiah marveled.

“For God’s sake Roddy, sit down!” the driver yelled. Roddy rolled his eyes and slunk back into his seat. Josiah returned the knife to its sheath with reverence and handed it back through the aisle. Levi just kept staring out the window.

Everyone changed after their first hunt, but Levi became a different person. Every Friday night he and Josiah used to show up at the front door, portable TVs in one hand, Xboxes clutched under the other, their backpacks full of chips and games that Levi’s oldest cousin pirated for us. We built blanket forts in my room and hurriedly feigned sleep whenever Dad came in and he’d tell us to “go to sleep for the love of God.”

Now all Levi did was sit there and stare out the window, eyes far away and listless. “It’s not like the games,” was the only thing he’d said to me in weeks. Josiah and I both had our first hunts this weekend.

As I sat there waiting for Mom to come get me up, I wondered who would be returning to my bed that night, and if I would still recognize him.

After an eternity of thought, my parents began to stir in their room. Their door clicked open, and they started to bustle about the house, brewing coffee, gathering gear. My heart began to gallop when mom’s steps paused outside.

“Paulie,” she whispered, the door easing open. “Paulie, are you up?”

“Yeah, mom,” I uttered, lifting myself onto my elbows. She smiled at me from the doorway, her eyes glistening. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, wiping at her face with her sleeve.

“Mom?”

“It feels like we just brought you home from the hospital and now it’s your first hunt.” She sniffled. “I’m fine.”

“Jeez Mom,” I said, getting out of bed. I walked over to the door and hugged her. She held me a little too tightly.

“Okay, enough of me. We gotta go, Daddy already has the truck running. Remember, we set your clothes out last night.”

I grabbed the clothes off the toy chest at the foot of the bed and pulled them on. My heart thudding, I stumbled into the cavernous kitchen. Outside the bay windows, the city lights gleamed in the inky black.

My coveralls were draped over a chair in the dining room. The rest of my gear sat on the table, my boots at the foot of the chair.

“I can make you some hot chocolate for your thermos,” Mom smiled from behind the island.

“That sounds good,” I said, preoccupied with my coveralls. As she busied herself with the hot cocoa, I laced my boots up a little too tight and slid into my oversized hunting jacket. I squeezed the fanny pack across my waist and buckled it with tremendous effort.

I grabbed my rifle from the corner of the dining room, slid the bolt back to make sure it was unloaded, and slung it over my shoulder. As I walked across the kitchen to grab the thermos, the rifle’s stock knocked against the back of my legs.

“Ready?” Mother asked.

“Yep,” I said, my throat closing funnily.

“You’ll do just fine,” she said, “we didn’t get any on my first hunt. But you’re so much more prepared than I was. I be you’ll get two today.”

We came outside, closing up the house for the day. The stars gleamed like pinholes where heaven leaked through. The concrete walk-up led to the driveway where Dad was at the back of the pickup, sliding olive green totes into the truck bed.

He paused, tallying an invisible checklist with his fingers. As Mom and I approached, he heaved a deep contented breath and shut the tailgate. He turned and lowered himself to his knees in front of me.

“You ready,” he asked, grabbing me by the shoulders. His eyes gleaming with the streetlights on our block.

“Yes, Dad,” I replied, finding it hard to meet his gaze. He squeezed my shoulder and ushered me into the back seat of the truck. My rifle caught awkwardly on the door.

He played classic rock as we wove through the city streets to the highway. Coffee steamed from the Yeti-branded thermos as Mom poured it in their cups, spilling a little with the bumps in the freeway. The buildings became less congested as we worked our way out of the city. To my amazement, the stars only grew more numerous as we left. After an hour or so, we were out, zooming through an early morning so black and empty you’d think it was death.

Then after half an hour, lights appeared ahead once again. Dad brought the truck to a stop. A young man approached the window, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Papers, please,” he asked, holding a hand towards my father, who immediately obliged.

The young man examined our identification and permits with a flashlight clipped to his helmet. He looked over both my parents and then turned to me. His business-like face brightened considerably.

“Is this his first hunt?” The young man asked.

“We’re so proud,” my father said, nodding.

“Ahhhhh, yes, I remember my first hunt,” the young man reminisced. “Feels like just yesterday.”

“It probably was,” dad guffawed.

“Gary!” Mom admonished him, “don’t mind my husband Sir,” she swatted at Dad’s arm.

“Not a problem ma’am,” the young man said, chuckling, “you’ve both put your years in. You should hear the other lads.”

“Bless you son,” Dad said, as he clapped the young man on the shoulder, “doing the Lord’s work, you are.”

“We all do our part,” the young man nodded, handing our paperwork back. “Happy hunting.”

