Of the Ages

Everyone will pass away at some point, and what is left here will inevitably fade into nothingness. Like saying goodbye to the bouncy excitement of a puppy vying for one’s devotion or the complex companionship of families and friends, the delight, the drama..., it may feel abrupt or unjustified. It is a fact that what one has now will end, and worse, one cannot predict when it will. How much time is left? That was the thought of a seven years of age boy late at night, lying on his side by the bed facing the cold wall. A dark room with little light seeping from the door, tears swelling on his eyes, as he barely attempted to mute his weak whimper. There is a cloth of bandage around the area of his forehead with visible stains of dried blood. He cannot sleep, more than the thoughts that haunts him in such hours of vulnerability, his senses have become extra sensitive either; there is an emitting warmth of company that provides neither comfort nor solace, and an odd scent that follows the aggressive and echoing hoarse respiration from the darkness. On his back lay his mother deep into slumber, and on her side his father in the same state as the mother, opposite their bed lays another bed where his brother is then sleeping. He is surrounded, stifled, nowhere else to go but suffering—only to choose between, to suffer in silence, meaning to remain still in bed or suffer in vexation, which is to hear a sermon from the mother, for remaining awake late at night. Naturally, the boy chose the false silence, for a long time he was awake, unaware of the passing time, only that it’s still dark.

There was a difficulty opening his eyes, it was mended well by some matter, therefore for a moment he let his eyes remain closed; awake with a mind in haze, the boy inspired deeply to manifest senses and recuperate some conscious peace. He was cold, an unexpected temperature on his part, it might have rained while he was fast asleep, the texture of the bed didn’t feel right also, nor the thickness of the blanket. His body was almost uncomfortable in every aspect. Opening his eyes in immediate curiosity, the boy is met with an unfamiliar ceiling, squinting in confusion and blinking multiple times to really get his senses straight, yet the setting remains unfamiliar to him—looking around, it appears that it is real. In his chest, dread flowed from his heart throughout the veins, sending waves of panic from confusion, incapable of sitting in with a particular thought, changing from subjects to subjects, speculating an explanation for the current predicament. The room was a cell, almost everything was gray, from the walls to the bed, while the pillows and fluorescent light were white. There is no window, though there is a ventilator and is air conditioned. Perhaps it’s a dream or a nightmare, it’s the only feasible explanation, but it cannot be, there’s a felt filter in dreams that makes it known; but what else can this be? No way anyone carried me to this place, for I am easy to wake up, I’d know that… Alone and afraid, he sat at a stainless-steel chair paired with a gleaming stainless-steel table, facing a wall and in the left a large iron door in curiosity. There were faint noises coming from the outside, people talking, he cannot understand what it is and the tone of discussion felt serious yet emotional. Fear surged stronger than before in his body and he went to sit in the bed instead, getting away from the door, taking deep breaths so as to calm himself. Time passed, having no knowledge of the quantity wasted, it felt eternal to him; he got tired from being afraid, instead he was bored—still dreadful. In his pseudo isolation, he was dragged into a rumination, how surreal such an experience is, how dull, how frightening, not much different from his life really. How playing with the neighbors tells the same story over and over again, the drama and its intricacies of humor; how one’s mother is prepared to express her tedious reproof of the child’s conduct; and how one’s brother is also ready to cause physical and psychological torment. Thinking about these things, the boy began to believe that this surreal experience is rather a blessing, that this may just really be a dream, with such realization a decent chunk of relief washed over his body. The boy stared at the iron door, wondering why he had not attempted to open it yet, though well aware of the reason why, he was afraid. Fear is the primary feeling that occupies his insides; but, fear of what? Fear of everything. He is only a small child after all, yet he cannot accept that, he cannot forgive himself for being what he is. A coward. Countless times has that word been used before, especially from friends, what an odd spell that casts one to undergo silly activities, foolish activities… I guess it is because the courageous are loved, adored, and respected—who doesn’t want that? But a self-centered child.

