The Grey World

A Part

Right and wrong do not exist. The world is all grey and each person must strive to determine what is fair and what is not, however, sometimes choices are not made by individuals and that is not their choice.

My people absconded to the cliffs' zenith and built a city that took full advantage of the control we have over the infinite links. We fabricated a new culture: pursuing philosophy, ethics, the mystical sciences, reasoning and the arts. A 'utopian' society of presumed equals, we worked to become a separate and self-sustaining civilisation. Our leisurely pursuit of excellence made us all but forget the Nadir, as it became known, which sprawled so far below.

My memory of the segregation is as slippery as the mucus that cloaks a fish's egg. Floundering slivers remain: terrors stark in the light of day, fear, abominations of people. And the ascent. The Nadir was never my home and I've never loved it, as a child I knew of it through whispered speculations. Later I gained a more realistic but no less unsettling insight through observation and research. The degenerative disease passed through blood of Nadirans has caused them to be increasingly deformed and dim witted. We could only assume the creatures would eventually die out as they slowly lost the ability to move and thus procreate. Debates started on the ethics of allowing this to happen, the prolonged suffering was cruel yet we could see no way to ease it. So the council decided that we should put an end to it instead. Efficient and easy. I and a few others did not agree and whilst my comrades campaigned I left the Zenith to participate in a simpler form of protest. I descended into the abyss.

~~~

At some point during the blinding hours of day I must have made the transition from stretched out on my right side to a foetal position on my left. I don't remember when. Breathing in, I look around, sensing the dawning of darkfall. The strains of the wind chimes through the great halls of the Zenith gave this precipice of time the name evensong. My eyelids droop and oblivion is temptingly close. No, I must get up! I have a duty to observe and what if something were to change? 

I creep from under my covers and call the candles. They sputter and grudgingly flare into life at the heat of my thoughts. Smoke drifts up my nostrils. My lungs expand as I inhale the wisps. The flames jiggle effervescent and eager to gorge themselves...

"Fire would be most efficient," Silehjon acknowledged her wrinkles folding into deeper waves as she drew her eyebrows together. "It would also cause prolonged agony," argued an anonymous voice.

"Perhaps but in their state can we be sure that they feel anything, the facts of how far they've declined are yet unknown. This way we could be sure every one of the carriers is wiped out."

The smoke turns to ash and thickens in my throat as the callous debates of the Zenith haunt my mind. Even without clinical testing it is apparent Nadirans feel far more than we are apparently capable of.

The air is solid with filaments of skin and dust; each breath is a struggle against asphyxiation and grime coats nearly every surface. The only exceptions are the often used bookcase and the sizeable pile of cushions and blankets, now in disarray after my uneasy sleep. These and some other furnishings are fitted neatly into the claustrophobic space where I am currently in residence. It's probably one of the best-kept dwellings in the area. Candles, stuck to surfaces by precipitous castles of melted wax, are littered throughout the room casting grotesque shadows across the walls. Their flames edge ever closer to the wood and fabric on which they rest, stretching to ignite a solid surface. Just as they seem to succeed, with a fizzle the spark is quenched in a puddle of tallow. They destroy themselves, just as the creatures outside only accomplish their species' degeneration as they attempt to preserve it. It is possible that the persistent lack of hygiene could cause disease to claim the Nadirans even before the degeneration does.