Mom and Dad both waived to the other young men and women guarding the checkpoint. We drove through the gates and on to more darkness on the other side.

 

Then came the woods, silent, still, sacred. Like the sanctuary at Lent. Like the whole world fell away, and all of Creation was manifest there among the pines. And I was quiet, oh so quiet. Quiet as a mouse. Quieter than I snuck around the house at night, pausing only to listen for the rise and fall of my parents breathing from their bedroom.

Leaving the truck, we crept through the trees, stopping every few paces to listen. Again and again we stopped, until I felt adrift in an ocean of time. Finally, Dad held up his fist and we became one with the ground, finding purchase for our rifles amongst the dirt. Mom inspected my position in the growing morning light, choosing only to move a pine bough over my back.

At dawn, the sun lit the treetops aflame—crimson and gold like the inside of a peach. The rays caught the clouds of my breath and Dad pulled up his neck gaiter. Colors oozed to life like the fade-in of the TV at grandma’s house far away and suddenly there it was.

The town was nestled into the valley like the burr in my wool socks. Its aged brick structures bore the scars of time. Here and there, craters in the walls were covered over with planks of roughly hewn wood and corrugated sheet metal. Piles of rubble and refuse lined the streets. Several buildings lay in ruins. Craters pocked the ground like acne scars.

Yet, life remained. About 125 yards off, an old female tended to chickens in a small backyard coop. An adult male carried a bundle down the by-way. A window opened and a middle-aged female shook a rug out. I surveyed them all through my rifle scope.

“Okay Paulie, just like we practiced, let’s take some readings,” Mom whispered in my ear, “Dad and I will watch the approaches.” She handed me the rangefinder.

I pulled a small notepad and pencil from my fanny pack, picked landmarks and noted their distances. Shed with red roof, 110 yards. Woman and chickens. 125 yards. Blue water can 134 yards.

As I worked, the morning progressed. More of them emerged from their dwellings and onto the street. Here and there adults got to work mending rubble, scrounging for food, and attempting to look after crops or livestock. Elderly ones hobbled about, chatting with each other occasionally. Little ones climbed piles of rubble, hauled water cans, or kicked rocks back and forth. I knew they were nothing, but my heart was galloping.

“Did you pick one yet?” Dad whispered, still scanning our immediate surroundings.

“Working on it,” I replied, switching back to the rifle scope. I handed the rangefinder back to Mom.

I began my search around the shed with the red roof. It was the closest of the engagement zones I had selected. More importantly, it was located to our right, on the west side of the town and therefore relatively isolated from the rest of it. A strike in that location did not suggest our position.

“Shed with the red roof,” I breathed.

“Wind is blowing two clicks to the left,” Mom replied.

“Copy,” I said, adjusting the windage on the rifle scope.

“Standby for target,” Dad muttered.

I waited, focusing on taking deep slow breaths. Gazing through the scope, I could see every detail of the shed. A vine was growing up the hewn brick. Someone had propped a wire rake against the wall next to the door. It was missing a few tines on its left side.

A figure emerged from the house. I jumped.

“Easy boy,” Dad said, “prime target. Military-aged male.”

This one was not quite adult age, but close. Possibly thirteen or fourteen. It walked over to the shed, opened the door and went inside before I could get a shot off.

“Be ready when it comes out,” Dad said. Remember, squeeze harder when you’re closer to the target. The shot should surprise you.”

We waited. And waited. We waited so long I asked “Is there another way out?”

“Pay attention,” Mom chided.

Just then it emerged back through the door.

“Patience,” Dad whispered, “there’s plenty of day left.”

It walked from the door over to the rake. It grabbed the rake, turned around, and stared right at us.

The rifle’s report did surprise me, but I managed to keep both my eyes open, like we practiced. The trail of the bullet corkscrewed through the air, connecting brilliantly with the target. A plume of crimson mist erupted from its chest, exploding just as Roddy had said. It dropped immediately, crumpling like a towel falling off the hook.

A far-off scream erupted from the village.

“Effective,” Dad reported.

“We have movement,” Mom said. Dad popped off a shot. “They’re scattering.”

I took my eye off the scope and saw them fleeing like ants back to their holes. I searched for other targets of opportunity. An older female was crossing the road, but vanished behind a pile of rubble. A middle-aged female disappeared into a doorway.

“I don’t see anything,” I grumbled.

“They’re fast today,” Dad agreed.

“Eyes on the red shed,” Mom warned.

I trained my rifle back on the shed. My target was propped up against the wall. He was being held up. Another male, a bit younger, was there. He was looking into the other’s face, rubbing it.

“I knew you’d get two,” Mom said.

