CRASH

Concrete Memoir

I see a window, clear, and clean, housed by a wooden frame. Beyond are merely colors, vivid greens, blues, and yellows. Slowly, they take shape, evolving beyond mere concepts to expressions. Vivid greens to rolling hills, grass and brush swaying with the breeze. Deep blues to a cloudless sky, an endless sea vast and free. Yellows to dots of sun among the grasses, peeking out at me, shy to show their full beauty. Together, a picture was painted so extravagant, rich in emotion and meaning that when looked upon, my eyes burn with pleasure. A beautiful gift that lie far beyond any mortal's reach. Hilariously, the train car window that which present such astonishing beauty, was surrounded by a machine that is held together by paperclips and string. A cheaply designed space with two dilapidated cushioned seats sitting towards one another. Strange stains dotted these seats, a gross selection of dark browns, yellows and reds. A faint scent of rot accompanies these colors, its origin remaining unknown, lost among the many rat-eaten holes and crevices. The disintegrating wooden walls were next to pointless as they held no secrets shared between passengers to go unheard, making the ever-present silence a true tribute to our torpidity. So thin and weak that were I to lightly press with a finger upon its soft decrepit surface it would crumble to dust.

I share this dreary car with another. A man wearing a single moth-bitten coat, a ripped pair of stained jeans, one sock on his right foot, which of course has a hole where pale, scarred flesh can be seen. A baseball cap is pulled low over his face, making it hard to truly identify his features save for his greying, disheveled beard. It would not shock me if the smell were to be emanating from him, not like it would matter. My head swam with thoughts as my eyes burn once more with vivid emotion captured within an ever-moving wooden box. We both are on the same path. To a city, a new concrete prison to be held captive in, the keys to our lives being thrown far beyond our reach. Where we will work till our bodies rot and melt onto our tools, adding to another layer of disgust and filth. Where, far behind its high concrete walls and far beneath its surface, grim finality awaited. I lean against the jittering wooden wall in an attempt to gain some form of composure. My body refuses to obey, shaking in a traitorous display of emotion. How have I fallen so far? 

From the moment I could comprehend words, it was constantly hammered into my vulnerable skull that I was to be another cog in the great machine that makes the world go 'round. That I will be skillful. That I will be a hard worker. And, from the moment I could handle tools, I worked to become just that. Screwing, hammering, nailing, my hands were always working, dismantling, rebuilding. At the age of seven, I could already build my own einvolcar, fully capable of taking an individual anywhere among the preset paths throughout our district. There was always some form of pride to be derived from seeing your creation, that which you have worked tirelessly to bring to life, move and function. There was no machine that was safe when I sought to see its inner workings. However, as I hammered, screwed, welded and brazed, I felt the piercing gaze of my parents drilling holes into the back of my young spine. I could feel their disappointment. So, I worked harder, faster, more efficiently, all to please those who I loved. Sadly, it was not my ability in my craft that which brought their draconian gaze, it was the pleasure gained through each swing of the hammer. But, I wouldn't understand why I was forced to cease what I loved. Not until many years after. As sudden as their transformation from parent to manager had been, so was my transfer from mechanic to desk worker. From calloused hands to carpal-tunneled wrists.

When I was eleven, I finally mastered the household mainframe. I knew every route data would follow to be processed, how to neutralize foreign information, enter other devices connected to our network effortlessly, and make repairs when needed. These were soulless tasks, watching numbers change and move in an endless cycle. My fingers were ever working, tapping away at the many keys on the keyboard, the many tools at my disposal. With each passing day, less thought was spent on when my next break would come, and more on how productive I can be. Whither there were further barriers to pass, whither I could get better still, a glistening cog, ready to turn with the others. Another year passes when finally, having decided that I was ready, my managers shipped me off to our district's educational facility.

At the very center of our district, a massive concrete bunker sat like a gateway. Thousands of individuals walk beneath the grand stone archway, guided only by the thought of being the most systematic, the most robotic of all. We pass through to be properly trained in what is considered to be a professional setting. A simulation of what is to come. Human contact is strictly forbidden here for the hunt for individualistic perfection is only halted by the interference of others. To prevent the corruption of capabilities, individuals were locked in bright cube-like rooms. Two fluorescent lights always glared overhead like malevolent suns, never lapsing in their ability to cast light upon this soulless existence. Even in the darkest hour of the night, where even those striving for perfection in skill and craft must shut eyes for the next morn, their immortal gaze never once blinked. As lifeless as the rest of the cube-like room, a single steel cot is provided. A slab of cleanly cut metal that seems to have been bolted into the wall's perfect surface, sticking out like a pimple on a prepubescent's face. Sitting upon a similarly perfect slab of metal supposedly standing in as a desk, stood my newfound god. Designed for simplicity and ability, there were only two parts to this immortal being: its monitor, and the holographic pad that comes with it, a multitool that stood in as a keyboard for my time consumed within this concrete womb. For the next four years, this brick would be my home. What few forms of food and drink I needed were delivered from a small slit in the door. It always came on a lifeless steel tray, without fail, at seven o'clock. This was the only meal I was served daily. Every day at four o'clock, an alarm would scream me awake, and at every ten o'clock, an alarm would scream me asleep. Every waking moment was spent on given assignments which I would receive through my ever-watching deity.

I hated it. Its slim design, its ghostly unblinking eye that which joined the malevolent suns in their gaze, its incomparable importance to my very existence, the very assignments that which it tasked to me. It disgusted me. Yet, I worked. Each passing day sapping more of me, than the last. The perfect, gleaming walls that which surrounded me each moment of my four years, drew closer with each tap of the finger. I grew claustrophobic as the walls bore down on me. Unseen hands began to grasp my neck, gradually choking the life from my eyes. Sleeping became an impossibility and the wailing alarm became my newfound love for my eyes were able to finally be torn away from my killer. As my sight began to swim with my sanity that which pooled and flowed down my cheeks, I prayed. My hands grasped my holopad. I swore fealty to its ghostly light, offered it my very being in utter desperation. Then began to tap away. However, a newfound desire was birthed within me. I only wanted to please my perfect, steel god. I put as much effort as humanly possible into my work, allowing any personal thoughts, emotions, memories, to slip away. As more fell away, the hands that which crushed my mind loosened their grip. This only drew me to allow more of myself to disappear and soon enough, I did.