The iron door opened, no one was at the entrance, the other side of the door was too dim to be able to identify the contents of. The boy did not move from his position, he was paralyzed by the anticipation of what darkness lies beyond. A stranger’s gentle yet masculine voice called out to him, “Boy! You may exit the door and sit with us here!” At this point, the boy dissociated and remained sitting in the bed, dismissing the voice, his eyes wandering across the room, trying to keep himself together, in each gaze he switches following the pounding of his heartbeat. An adult man peeked through the door, his features aren’t identifiable though he had a dark aura, clothed in a black suit with a rugged brown trench coat, “kid, it’s okay. Join us.” The boy cannot explain it to himself, but he was suddenly compelled to follow without worry from the invitation. He walked silently into the next room following the motion of the man. It was dim, not a lot of details can be identified; consequently, emphasizing the ones that are identifiable, under a warm orange light five gray cubicles were visible, two of which seemed occupied one space apart from another. In front of the cubicles was a long wooden table, filled with piles of paper and folders, in the middle lay a typewriter and a handbell beside it, where the guy in the trench coat sat. Gesturing at the boy, “you can sit there.” Pointing to the cubicle nearest to the boy’s room. Taking his seat, the confused boy was still relieved that there’s a space apart from the other person in the cubicle. The guy in the trench coat was organizing the files and papers in the table, “Good day to the three of you, please, don’t be alarmed—we’re all aware of how surreal it has been these past few hours for each one of you, at least I am and now you three”, still organizing he coughed in preparation for a long dialogue where he can manage his voice in a monotone manner, calm and raspy “Well, first and foremost I’ll introduce myself, then I’d point out why and how you are summoned into this place. Is that clear?” There was no audible response, the man in the trench coat turned his sight away from the papers and slid his gaze from right to the left end, which is the boy’s spot, they were all nodding. “All still shy, huh?” Remarked the trench coat guy. “I am the appointed chronicler, or annalist if you will, but people made jokes about that so I didn’t like that title much. Do any of you know what that is?” Everyone was still silent, and simply nodded, except for the boy who shook his head. “Okay, I should stop asking you lots of questions if that’s how this transaction will be. But, later on, the three of you will have to talk.” Inspiring, as the chronicler finished organizing the paperwork “a chronicler is someone that records data, in this case, as the chronicler—I will be recording your data, the events of your life in that matter. Now, how and why you are here, perhaps you can already guess; each of you are here because like me you are appointed, except your roles are the subject for this thing” pointing to the files he was organizing earlier. Continuing in the same manner, “how you got here is—well, it’s complicated. Someone transported you here, we all have our own jobs and that’s not mine; you’d remain here for an indefinite amount of time, till I record full well your stories at least, and that may take a while. Don’t worry about getting home, about time and such, it is handled already, your surreal case should speak for itself and no worries it’s safe here. If you checked the drawers you should see foods and drinks, and stationaries to fill your time with.” The boy immediately checked his, the upper drawer was filled with simple stationery such as paper, pencil, and eraser. The lower drawer is much larger, it was a fridge, the beverage was all water and the food was bread and biscuits, the boy was kind of disappointed. The other two checked theirs also, they didn’t have much of a reaction to go to, so the boy assumed they had the same contents of resources. “What if we don’t participate accordingly?” a voice similar to the chronicler spoke, it was a guy on the opposite end of the boy. “Then, you won’t leave here, simple as that.” The chronicler gave an associative smile, “none of you have any power here, if you want to leave right away, then cooperate.” That was the plan of the boy from the beginning, cooperate, follow, and whatnot. Though it surprised him why he’s not totally opposed to the situation, no desire to retaliate. Perhaps, he is indeed dreaming, or he has accepted his powerlessness. “Since you spoke first, we’ll start from you.” The atmosphere changed, all of a sudden it felt tense in the room, the chronicler was intent on looking at the corner, the position of the one in question as of now. “Listen, the three of you, each of you has the same question, you can think about the answer as the one speaks their part. Then, we will have a revision afterwards, we’ll repeat the process and polish our data. You don’t have to introduce yourself, just give your response in a story. Do you all understand? Okay, then.” “What has happened to the past seven years of your life? What is the most significant event, person, and lesson that you’ve acquired from such experiences? How did it come to that? Then, what are the things that you are most opposed to? Why?” As it happens, the three people in the cubicle began writing the question so that they can meditate on it. The first one told his story with reluctance and timidity and crispness in his voice, surprising enough the chronicler is correcting his story from time to time, giving all of them a sense of fear in the accuracy of their story, wondering the extent of this chronicler’s knowledge, if he’s omniscient, like a god, or an extremely creepy fellow that stalks people. Yesterday was his birthday, no one recalled. He’s twenty-one now, seven years ago, he would be fifteen. It was the beginning of a vital transformation in his disposition, this was the time where severe headaches began to uncontrollably taunt his everyday life. Enduring this pain of unknown cause, aside from the mystery of puberty, it became apparent to him how far apart he is from the rest— it is only with himself he can confide with, in curious speculation of how odd people are, at how feasible for them to rejoice at unpleasant behaviors. Gradually, what felt an eternity to him was in fact months in reality; beginning with a feeling of distance, he applied it to reality and parted with his peers, with his supposed friends ceasing from conversing with them—none bothered to seek him out either, therefore confirming his understanding that it is due for separation with the latter group, and that all had this quiet understanding it’s over for them. For a while, he lived amongst the masses without companions from intimacy to a personal one; from time to time he follows a circle of people from here and there, to at least entertain the social aspect of fitting in. Though, he never lasts a year in any group. Due to the longevity of his solitude, he ceased perceiving himself as a person but rather an object imbued with ideas—ideas that captivates his spirit to a descension, concluding to an ideation for total oblivion. Beginning to devise a plan, “by the end of this year, I’d kill myself… In the meantime, I’ll be an actor—play a mildly frenzied character, make people love me, become impressionable—just so my death may cause some people at least, to really think about life.” And so thus his plan was enacted, he became a lively fellow with a creative way to portray a variety of scenarios and ideas through dialogue. Of course, there are certain elements to a person that no matter how they try, cannot be changed, which is—his aloofness leaks from time to time, and still he doesn’t have any close relationships. Yet some people have felt as though they were close, as he has become transparent in his expressions, open and honest, to him, it didn’t matter. One day, he just woke up and felt warmth and desperation for the attention of his classmate, one that speaks to him a lot—telling her stories, experiences in old schools and comments on pop culture, she has this innocent vigor in her conduct that simply touches him unknowingly. For three days, he reflected on the revelation, dreary and feverish sinking in the warm and sweaty bed; fragile and palpitating, he mustered the courage to confess his adoration of her. It surprised the young woman, understandably, imposed sharp questions as to why he felt the way he did. He responded with a superficial response and when she was not satisfied with it, when he attempted to elaborate, she was interceding him—causing him to collapse and dissociate. When he came, he’s here.