I trained the scope, on the head this time, and pulled the trigger. It burst brilliantly in the morning sun.

“Excellent,” Mom praised.

“Two on approach,” Dad said. I turned. “Hold on,” he said, pushing my rifle to the side, “they’re unarmed. Let’s see what they do.”

A pair of young males had run out from behind a building. By this time, they must have sensed our general location. They jogged a few dozen yards at us. They stopped, picked up rocks and threw them towards us.

Dad took them out.

The exhilaration was far beyond anything I’d ever experienced. Levi was right. It was not like the video games, it was far better.

I barely remember the scramble back to the truck, only that it felt like floating, like my legs were two churning pistons carrying me away. The air sparked as if charged with electricity—colors were oversaturated, as if God had cranked up the contrast of my waking life. By the time we got to the truck, it had become too much. I vomited thick chunks all over my boots.

“Oh honey,” Mom sputtered. She stopped to rub my shoulder.

“No time, get in,” Dad pushed her into the front passenger seat. “It’s normal, it’s normal,” he said, hurriedly kicking dirt on my feet. He planted me in the back seat then jumped in himself.

Tires kicking up rocks and sand, we peeled through the forest for the checkpoint. It wasn’t until we could see the gates, that anyone said anything more.

“Wheeeeew!” Dad yawped, “what a first hunt, eh!?” He glanced over his shoulder.

“Did you see how its head just exploded?” I clapped my hands together, expanding them outward like I’d seen Roddy do the week before.

“You’re a hell of a shot,” Dad laughed. He sized me up through the rearview mirror.

“You feeling alright?”

“Yeah,” I replied, a little too quickly.

“You should be really proud,” Mom said, turning around in her seat. A note of concern lurked beneath her voice.

“I am,” I mumbled.

That night, Dad stayed behind after they’d tucked me in to sleep.

“You know, I threw up after my first hunt too,” he said, slowly ruffling my hair.

“You did?” I asked, looking down.

“Sure did,” he smiled, “all over the back seat of grandpa’s Jeep. He made me clean it up.”

“That male,” I said, after a pause, “he was holding the one I got. He was sad.”

Dad sat for a moment, his face became drawn, like the cracked facades in the destroyed town.

“Well, son, they are like us in a way,” he said, as if dredging something from deep inside him.

“They are?” I uttered. “But, Mr. Stevens says they’re different. Like rats.”

“That’s just something people say to make it easier.”

“Easier to what?”

“To kill them.”

“It was easy. It felt good.”

“Just wait until it sits with you. Then you have to do it again, and again, and again.”

“What?”

“It’s not going to be easy. Nothing worth doing is easy,” Dad said. As the words left his lips, he turned from me, his eyes settling on the corner of the room. A shadow passed over his face.

“So they are like us?”

“Yes, they’re people just like us,” he sounded far, far away. “There’s no use lying to you about it now.”

“But if they’re just like us, why do we have to kill them,”

“Because, they’d kill us if they had the chance. Just like we do to them.”

“Why don’t we both just stop.”

“Because.”

“Why, Dad,” I pressed, wiping the tears from my face.
“You don’t know what it was like,” he turned back to me. His eyes sparked. “It’s safe here now. It wasn’t always this way.”

“I don’t understand,” I pulled the blankets up to my eyes.

“You know what they did. You learn it in school. You learn it everywhere.”

“That boy I killed, Dad, his—his brother–they didn’t do anything.” I wept beneath the blankets.

“It’s what they would have done to you if you didn’t beat them to it,” He rubbed my chest over the covers. “It isn’t easy. But we do it together. We all do our part.”

 

Deep into that night, I lay awake, the full moon casting its pallid glow through the bedroom window. The sounds of slumber ruled the house.

I clutched the mattress, certain that if I let go, it would fling me off into darkness. It was the instant of unbecoming that haunted me—the transformation of a living, breathing person to a pile of twitching flesh on the ground. Like a black magic trick. And I enjoyed it. I actually enjoyed it.

Did he feel the hate in my heart? Could he sense it through the rifle scope? Is that why he looked up at me? I relived those moments, before the gore blossomed from his gaping chestwork. The percussive slap of the bullet popped repeatedly until it was an audible tick tick ticking in the corner of the room next to the dresser.

I slowly panned my vision over to it, and my bladder immediately released, the warmth spreading outwards as I regarded, in waking life, the ashen faces of the boys I had killed. They sat there, cast in moonlight, gazing into my very soul. I was transfixed for what felt like hours, until finally, they rose to their feet and shambled towards my bed. Something broke inside me, and I pulled the covers over my head.

