Corpses of War.

Sometimes the world becomes a blur, something you can’t seem to get an accurate focus on, and the blinders society has provided only make things worse. The restraints that they latched onto your body are stiff, as if they were made of metal that had been left out in the rain. The spine of your straightjacket has spikes that press into your flesh, like needles waiting to inject their popular ideas into your blood stream, which is likely to already be black and rotten with their conceded thoughts. Your mind is weakened by the repetitive programs and messages that advertise their expectations, what you are to do every day. And you feel weak, as if the shackles about your ankles are real. You feel pain, and that is reality.

I don’t consider myself a philosopher or anything of the sort, nor do I try to make something small into a big deal because I know the importance of bringing something to the attention of the world, or what’s left of it.

I had always described myself as patient, one who could withstand the worst of waits, especially when it came to standing in line to see my favorite band or the premiere of a new movie. I remember the time I waited to see Funeral for a Friend and how my heart was beating against my ribcage the entire time, and I almost lost my head in bliss once we entered the venue. But that was ages ago, and the band hadn’t been heard from in what felt like years. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I or anyone else I know has gone to see live music. Places for such “frivolous” activities have been closed down, torn down, or burned down since the rise of the Empire seven years ago.

Seven years.

Time sure does fly when…
Wait, no.
I’m not having fun.

For seven years I have watched the Empire rise out of the literal ashes of a natural disaster that we are told was caused by a volcano in southern Italy, and the people took it as if they needed no clarification on the topic. At the time, I was one of those people, a member of the masses that figured there was nothing wrong and that the government would fix the unbelievable downpour of gray ash. It came like constant snowfall for two months straight, burying cars, shops, and even small houses. Roads were blocked off and people couldn’t get to work, and before we knew it there was government one moment and the next we were ruled by a man that called himself the Wolf who was establishing a new country, which he referred to (and is now called by) the Empire.

Some people thought it was a joke, a particularly cruel joke, but a joke nonetheless. There were others who called it an “overnight takeover” of government preformed by a radical political party set on taking control. No one could agree, that is, until our worst fears began to come true. Buildings of all sizes and shapes began to crumble before our eyes under the weight of the ash upon them, left in their own rubble and now useless heap of material. Suddenly we were given food rations; our currency was no longer worth anything. Bread and soup lines began to form daily and only those who got there in the early hours of the morning were likely to leave with at least a slice or cup to his name. Electricity was cut and generally only found in one outlet per living establishment, whether it was an apartment or two-story home. Most people converted to using batteries, but after the first three years of the Empire’s regime they began to become a scarce product and were then saved and only used to power handheld radios or given as gifts. You realize you never really understood the meaning of humble until you find yourself crying of joy over a poorly wrapped pair of batteries your mother and brother had been saving for your birthday.

Before the Empire rose there was never a shortage of clothing and, hell, some people's closets probably looked like shops in themselves, but just like the batteries, new clothes were difficult to come by. Soon black markets for both popped up and before you knew it there were people being taken to prison for selling batteries—batteries, for Christ’s sake—that had come from anywhere outside the Empire, like China for instance.

Education—something I hadn’t been required to take part in for years—is now mandatory for every able bodied member of society. Four days a week I attend classes inside the old private school that I had been enrolled in during my younger years by my pushy mother, having insisted that it was the best school in the area and that her sons would go to this one and this one only. How ironic. The classrooms are covered in new and old layers of ash, each of which is then swept into the corners of the room by the teacher before the “students” arrive. I say “students” because there were very few who attend willingly or openly wishing to be influenced and brainwashed on all topics concerning the Empire. All of these so called “classes” were simply ways to shove propaganda and support of the Empire down our generally unwilling throats. There was no such thing as skipping class; at least you would never want to when the ramifications are considered. If a member of a class is absent without providing proper paperwork as to why they will not be in attendance that day, then the entire class must forfeit their Sundays to take part in an additional religious service.

