Happy Pills - The Story of Kevin Free

Initiation

  The night was dark, and spattered with silver stars that glowed with a cool light. The breeze was light, just strong enough that you'd barely notice it, and carried only the lightest of chills.
It has been years, though no one knows exactly how many, since this specific ritual had been conducted. The people of the town, anyone who wished to be involved, stood in a circle. The light of the candles they held were cast on to two figures. A man who was not young, and a man who was not old.
  "Are you ready?" Asks the man who is not young in a raspy baritone voice.
  "Ready as I'll ever be." The man who is not old sounds cheerful, and flashes a toothy smile. He doesn't know what the ritual will do to him, but he knows what it means. The man who is not young will become the new Voice of Desert Bluffs. Every town in this bleak desert had a Voice, and taking that ever so important mantle required going through the ritual. It was said that no ordinary mortal could take the job, though no one was quite sure why. No one ever remembered the ritual after it had passed.
  The man who is not young puts his hands on the shoulders of the man who is not old, and so the ritual begins. The man who is not young speaks the spell softly, and the man who is not old can feel his skin begin to burn. He does not cry out. He somehow knows, without truly knowing, that he must not make a sound.
  One by one, ancient symbol begin to appear on his skin. These signs, passed down through generations of Voices, grant gifts that have since been forgotten. No one knows that this is the source of such power. No one remembers. Such is the nature of the ritual. However, participating means knowing briefly the ancient knowledge that tomorrow will seem like a dream you can't quite remember.
  The first symbol is for translation. The second, protection. The third, courage. And so on, all the way up one arm and down the other. As they appeared and burned like molten gold on the skin of the man who was not old, they faded off of the skin of the man who was not young.
  The man who is not old closes his eyes, and bright visions begin to unfold. The entire history of his town spreads out before him like a drop of ink spreading out across a sheet of paper. Everything, every memory of every person, every sight and sound, flows in and then out of the mind of the man who is not old. He sees everything. He remembers none of it.
  More and more symbols take their places on the arms of the man who is not old, going dark as they settle on the skin and giving the appearance of what one might consider to be tattoos. There are many of them, but they all feel the same. A sharp, harsh burn, accompanied by a glow, which then fades to a still warmth.
  The stars seem to burn with a renewed passion, glittering coldly just out of reach like the eyes of the elder gods as they watch over the ritual.
  The man who is not young feels weaker as the power leaves him, but he resigns himself to it. His time as the Voice is over, and this ritual is a necessary step in the continuation of the town's existence.
  All that I am, thinks the man who is not old, all I ever will be, it all changes after tonight.
  Though it is an odd thing to think about, he knows in his heart that everything is about to be very different.
  A low hum fills the air, and the man who is not old begins to feel dizzy and light. The stars blur above him and, acting on instinct, he tips his head back.
  The man who is not young takes out a sharp object, The object that had appeared to tell him how to do this, and would disappear along with the memories of this when it was over. He touched the sharp object to the forehead of the man who is not old.
  This was the most dangerous part of the ritual, and the man who is not old finds himself unable to move, other than the release of his jaw as he lets out a primal scream. It is involuntary, and it is not a scream of pain, but rather of power. As the wolf cries out to honor the moon, so too did the man who is not old cry out to honor the ancient gods that blessed him with the role he was destined to take. This was the moment that he, if he was not truly meant to be the one to take the mantle of the Voice.
  The sharp object cuts the skin, and surely enough, the man who is not old has the mark. No blood is shed as a new eye, a third eye, gazes for the first time upon the vast expanse of the night sky and the endless void beyond. He is still screaming, still howling, and the sound cuts the still air like the sharpest of knives. A beautiful, clean cut. Had you heard it, you would have understood the power that it conveyed. You would have felt proud. Honoured. But you would never remember it.
  Abruptly, the screaming stops and the man who is not old falls to the ground. His head is still tipped back, and now all his eyes are open as he looks towards the distant, distant lights that glow coldly on our earth.
  "Rise, Kevin Free," says the man who is not old. "The new Voice of Desert Bluffs."
Shaking, the man who is not young manages to get to his feet, and he looks around at the silent people around him. His people. He was chosen for this, and in the candlelight their fixed eyes seem to shimmer with something that echoed pride and approval.
  He speaks clearly, addressing all of them, addressing the world, addressing the empty desert and the sky itself, as if it is his first time being heard. "I will not let you down. I swear it."
  No one answers him, and yet they all smile knowingly. The night is once again silent and still. A lone figure stands, watching from afar. A stranger. The stranger will not remember this either. The stranger feels what everyone else feels, though they do not know anyone here, or why they feel this way. They do not understand, and it scares them, but they cannot look away.
  For an instant, for an eternity, time stands still. People wait with held breath beneath the moonless sky, watching the man who would now speak to them and for them, and they felt happy. But it was not happiness as one might experience it in daily life. It was happiness on a cosmic level. Nothing was wrong, and everything fit into it's place, and surely if the stars could have aligned then they would have in that moment. Pride, faith, and joy, all melting together into a single, solid emotion. Everything made sense.
  Slowly, so very slowly, the illusion began to fade. One by one, the people of the town left, unsure of why they were there, unsure of what they had done, unsure if it had or hadn't all been a dream.
  Before long, the only ones remaining are the man who is not old, and the man who is not young.
  "You'll do great," says the man who is not young.
  "Are you sure?" The man who is not old, who felt so confident only minutes ago, is now terrifyingly aware of just how small his place in the universe is, and just how large his place in the town has become.
  "Yes," the man who is not old tells him. "Have some faith in yourself, Kevin. The fact that you survived this long is all the proof I need to know this was the right choice."
  "Right..."

  Kevin would wake the next morning knowing what had happened, but unable to remember how. Not that it mattered. There were many things the residents of Desert Bluffs didn't, couldn't, or wouldn't remember. All that mattered was that life went on in spite of the questions that bubbled and hummed at the back of the mind. Life went on. It always had, and it always would.
In the light of a new day, a man who is not old walks down a road that is, in fact, very old. Likely older than him. He does not pause to consider it's history, and instead moves forwards with purpose and excitement. This is, after all, his town, and one does not need to know or understand the history of a place to know that it's where they belong. In the process of walking down the road, muscle memory by now, he does pause to consider one thing.
  Everything is the same, but it's also all so different now.
  Bearing that in mind, the new Voice enters the radio station with some new things to say.