The next morning, I saw the older boy standing in the corner of the kitchen, his exploded ribs protruding like a nexus of teeth. The cereal became soggier and soggier in the bowl as mom questioned me about how I had slept through wetting the bed.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, putting her hand against my forehead.

“Yes,” I answered. Past the kitchen island, Dad stood with his back to me, pouring coffee into his insulated mug.

“You sure,” mom asked.

“They don’t give mental health days,” Dad said, his back still facing me “you know, for your first time.”

“Is that it, honey? The hunt?” Mom asked. I gave her a look that made her burst into tears. “I thought we could do it.”

“I’m okay Mom, really,” I said, glancing at the boy in the corner.

“I was hoping if we—if we just made it as exciting as possible, maybe it wouldn’t trouble you.”

“It affects everyone differently,” Dad said. He was still looking at the cabinets. “It’d be nice not to carry it with you.”

“I’m going to miss the bus,” I said, getting up.

“Yes,” Dad said, not turning around. “Better get going.”

“Good-bye honey,” Mom called after me as I fled out the door.

My feet plunked down the black parallel grooves of the school bus aisle. When I looked up, I saw Levi sitting alone in the bench seat. Huddled up with his knees pulled to his chest, he was staring blankly out the window.

I sat down next to him.

“Did you hear,” he asked after a couple of stops.

“Hear what?”

“Josiah bought it yesterday.”

“What?”

“Josiah. He’s dead. Killed yesterday during his first hunt. Some kind of booby trap.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He said, still staring out the window.

“Oh my God,” I said, my voice breaking.

“He had it coming,” Levi said.

“How can you say that?”

“We all do. They killed him just like we’re killing them.” Outside, the whorl of emerald lawns flashed by.

“We got to stick together through this—h-h-help each other. We all do our part. Nothing worth doing is easy.”

Levi looked at me incredulously.

“It’s fucked. All of it.” He said, his face empty tv static.

“I know Levi. I know what it’s like. It’s terrible.”

“No, you don’t, if you did, you wouldn’t still think it’s okay.”

“Please dude, please, I can’t do this. Josiah, oh my God.” I wiped snot onto my pants.

“It was going to happen eventually,” Levi shrugged, turning back to the window.

 

Later that day, as we were all filing out of the school-wide memorial ceremony in the gym, Roddy came up to me.

“What an asshole,” Roddy said.

“What?” I asked, wiping my nose again, with tissues this time.

“That buddy of yours—Levi—I heard what he said on the bus this morning. He’d better be careful talking like that.” His eyes were dark. “We all gotta stick together. We all do our part. But Levi’s not.”
“Levi is just—he’s confused. He just needs someone to understand. He’ll come around.”

“He better hurry the fuck up,” Roddy said, fingering his front pocket where I saw the lump of his Ka-Bar jutting up under his shirt tail. I swallowed the lump that was growing in my throat. Behind Roddy, the greying face of the second boy I’d killed burst brilliantly, covering the lockers with red slop.

“I’ll talk to him, okay? Just don’t do anything.” I held my hands up in a pitiful attempt to placate him.

“Make it happen,” he said, hulking off down the hallway. After he passed, I rushed to the bathroom and threw up into the pristine white sink.

I tried talking to Levi again on the bus that afternoon. He just sat there watching the rain pepper the window. The usual cacophony of children was gone, with everyone reflecting on the loss of their own.

“Can you sleep over at my house tonight?”

“Why?” he asked without turning from the window.

“I just need to feel normal.”

“It’s a school night. My parents probably won’t let me.”

“Our friend just died.”

“I don’t have any friends. Not anymore,”

“That’s bullshit,” I said, yanking him away from the window, “will you look at me—”

I recoiled.

It wasn’t Levi, it was the dead boy. The first one I had killed. His face was grey. Maggots fell from the cavernous hole in his forehead.

“What the hell is wrong with—wait, it’s happening to you too isn’t it?” The corpse had morphed back into Levi.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” it was my turn to deflect.

“They stay with us,” Levi said airily, “it’s not enough to have to kill them over and over.” The bus turned and a shadow crept across his face.

“Please come over tonight. Please.” I took his hand into mine and felt the tears well up.

When I got home, I sat on the leather sectional and watched the storm roll over the high rises downtown. Mom took a phone call in the kitchen behind me. As I listened, I tried to ignore the corpse standing next to the window.

“Oh Kathy, how are you…Why, yes, I heard…It’s terrible, just terrible…makes me sick to my stomach even to think about it…despicable, yes, that’s the right word…Really makes you think, doesn’t it…Well we’d love to have Levi over, it’s been quite a while…yes, they really need to have each other right now…Okay, yes, we’ll have dinner for him…don’t worry, we’ll keep a close eye on them…I can take him back if he needs it…Okay…Okay you too…bye.” After she’d hung up, she turned to me.

