TRENCH

Morph

September 1st, 3000.
Can't stop thinking about if and when I'd die.
For now I see that 'if' and 'when' are truly different cries.
For 'if' is purely panic, and 'when' is solemn sorrow.
And one invades today, while the other spies tomorrow.

The sun woke me this morning. It's warm light prickled my skin and forced my eyes open.
I think i was dreaming about Trench again... But I can't rembember the details today.
I sat at the side of my bead and rubbed my eyes, taking a quick glance at my watch, I relised it was eight-thrirty in the morning.
Church starts at nine.
I rushed to get myself ready, combing my messy, white hair away from my face.
I put on my white jacket, and white shoes.
You are only allowed to wear white on Sundays.
I looked at myself in the mirror, staring back into my icy blue eyes.
I didn't see a person when I looked in that mirror, I just saw a citizen, staring back at me, looking like all of the other citizens.
On the surface I can blend in, but inside my soul, I have a deep longing for life outside the walls.
Every morning, before I start my day, I write my poetry, and Sunday is no exception.
Every time I write, I can feel the bishops trying to suppress my words, trying to shut off my creativity with the dark veils of black they wear over their faces.
That's why I've got to keep this journal a secret, if they find it, I know it will be destroyed.
As I finnaly left my apartment, the sun blinded my eyes with rays of light.
It's September, it's not meant to be this warm, or dry.
All the buildings here are the same shade of grey, and they are all the same shade if white on the inside.
Everyone here lives in a small, white apartment.
The bishops don't want us to be individuals, it could ruin their plans.
I made my way down the street, watching my shoes to avoid looking at the sun.
Dema is a circular city, all the buildings and streets are symmetrical.
Everything here looks so similar that it's easy to get lost.
Unless you've lived here your entire life.
But all of us have, so the streets don't even have names... Just numbers.
The only thing in this city that isn't symmetrical are the nine bishops towers.
They stand in cluster, in the centre of the city.
They all stand at different heights, but even the smallest ones tower high above the city walls.
The tallest one belongs to Nicolas bourbaki.
He's the one who kept me for that year.
I've blocked out the memories of that tower, but every time I see it I still get chills.
There is only one church in Dema.
It's the closest building to the towers, probably because it's run by the Bishops.
There are three gatherings held here every Sunday.
Every citizen is obliged to come to at least one of them.
I stood with the others as we waited for the church to open.
I watched them chattering amongst themselves, how can they be so carefree?
The citizens here are brainwashed by violism.
Interacting with them makes me sick, they are like robots, Regurgitating what the bishops tell them at church, and spitting it in my face, as if it's fact.
The door opened and everyone began pouring into the building.
I lagged behind a little bit, hoping to get a seat at the back, behind a pillar, so Nico couldn't stare at me while he chanted his verses.
I got a back seat, but it was in direct view of Nico.
We started the gathering with a prayer.
The same prayer that is blast over the intercom speakers every morning and every night.

We are citizens.
We are Violists.
Violism is the only way to paradise.
I will come, when the bishops call me.
The bishops speak the truth.
We are citizens.
We are Dema.
We will repent our sins and sacrifice ourselves in the name of violism.
Only after death.
In paradise we will rest.

I think I will rembember that chant until the day I die.
Nico looked me right in the eyes as he said this.
I've been caught attempting to escape a few too many times, so I'm definitely on his hot list.
After the chanting, Nico read a passage from "The Book of Prophets."
He reads a different passage from it every week.
The Bishops claim the book is old, but I don't belive them.
I think... No... I KNOW, they wrote the book.
It fits their narrative perfectly.
If you ask me... I think the bishops created violism to, and I wouldn't be suprised if they built Dema.
We live in a world created by them, controlled by them.
I feel like the only one who knows that we live in a cult.
When Nico finshed reading this week's passage, he started on the numbers.
Every Sunday, twenty one people are called to the bishops tower.
These people are used as a sacrifice for violism.
The rules of Violism are very simple.
If you die a natural death, you will not get to paridise.
You will just be dead, your soul no longer exists.
If you take your own life, paridise awaits you at the other side.
Every week, Twenty one people, who are completely random, but are always above the age of eighteen, are called to the towers.
Ounce in the towers, they willingly Drink the bishops poison wine, believing in their hearts that they will go to paridise.
The people here find it a great honour when their number is called.
Not me, I dread the day.
I don't belive in violism.
I sat silently and watched as the chosen few walked up the church asile to join the bishops.
A young women, who looked about my age, which is nineteen, caught my glance as she walked past me.
I looked into her eyes and saw no fear at all.
She looked almost content, like somone who had just been told the stressful meeting they had been worrying about has just been canceled.
She must have saw nothing but pure fear in my eyes because she looked away after a Mere glance.
I wished I could have stopped them, screamed and begged and told them Violism isn't real.
But I knew that I couldn't, so I just watched as they marched to their deaths.
I don't think I'll ever get used to it.