In a world where the majority no longer dream, and happy thoughts are easily lost, nineteen-year-old Eli sells memories. With no family or home, the young man travels the country dealing to those in need. When he runs out of memories to sell, Eli he...
The tall grass before him blew with the intent of rain. Standing on the stoop of his cabin, Haven remembered the world before the Great War happened nearly sixty years ago. Though he was only a child at the time, he recalled the vast changes. Technology was at its peak, you could fly on a speed-plane and get from London to New York in two hours. All your food was cooked via a push of a button, ready for you when you arrived home from a hard day's work. Most importantly though, people still dreamed. Memories were something you carried with you every day. With the War came the Bomb and the Bomb caused significant damage. Technology was almost all wiped out. Conglomerates were crushed into oblivion. The stock market crashed. Justice became blind. The divide between the rich and poor was vast, only a handful of well-to-dos had been left with their wealth and prestige. The untouchable one percent who eventually faded into a puff of smoke.
Nowadays, there were still radios, light in your home, running water and cars. But mainly, things had returned to basics. The biggest tragedy was what happened to humans. Memories were scrambled by the deadly chemical inside the Bomb cruelly named The Joy Eraser. Older people carried handfuls of dreams while the newborns were deprived of more than ten or fifteen in their lives, which made it all the worse for they remembered enough to make the longing harsh. But the chemical did not have the same effect on everyone. The lucky few who still dreamed were thought of as miracles or aberrations.
Haven didn't need to dream to be called a freak. Born with albinism, he was shunned by some and feared by many. The few people he associated with kept their distance. They would sell their goods to him, tip their hat in a friendly manner but they never invited him to their homes for tea and never asked him how he was fairing living alone on the outskirts of the city. If they knew his true age, it would only add to their uncertainty. Nearly seventy, Haven looked to be in his mid-twenties.
For the past few months, Haven lived alone in a small cabin a half hour's walk from Los Demonios. He lived there ever since moving away from Phoenix, Arizona, making the three-hour drive in his truck after being attacked by a pair of men who tried to harm him because of the colour of his skin. Though the external scars had faded, the internal ones had not. Haven often wondered how relentless the pair would have been had they known his true nature. That he was a Kadisin, a half-angel, half-mortal who drank blood to survive. The ones who knew of the Kadisin knew how portent their blood was. Feeding off the offspring of a fallen angel like Haven would give the men both unimaginable strength and longevity.
Safety came in the solitude of his new home yet when he moved in, so did the nightmares. If dreamers were few, those who had nightmares were even fewer. It was not simply bothersome dreams Haven had, his came in the form of everything he had done and all that he had killed in order to survive. Every life he had ever taken visited him when he closed his eyes. His own personal ghosts. But now, Haven had new nightmares added to the stack of old, those of the pock-faced man and his companion.
The colours on the horizon shifted from yellow to tangerine. The scent of rain was in the air and it was coming his way. Wrapping a knee-length blanket tightly around himself, Haven longed for company. He had been alone for so long he barely even remembered what it was like to have someone hold him, stroke his hair, and whisper silly stories in his ear. He had known few lovers in his life, all of them bastard angels like him. But Haven was now the last of his kind, the last Kadisin on earth.
Watching twilight roll out of the sky, Haven shivered and went inside.
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