kristygammell
No movement in the landscape, not even a whisper of acrid wind. The heat in the air stings.
Everything is static.
The year is 2092. I was born in the year 2068.
Earth is a barren, dehydrated landscape. The toxic air and lack of water has killed most life.
Stories say it was once full of lush, green trees. I don't know what a tree is.
And there was water, said an old man who was more leathery and cracked than my boots. Water, so much of it that it would cascade down rocks and mountains with a roar. Water, in pools so big that you could jump right in and not hit bottom. Water used to divide countries, an expanse so far and wide that it would go straight to the horizon. They called it an ocean. You could put ships in them, get in, and travel, he said.
I don't know what a ship is.
He was probably lying. Hallucinations and dreams of a dying man.
I try to scratch my face behind the gas mask. It itches like hell, but I can't take it off. Not until I reach Solace. If it exists. If I even find it. All I have to go on is a stolen map and a day's worth of water.
He has a tie and an overtly genuine smile, like those salesmen that try to sell you their cheap crap.
He's coming up to me.
Have you heard about Jesus, sir? he asks.
I give him a hard stare and deliberately take a slow drag on my cigarette.
Well, he continues, without waiting for an answer, if you have a minute, sir, I could--
Here? I ask. Really?
I don't understand, sir. His smile never wavers.
Here? On this street, in this neighbourhood, at this time, and you're trying to ask me to come to your church and get saved, or some sort of shit like that?
A girl--nice ass, tits are a little too big; plastic, probably--too much make-up and more skin than clothes on, struts past and disappears behind the tinted glass doors next to me.
Well, sir, I.. He falters a little.
Let me tell you something, buddy, I grunt. Flick the ash from my now burnt-out cigarette onto his patent leather shoes. You have your salvation. Let me have mine.
I toss the smouldering stub onto the floor and step into the girlie bar.
Salvation is when you leave your worries at the door. Heaven is lit up with sequinned tassels and whirling neon lights.
They're so pretty.
Look at these skinny little bitches, decked out in diamonds and leather and heavy make-up on glossy pages.
Look at the men, perfect stubble, six-packs and tanned skin and massive bulges in their Calvin Klein boxer briefs.
Look at how much you want to be like them.
Look at them, damn you.
Don't you want this? All the money, the fame, the prestige.
Of course you do.
You'll never get it, though.
You'll never be like them--you know it.
But you can spend the rest of your sad little life trying to. Oh yes, you can try.