Sundays are the one day a week that we have off from our “obligations as the people of the Empire,” where we are to spend the entirety of the day sitting around with our loved ones while thinking about “the good of the Empire,” and how it has done so well in taking care of us.

Clearly those who instilled this day have never had to stand in bread lines.

Generally Saturdays are spent cleaning the house and gathering food for the coming week, which roughly translates to waiting in lines for rations while trying to keep the holes in our shoes from allowing any further dirt from getting in. On Fridays we must attend what the Empire calls a “religious service,” but most of us have figured out what it is really meant for. These services are held in the old cathedral that still stands the tests of time and ash, and here is where I, and all other tattooed and pierced members of society, must cover up their body adornments. Such additions to the body are said to express individual thoughts and beliefs, which is not proper during the services because the main focus is on the Empire; because we are all the same in its eyes.

It is inside these walls that I think most about committing suicide, and let’s be honest, I’m sure the majority of the members of my prayer group are thinking the same thing. The services are supposed to help the people better understand what the Empire is doing for them and how everything they do is for the greater good. I called bullshit on all of this a couple years ago, and I’m not the only one, that much I know.

“Mister Scott!”

Mister Scott. That was me. No, my first name isn’t Scott, nor is it my last; it’s my middle name actually. There’s an older man in my class whose first name is Oliver, so he’s allowed to have the first name while I’m stuck trying to remember that in this class I’m referred to by a name that I rarely use otherwise.

Scott.
That just sounds like a pudding head name.

I had been sitting in the back row, far corner of the room just as I always did, jabbing my dried pen into the misshapen, wooden desktop. I don’t even remember what I was doodling, or shall I say, attempting to, all I remember is standing up in a kneejerk reaction sort of way with my arms straight by my side. I tucked the pen inside my sleeve.

“Sister Angela,” I answered, eyes wide as I became aware that I was probably sweating profusely against the gray uniforms they had distributed to us seven years ago. After so many years the sleeves of my shirt and overcoat had shrunk a generous length, exposing more than what was deemed the acceptable amount of skin, which was even worse in my case seeing as how tattoos sprinkle my skin like freckles on a ginger. The waistband of my uniform’s trousers was loose and currently being held together in the back with a safety pin, which was against the rules, but it was better than sending off for a new pair or getting a lashing across the knuckles like the Sisters were supposed to inflict. I learned quickly how to hid my safety pin after my first lashing four ago when the waistline initially started to go. I don’t plan on sharing my hiding technique.

The Sister watched me from the front of the classroom, her wrinkled brow furrowed, which only seemed to make waves in her sagging skin.

“The answer, Mister Scott?”

Fuck.

“The Empire is here to provide for its people. The Empire will protect its people,” I stammered back after a moment, however I knew that wasn’t the answer; everyone in the class knew that. What I had given in reply was like a proper way of expressing, “What was the question? I wasn’t listening,” without getting a ruler slapped across the back of your hand. I learned quickly that, “Uh,” “Um,” and “What?” were not correct reactions in situations such as these.

After what seemed to be the longest moment of the day, the Sister simply frowned and her brow relaxed before she turned back to the blackboard.

“Sit down, Mister Scott,” Sister Angela said, a disappointed and irritated tone about her voice as she returned to scratching across the blackboard with a stub of chalk that seemingly disappeared in her hand it was so small.

Slowly—almost cautiously—I lowered myself back into my uncomfortable, stiff chair before slipping the pen from my sleeve and back onto the top of my desk. This wasn’t the first time I had been caught off guard in class; I’d say it was at least a twice a week occurrence. The Sisters have come to some twisted conclusion that there’s something wrong with me, as if I’m mentally ill or mad; however I know it is nothing along these lines. The C.Y. I had just carved into the deformed desk was proof enough that there were other things on my mind, but it wasn’t because I was mad or mentally insane, no, it was because I believed in something that the Sisters would never even give a glance, something they would likely never mention. Those two letters stood for something that was greater than all of us sitting in that classroom, in all of the classrooms of this school and every single one across the Empire.

It stood for freedom, rebellion.
It stood for the Crooked Youth.