I walk.
Walking is all I can do. Walking is all anyone can do.
Some walk to the end. Some walk to the beginning.
Today, I am of the former.
The mud makes walking difficult, more than before. Those who depend on my walking do not care if the mud slows my progress. They expect me to continue walking. Soon, others might walk for me, but of this I have my doubts. What was once is no longer true. I remember this as so.
I am old and I have little time remaining in which to walk.
My first memories were of the end. I remember the colors, the smells of baked goods, and seeing birds in flight.
I also remember space.
I had space in which to play. I could run and jump without even seeing another, let alone touching another.
Let alone, tens of thousands touching me.
I took some shelter under an awning, squeezing between the three waiting for orders to walk to the beginning. The instant the first turned to his left, I wedged myself into the space. I claimed “rights by vision” in that I actually saw the wood plank before I sat. The smart ones respected this right.
They respect few others.
How long I remained is a question for another to answer. I sat, legs pulled up against my chest, feet pointed upward (as was the custom), flat against my shins, thus permitting those walking toward the beginning to remove the mud as they brushed past.
As a child, so many people touching my feet would make me ticklish. As an adult, I remain happy just to see my toes uncaked from their daily clay encasement.
Nightfall brings my assignment and my rations. To live in town, I may eat only half of what I earn. The rest pays for my stay among the thousands living with me. It is not enough to balance the work I do, but it is enough to wager against another’s in a game of chance. Among the hundred in close proximity to me, always in close proximity to me, I take the chance on a single coin flip.
Lady Luck looks favorably upon me.
I quickly eat his ration before the other winners eat theirs. Later, they will eat from tonight’s loser who is too weak to fight back. One less face will never be missed. Not when you cannot see past the crowds.
I walk the muddy path toward the beginning. The smell of food on my breath keeps me uneasy. I am not making time today. Too many people out today. Too many bumps from those bumping. The mud is too thick and the sky too gray. I got lucky last night. I am not so lucky today.
The first punch came from my left. The next from the right. I fell to avoid the ensuing pushing and kicking that inevitably follows. The rule is to (try) curl and roll away from the melee, preferably against a building or a wall. In doing so, one encounters only a few who can reach you to continue beating you. Why such a fracas begins is of no consequence. Only surviving counts. While curled, I absorbed a groin kick that left me unconscious. Only the fall woke me.
Perhaps I was out for an hour, perhaps more. Where I am is still a mystery. I am in shock when I gather my senses.
I am alone.
I am alone in a room. For the first time in decades, I can move without touching another.
Or being touched by another.
The room is magical in its spaciousness. Akin to my bedroom as a child, it is habitable. Its entry must be from a false (horizontal) panel on the ground outside. When I hit the panel, it released and I fell. Small slits in the stone permit some light to enter. I want to scream. I want to tell the world.
But first, I want to sleep.
The room is large enough for me to lay down and sleep. The wood flooring is a relic of another time. I think it is pine, but I know it is warm to the touch. I stretch my limbs to their fullest extent, slowly hearing my muscles protest against an action now deemed foreign. For the first time since this nightmare began, I can sleep as all humans are meant to sleep. I can dream. I can breathe. But mostly, I can sleep without the touch of others seeking such solace.
And sleep I did.
When the slits in the wall displayed a brighter light than normal, I realized the Sun was rising and so should I. I was covered with dried mud. I missed my appointment and I was hungry.
The room now displayed its spartan contents in all of its grandeur. The ceiling was green. For the first time in years, I am seeing the color green. Except for the mud I tracked in, the floor was clean. The false panel was higher up than I was tall, though not by much, so leaving was going to be difficult, but not impossible.
The room held me spellbound. So much so, I did not notice the other occupant lying on the floor, covered in mud.
He was unconscious from both the fall and his wounds. Like myself, he has no possessions. His breathing was erratic and both arms were broken. From the looks of his injuries, he wouldn’t last for long.
But, he would awaken, and when he does, he will make noise. Then my room will no longer be mine. I have neither food nor medical supplies in which to care for him. But I do have a knife and I know what I have to do.
The streets are still muddy. Today I walk toward the end. Later, I will wager what could have been my ration on a coin toss.
If I win, I will trade for some salt. In my youth, I learned to make jerky. In the morning, I will awaken under a green sky while relishing my new breakfast.
All by myself.
Andy Betz has tutored and taught in excess of 40 years. He lives in 1974, and has been married for 30 years. His works are found everywhere a search engine operates.