“Sounds like Levi is really taking it hard,” she circled over to the couch, “how are you doing?”

“Not good, mom,” I turned to her.

“Oh, honey,” she grabbed my head and brought it to her breast, “this is a lot for you right now.”

“I’m scared,” I said.

“It’s a lot of change, that’s for sure,” she said, stroking my hair, “we’ve all been through it though and made it out the other side. The year of my first hunt, we had three classmates die. It doesn’t happen as often anymore, but it still does every now and then.”

“Dad says it won’t get better,” I said, testing the waters.

“Well, it does, and it doesn’t.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. She paused, thinking.

“You know when we took that trip up to the reservoir?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember how when we got there, the river was a trickle running through the rocks?” I nodded.

“And then remember how the alarm went off and the trickle turned into a huge river?” I smiled, remembering how the water roiled around the corner, swallowing everything.

“It’s like that. Sometimes the water is a trickle—it’s easier then. Sometimes it’s a big flood. But it’s always there.”

“I don’t know if I want it, Mom.” I looked into her eyes, searching. I felt tears again.

“I know honey, but this is the way things are. This is the world we live in. You know why it has to be this way. We all do our part.” She lifted my chin, “you know how after we were finished you were whooping and hollering?”

“Yes,” I said, the rivulets streaming down my face.

“And it felt good, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but that’s what feels so bad now.”

“Chase that excitement, Paulie. Embrace it. It’s the only thing that works.” I wiped my eyes, glancing again at the boy’s fetid corpse lurking in the corner of the room.

 

Levi arrived soon after Dad got home. Mom was bustling about in the kitchen, just about to serve dinner up, when the doorbell rang.

“That must be Levi, do you want to get it, Paulie?”

I set down the bundle of forks on the table with a clink, took a deep breath, and walked over to the door.

Levi was standing on the doormat, his eyes hollow, with dark circles around them. He wasn’t carrying his TV and his backpack didn’t look like it was holding anything except books and school clothes. He shook an umbrella outside and set it in the ceramic holder next to the door.

“Hey, Levi,” He accepted my hug but didn’t return it. He dropped his bag on the bench in the foyer and slunk over to the table without saying a word. Mom and Dad looked at each other, eyebrows raised. I sat down in the chair next to him.

“Hey-ya Levi,” Dad began in the sing-song voice he reserved for his soccer pep talks. He pulled out his chair, sitting on it as if it was an over-filled balloon liable to pop without warning. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you, buddy.”

“Yep,” Levi replied. He glanced into the corner, then quickly back down at his plate.

“How are your folks doing?” Mom brought a steaming pan of hot dish over and placed it in the center of the table.

“Good,” Levi said without making eye contact. We all sat in tense silence until a flash of lightning split the darkened skyline. A thunderclap boomed through the house. Levi shuddered.

“I guess that means it’s time to eat,” Dad laughed nervously. He grabbed the spoon and began to serve us. I pushed some food across my plate. Levi didn’t touch his. Mom and Dad seemed to be holding an entire conversation with their facial expressions. Rain began to pelt the the windows with renewed vigor.

“You know, year seven is a very hard year—very hard.” Dad began, setting his fork down. “In year six they have those prep courses, but they don’t really prepare you for the emotional toll. They don’t really want to, I suspect. Probably because they think no one will actually do it if they did.”

Upon the last few words, Levi looked up from his plate, like he did after I recoiled from him on the bus, after he realized I was seeing things too.

“You see, they want you to enjoy it, and in a way, you have to. It’s a necessity. You have to—”

“I need a minute,” Levi said, standing abruptly. Before Dad could say anything more, he’d left the table and steamed down the hallway into my room.

“This was a bad idea,” Mom said, head lowered.

“Let me talk to him,” I said, ignoring the dead boys who had appeared behind Dad. The rain lashed against the roof.

“Levi,” I called, pushing my bedroom door open. He sat on the bed, sandwiched between two rotting corpses.

“They’re here now, aren’t they?” He said, more a statement of fact than a question.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“I started seeing them the night I murdered them. Every time my parents make me go, there’s more. There’s thirteen of them now. They’re everywhere. All the time.”

“Have you told anyone?” I asked. Levi shook his head.

“Just you.”

“Why not your parents?”

“Have you told yours?” He countered. I opened my mouth but then shut it again.

“No,” I finally said.

“I can’t live like this.” Levi gave me the most pitiful look I’ve ever seen another human being make.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said, approaching him carefully.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “I just don’t see how.”

