Psychosis: Tales of Horror Page 5
Received Broadcast #0480015 (DALTON)
[static]…
It’s been a very long time since I’ve spoken to you, Those Who Came Before. It’s taken me a very long time to forgive you enough to send you one last message. I work in the lowliest job now, as punishment – I tend the food-patches by the windows. I call them that in my head now, windows, because that is what they are. I told no-one the Truth that I found, and Rowina is not smart enough to piece together the nightmare. Nevertheless, people guessed that I had found something terrible, because they have always felt it somewhere in the deepest parts of their souls, and they fear me now that I know.
I understand now why they so willingly give up curiosity, intellectual pursuit, and exploration of reality, content with mundane milling about, gossip, and social pursuits. They can’t exist any other way. Over the centuries, all those inquisitive like me must have met grisly fates, both physical and mental. Humans must do terrible things to themselves to survive, and I, for my part, have done mine. The fire in my soul is gone now, turned to ash, and I no longer cry at its loss as I once did. I feel nothing. I no longer question, no longer wonder, and no longer dream. Those things brought me to this terrible end.
I have said nothing of expansion to other floors, for this society must remain stagnant to survive. Expansion would mean eventual enlightenment, and then madness. The most basic reason underlying all of our actions is that of survival until ‘the surface’ becomes habitable again. For these people to continue milling about, living, having children, and dying, they must never know that the world will never be habitable again. This is all that we are, forever.
My days are mundane, mechanical, and repetitive. I married Rowina when I came back, because there was no longer a reason not to. She goes through the motions of love no matter how I act, and society mills on no matter what I do. I am no longer an entity of concern. Underneath my numbness, I still feel grief for what was lost, both for the fire in my soul, and for my friend. They already knew Belby was dead before I returned. The way they found out is part of my punishment, punishment I accepted without question. I was the stupid one, for allowing the fire in my soul to push me too far. How could I possibly question a civilization that has survived for so many centuries? How could I think I knew better than all who came before me? How could I possibly think that one man could make a difference in the course of all humanity? Such pride… and my friend paid for it.
I know now why you help us in such trivial ways, Those Who Came Before. I know now why you provide us with medical kits or cans of oil in times of need, but do nothing to fix the world, do nothing to prevent the coming of the dense noxious and poisonous fog that covers the entire world. You can’t face it. You are just like us. You’re not gods, but nor are you lords of technology – you’re simply poor fools. I can almost envision you, running around grinning after listening to our broadcasts from the future, placing a can of oil in a room that would, hundreds of years hence, have a man trapped inside it by rust. A can of oil is a simple solution. A can of oil is easy to be responsible for. A can of oil can be placed, and then, the task completed, can be forgotten while the placer goes back to living his life.
I understand. There are so many insurmountable tasks between us and the stars – this society, this building, the noxious atmosphere, finding and convincing the rest of humanity, the vast distance – it’s simply foolish for me to wish to touch other planets anymore. I’d have to dedicate my entire life to it. There’s too many minds to change, too many technologies to design, too many obstacles for one person to ever matter. It’s too much for me, just like saving us is too much for you. I can’t expect you to give so much of your life to save descendants you’ll never meet. It’s alright. I understand now, the all-encompassing apathy of will that comes once the fire in the soul goes out.
Each day I water the plants, and work hard to keep them growing. Each day I gaze out of the windows, striving to feel the excitement and wonder that I once did, but it does not come. I am constrained to work this patch in particular, because it lies next to the window that carries a grim reminder of the price of my pride. This is my punishment, to work this patch, and perform no other job, until that grim reminder outside the window decays and disappears entirely. Outside, impaled against one of the strangely carved statues, hangs the smashed and decaying body of my friend Belby, his face still bearing that final expression of confusion and fear that resulted from the fate that I, in my pride, led him to. If I could, I would shed tears for him, for me, and for you… but I cannot. I am merely ashes.
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