Nothing Beyond the Platform and <P> and Other Lies

Chapter 3

 <P> makes us eggs and bakey like it does every morning. It's all the same, but once I stand up, I realized that I actually slept for the whole night for once.

It could be a good omen; I interpret it as a bad one. Clarity before death, I always say.

The machine whirls by, fixing on different instruments and arms and knick-knacks. <P> has it's own special counter thingy, like a bar where it can do what it pleases and does what it pleases. <P> simultaneously can do laundry (every step) wash the dishes, make food, and even more, if we could think up stuff for <P> to do.

The eggs taste like plastic, the bacon like dried rubber liquified then microwaved and tarred and feathered till it was edible.

Just like it always does.

I do have to say, I have never deliberately eaten plastic nor dried rubber liquified then microwaved and tarred and feathered till it was edible so perhaps the 'food' <P> makes is better than that. But it could also be worse.

Jada eats a few bites more then me then looks over and grins, her eyes shining in a way that I will never understand. What does she have to be so happy about? How is that level of freedom possible?

I wish I was like her... she doesn't have to put up with stupid dreams or journals or metaphors or thoughts. I wish I could be like her... free... young.

A knock at the door startles me, though it shouldn't have. I nod to <P> who clears away the dishes and washes them while also opening the door for Mr. Gringer who daily is let in by <P> for no reason other than to check on us.

For the many days I have repeatedly seen him, he is always wearing the same shirt, and stupid grin. Our conversation has become an annoying repetitive routine and I daily dread it.

"How ya doin today?" He asks, giving that grin again.

It really bothers me. Why does he grin like that? Is he showing off his teeth or something? What has got him smiling so?

"Good," I reply as Jada shrieks, "Wakey wakey eggs and bakey!"

Mr. Gringer's eyes get really bright and his grin broadens. "Wow! That's great! That's real great! I just came over to remind you that you don't need to worry no more. Just cause your parents are gone, I'm gonn take good care of you. Yep, there's no need to worry now..."

He always says the same thing. Summoning a genuineness that usually surprises me, I say, "Thank you Mr. Gringer. We really appreciate it."

"Yep... was a tragedy, 'bout your parents I mean. Ain't no one deserve to go through that." Mr. Gringer shakes his head as if shaking his head could take away the damage done and replace the brokenness inside all of us. I join him, shaking my head, but I don't let the memories come back. I'm not ready to face what happened or what's been done. Maybe I'll face them some day but not today.

why not? part of me asked. why not face the dreary fogs that hang so low like a broken ceiling fan?

oh go away, I responded. what does a broken ceiling fan have anything to do with facing my memories?

But I knew in my heart, that very soon, I would face what had been done. What I was unaware of what would make itself aware to me, indeed it already was. It was starting... but I wouldn't be afraid. A confrontation... one that was necessary.

"Anyways," Mr. Gringer continued. "Stay here fo as long as ya need to, you and ya sistah. Holdance 47 is proud to have ya for as long as ya choose to stay."

"Thank you," I say, thinking we have nowhere else to go from here.

An urge suddenly comes over me, to do something rash. A sense of restlessness overwhelms me and I suddenly want privacy and Mr. Gringer to leave. Instead he just stands there for a couple more moments grinning and staring at me and Jada.

Finally he turns to leave and I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief. I didn't understand the discomfort I felt, but something was amiss regardless.

The feeling of restlessness was still inside of me as I helped Jada get ready for Tariph. I walk her down our driveway to the platform but I leave her there and return to our house, resolution inside of me.

I announce to <P> that I'm not feeling too well so I'm staying home. <P> once told me how to put it to sleep and so I did that after reassuring <P> that I'd be okay.

Then I braved the fogs in silence and privacy.

There's a room and in that room bad things happened and there's a piece of my spirit in there but I usually just leave it there. I don't like to think about it or else that part of my spirit calls to the others and then I wake up from horrible dreams in the room where it all happened.

But in that room is a smell that is stale but it's also a warm smell and it makes me feel comforted. It's calming but as I enter the room this day--it's a special day, mind you--I bring in my restlessness and I don't take time to look at the bed that is made or the shoes in the corner. I flip on the light switch that <P> showed me once before and I don't wait for the room to fill up before I start for the dresser.

In that dresser, very well hidden, is a journal. Why is it hidden? I don't know. On the night that it happened I remember where this journal was placed and why but I don't remember why. That's all I remember and it shows up sometimes in my dreams. It's the source of answers, but I know that if I look at these answers I can't go back to where I was before, or am I guess.

But... this new part of me no longer cares about the damage it might cause. It no longer cares about the cost of change. It wants answers. I want answers, but I also don't want answers.

What am I doing? I ask myself as I dig through the clothes. The smell is so strong that my eyes water but I keep digging and moving things around until I find it. I pull it triumphantly from the drawer as I tell myself to put it back or to give it to <P> or anyone just why why why do I have the answers? Why am I the one who has to live with this burden and why can't I just be like Jada or Mr. Gringer with stupid grins on my face, not knowing up from down and scream "Wakey wakey eggs and bakey" with a realistic joy?

It's all holding me back and pulling me down. I know I can't lose my mind because I actually have a mind unlike anyone else. These dreams and thoughts are a byproduct of my consciousness which I live in consistently but not by choice, no never by choice.

A thought comes in, could death help me? and the answer is yes it could. I could shut it down blip bleep bloop and lose consciousness forever.

But...

But...

BUT...

I have to know. I have to know why I'm different. I have to know what happened on that night. I have to know where they went and if they're coming back and if tomorrow can ever be as good as yesterday.

So I open the journal to the front page and my heart drops.

There are symbols on it that I don't understand and just as I begin to give up and close the journal the voice in my head actually tells me what the symbols say. Here is what the journal held:

*Signature*

And *Signature*

The last remnants of a forgotten existence.

Hello, to anyone reading this. The people writing this have an idea of who may be reading this and indeed hope that they're dreams may be continued on even if the worst has happened.

We shall start with an introduction: I say we, but really we are one.

Once upon a time there were schools instead of Tariphs. We never saw these schools, but our parents kept us from going to the Tariphs. Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself.

Sorry if you are confused, I fear time is short but I must write as much down as I possibly can. You must continue our work... I know you can do that but first you need guidance. Never did a hero rise without a teacher. You will be a hero because we will be your teacher and we will give you all you need to know