“You’ve got to tell someone, your parents, anyone,” I said. “We got to tell.”

“Tell someone what?” Dad peeked through the door. Levi’s eyes grew wide. Thunder ripped through the sky.

“We’ve been seeing things,” I said. Levi shook his head at me. “Since our first hunts. We’ve been seeing the ones we killed.” Levi buried his face in his hands and wept. A few seconds passed with him just heaving.

“I see them too,” Dad admitted.

“You do?” Levi looked up, wiping the snot on his sleeve.

“Ever since my first hunt,” Dad nodded.

“What do we do, Dad?”

“Levi is right to be careful. Telling the wrong person could get you a Chapter 51.” I looked at Levi, terrified.

“W-what’s that?” Levi sniffled.

“A commitment order. A stain on your record. It could mean a permanent bar to citizenship.” I gulped.

“S-so what?” Levi said, “I don’t want to be part of this anyways.”

“I said the exact same thing to my dad,” Dad sighed. He kneeled down, bringing himself level with us.

“You did?” a glimmer of hope sparked in Levi’s eyes.

“Sure did.”

“What happened?” Levi asked.

“My Dad called the Commissioner’s office and reported me.”

“What?” I turned to him, “Grandpa did?”

“Yep.”

“How could he?” I asked.

“It was the right thing to do.” Dad said, rubbing the back of his head with his hand, “I needed help. He didn’t know how to give it to me.”

“But you said it would be a Chapter 51?” Levi was looking down again.

“Yes, and worse if you don’t respond to treatment.”

“Treatment?” Levi looked away.

“Yes, treatment.” Dad said, “They put me in this facility with other people like me. It was an inpatient facility downtown. Not all of them were kids, either. You’d be surprised how common it is. It took a few months, but I got better. I just needed to embrace it. I needed to realize how important it is. Why it must be done. Why we have to do it.”

“What happened to the ones who didn’t get better?” Levi’s face was in his hands again.

“I don’t know. There was so many of us, it was hard to keep track of everyone.”

“Are you going to send us away, Dad?” I looked at him. He examined Levi, turning things over in his head.

“No, you’re both just adjusting,” he said at last. “Some people, like your Mom, Paulie, they find ways to enjoy it. People like us, that only gets us so far. It can even make it worse. We need something else.”

“What, Dad? What do we need?”

“Love, Paulie,” Dad said, his face strangely sincere. “Love.”

“I’m outta here,” Levi said, getting up. His face contorted with sudden rage.

“I’m serious,” Dad stood up, placing himself in front of the door.

“That’s fucking stupid,” Levi’s eyes held a whirling inferno. “Killing with love in our hearts?”

“To protect our way of life. To protect our loved ones—definitely.”

“You’re all insane. You’re all crazy. Lies, it’s all lies, everything!” Levi pressed for the door and Dad suddenly yelled.

“You know what they did! What they would do again! You don’t know what it was like!”

“Let me go!” Levi shouted.

“What’s going on in there?” I heard Mom rushing down the hallway.

“Stop Dad!” I yelled. I grabbed Levi’s shoulder. “Levi, don’t go,” I pleaded, “I need to warn you about Roddy!”

“You’re all fucked. You can all get fucked.” Levi said, he tore himself from my grip and pushed past Dad.

“Let him go, Gary! Just let him go!” Mom hollered outside the doorway.

Levi sped down the hallway, threw on his shoes, grabbed his things from the foyer, and stormed out into the howling wind and rain.

 

Levi wasn’t on the bus the next morning, but the dead boys were. They took up the only empty bench. I had to squeeze past their knees to get to the window seat. I kicked their shins as I shimmied past, connecting with nothing but blank air.

The rest of the morning was just as difficult. I sat in the back of homeroom, chin in my hands, thinking about Levi, fuming at the corpses that kept dogging me from place to place. Their pathetic empty stares. They weren’t like us. They weren’t like us at all. Mr. Stevens was right. They just sat there looking sad. They were jealous—just jealous that they were dead and we went on living, living, loving and—worrying, worrying all the time. Maybe it was better to be them? Maybe it was better to be dead, to end the fear, the doubt, the worrying. No, I wished they’d go away. It was their fault, hanging around. Their fault that nothing was the same. It was their fault that Josiah was dead. They killed him! If only they’d just die and go away. Go away forever. Sleep forever.

The bell rang from somewhere and we all got up from our chairs, spilling out into the hallway. Everyone went on chatting as if Josiah wasn’t gone, like he didn’t just die horribly, doing what was expected of him. No one cared that I’d never again get to see the light behind his eyes, his goofy grin, or hear the ever-playful inflection in his voice. That I’d live forever without the comfort of knowing that somewhere out there, Josiah was alive, cracking jokes about hot dog water, sucking on Skittles for too long and pretending the spit is vomit, “puking” it all over the floor in front of the school nurse. I wish those dead fuckers could trade places with him. And bring back Levi while they’re at it. The old one. The one I used to know.

“Hey, fuckface,” I looked up from my shoes, where I’d been staring, walking down the crowded hall. The din of conversation quieted instantly.

“You, I’m talking to you! Levi!” It was Roddy.

Levi was at his locker, apparently arriving late. He pulled his head out from behind the locker door, the rings around his eyes almost cartoonishly black, like he hadn’t had a blink of rest in days.

“What do you want?” Levi challenged.

“I heard what you said the other day about that Josiah kid, that he had it coming. That we all had it coming.”

“So what?” Levi turned around, “we do. We all have it coming. It’s wrong, the hunts. The war. It’s not a war at all. It’s an extermination. We’re all killers. Murderers. Cutthroats. We’re all going to burn in Hell. I hope we do.”

“You’re crazy,” Roddy said, stepping closer. “They’re gonna cart you off. You’d better shut the fuck up before I make you.”

In the space between his answer, Levi looked around at the crowd of kids that had gathered, watching, listening, hearing every word he’d said, but feeling none of them. His eyes pleaded with them, to see his truth. The truth.

Then he looked to me, his eyes crying out.

In that instant, I knew he was right. I knew what I had to do, what I should do. But I didn’t.

“Then make me,” Levi said, stretching his arms out. “Kill me like you butcher them, coward.”

Roddy’s hand found the Ka-Bar sheathed beneath his shirttail. In a smooth motion, he pulled it out and buried it to the hilt in Levi’s chest. Levi collapsed.

“You’re no martyr.” Roddy sneered, “You’re just another notch in the spine.” He spit on Levi’s body.

Everyone walked on to their next classes. I don’t know how long I stood there alone, watching Levi’s life spread across the waxed floor.

Recently Patrick Macfarlane, my fellow, fellow at this dear Institute discussed on his Vital Dissent podcast the Kazuo Ishiguro novel, Never Let Me Go. In his books Ishiguro frequently covers memories, relationships and the human condition. Never Let Me Go, is a dystopian book on the meaning of individual life and how systems, hierarchies and society itself can value and categories people based on collective and ideological needs.

I suggest listening to Patrick’s podcast for an in depth break down. I will not reveal any spoilers. Only, care to elaborate and expand on certain themes. I read this book over a decade ago, just after reading The Master and the Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. For me both books are entwined, only out of my own personal chronology in reading them. I had barely digested, or had time to think about one, as soon as I started the other. So, while reading Ishiguro, the words and concepts raised by Bulgakov kept bubbling from within my mind. Both have themes of love, relationship and good and evil.

In Bulgakov’s book, time switches from ancient to the 1930s. For Ishiguro, time is far more personal, it’s scarce. The books premise is about the sanctuary of time frames, the precious attachment that characters have with time itself.

Then, Patrick mentioned on his podcast, a personal and intimate attachment to time for him. He is a lawyer, he works hard, long arduous hours away from his family. He mentioned an incident while on holiday, when his wife noticed on the last day his mood dimmed. She asked him, “why?”

“Because tomorrow we have to get up at five in the morning and go back,” Patrick replied.

Go back.

Back, to the life he had worked so hard to build. He studied to become a lawyer. Dedicated himself to the profession, then he had to find a job, build a reputation and navigate the contrived landscape of careerism, entrenched professionals and his own principles as man. All the while, a father, husband, son and friend, the relationships on the outside. It was returning to that world, that in this anecdote, in this memory, in this moment of time, that made him sad.

To be on holiday, that reprieve of comfort, relaxation and to spend it with those we love is precious. It’s what many work so hard and sacrifice for. It’s a reality that some understand. Others, take for granted.

The sentimentality of love, the most fundamental narrative arc in many fictions, is that holiday for the protagonists in Never Let Me Go. It’s tender but bitter sweet. Short lived. Time, as we all know is a constant that goes by, for the characters in the book it’s not the time of nature that threatens their love. It’s the time frame imposed by the government of the book. The rules that serves some, profits them. But imprisons others. In this world, in the books fictional reality, this is for some greater good.

The Master and Margarita, is a book about good and evil. It has theological themes and humanises the devil, in the sense that he appears as a professor in 1930s, Soviet Russia. Written from within the tyranny of the USSR, a book that emerged like a flower blossoming from within the very real dystopia of ideological evil. The protagonists in Never Let Me Go, have no parents. They can not have children themselves. They exist as a utility. In the Soviet Union of Bulgakov, the state is mother Russia. Every person exists to serve the government. They breed, have children, families who all belong to such a State.

Humanity is capable of many things, artistic expression of human imaginings and imperial governance that constricts, manipulates and violates the individual. One, celebrates the individual, after all, it’s from one mind that it arises, seeks, asks, answers and challenges. The other, is a mob of hidden planners and doers who only do because they are paid to do so, the outcome is never as promised, but always ensures that the planners and doers must apply indefinitely while they profit all the more for it.

Margarita is the Master’s lover, the devoted. Obedient to the Master. In Never Let Me Go, the protagonists only know a life of obedient existence. It questions autonomy, agency of self. Humans do not exist solitary, we are social beings. But, does that justify coercion and organisations that rule over individuals and assumes to know how best to dominate their lives? Ideologies claim, yes. The antagonists in Never Let Me Go, would also say yes. The victims, those who want to be free, the protagonists, they have no choice but to suffer that, ‘yes’ decision made despite them by those who benefit from their subjugation.

Salvation is trapped in snippets of time, each memory, a reflection of a past when we were free, or at the very least had experiences where we over came, endured and pulled through. The moments we may ponder with affection are intimate, tender, sentimental, lost but for our own memories. That is the Never Let Me Go. Never let the memories go, the feeling. The love.

My thoughts on these two books, especially while omitting what happens, does nothing to help you understand an inner impression that reading such a thing had for me. Or Patrick for that matter. That I recall the Shostakovitch playing as I read Bulgakovs words or the taste of white tea while I pondered Ishiguro’s, are rather superficial. Or, that in listening to Patrick discuss the book as I worked snapped me back to both works, is again personal. That is the power of words, narratives, novels. They are different for each one of us. Memories from within our own life, twisted into the story invented by an author who we likely shall never meet, yet has implanted thoughts and feelings deep into our mind.

Maybe, in time the dystopia that writers such as Ishiguro warn us about will lurk beyond the mind. Perhaps to think, ponder, let alone discuss divisive or controversial matters is forbidden, or worse forgotten. The mundane of things, we now take for granted. Let alone the concepts of evil or good. The memories of dissent, the love for liberty, freedom, forgotten. The love of the natural spirit, unlearned. Gone.

When Kazuo Ishiguro was asked why his characters don’t run away he answered, “…usually what happens is that people accept the hand that they have been dealt and try and make the best of it. I mean, throughout history people have remained in terrible marriages. They have done awful jobs all through their lives. Millions of people throughout history worked in ghastly mines or factories, including small children. Millions of people worked and died as slaves. Many, many people over the years fought in wars that they didn’t believe in or didn’t understand anything about. The fascinating thing for me is the way people respond to being dealt a really bad hand. And sometimes it seems to me that if that’s all you know, if that’s the world you’ve grown up in, you can not see the boundaries for which you have to run. You can not see what you have to rebel against, and instead you just try, sometimes heroically to find love, friendship, something meaningful and decent within the horrific fate that you’ve been given. That’s the only answer I can usually offer when people say, “why don’t the characters in Never Let Me Go run away?”

 

It’s why most of us don’t run, can’t run. To where? To what?

It’s what we know. It’s home. It’s the artificially conceived obligation we must return to. The holiday is the unreal, the abnormal. At least for men who do and work, like Patrick. It’s why such a memory is fond. Precious. Why he will Never Let it Go.

Why is it acceptable to oppress? To deny autonomy? To incrementally, or absolutely devour liberty, choice, freedom, self agency? A greater good? The religion of the social contract? The original sin for governance.

Run away to where? If we did, we would be obligated, nay, forced to return. Like the protagonists in Never Let Me Go, the bitter acceptance is in knowing that some of us are owned, The others, they don’t care, they can’t care that the systems they depend on, or take for granted crush and destroy. They are separated by habit, a normalcy of it all.

The evil in Never Let Me Go, had their reasons and with all dystopia, tyrannies and oppressors it does benefit some. Profit them, uplift them. Is it moral if it forces others? If it exploits them and does so at the expense of their liberty and individual freedom?

We don’t need the devil. A Master to have evil, or to impose it. To be evil. Humans are very much capable of it on their own. The masterful truth of it, it’s so possible because they don’t believe that they are evil.

The reality is that many are the antagonists, or at least desire with or profit alongside them. The protagonist, the dissident, the hero, as in the fictions are few. As in life, the greater good, is not a moral declaration. It’s an out. An allowance to do evil. No devil, just human inventions. Ideology. Entitlement.

That’s why they don’t run. They can’t.

You won’t let them go anyhow.