The time that passed was unknown to everyone. The boy didn’t listen to the young man’s story, being tranced over the question given by the chronicler. It was the middle guy’s turn to share his part, his voice was raspy as well, but modest. His story was short, since his response was on point. "I don’t recall much, most of my life is just at home and the school.” “That’s fine.” Respond to the chronicler, thinking the middle one was being defensive.

Like he said, his life is majorly dictated between the environments of home and academia; He never misses class, even though he is not a serious learner. His willingness to attend may have something to do with the fact that his classmates were the only people he truly had as friends. They weren’t close because they all shared the same interest in the class, but he still valued his friendships greatly. There was a reluctance after providing context in his part, “there’s no singular event that I can consider significant”, silence permeated the room once again, continuing suggestively “unless, it’s the everyday transaction, meaning the lesson about it— the ones I meet are precious? Or do social relationships cultivate life? To be honest I’m not sure, I haven’t thought much about it, and the time given to us isn’t really enough. It’s probably that—the most significant event in my life is every day and the lesson I discovered from it is friends are a wonderful thing to have; as to what I oppose, I don’t like aggression, for the simple reason that it feels unpleasant, it exudes just that. I guess that’s it, the end.” “That’s fine, it’s insufficient information, but as I have mentioned we’d repeat the process to attain a satisfying level of verisimilitude.” Remarked the chronicler. This time the boy listened, aware that it was his turn, a sudden wave of fear leaped through his chest attempting to compose himself, deeply inhaling subtly. The chronicler looked at him, “well, it’s your turn now, take your time.” For a long time, the boy didn’t talk, it was as though his mouth was shut—removed. The chronicler, seemingly unfazed by the situation, reminded the kid that there are people waiting for his cooperation. “Do you want me to ask questions and just answer from each accordingly?” The boy nodded. The boy’s farthest recollection was vivid in age; being in a zoo, being lost in the market, and beginning to enter kindergarten, he’s in 1st grade now. His life is pretty average, typical family and friends. According to him, the most important experience occurred when he witnessed his puppy fighting for its life against a serpent, and died. The chronicler asked about the cloth in his forehead, and the boy explained that it was an aftermath of stumbling on his steps at the stairway. The chronicler asked the boy to continue about the dog and the serpent, the boy expressed that it was the most important event in his life, as coincidentally it is a recent experience that made an impression on him; the experience invoked such deep emotions concerning loss, that he cannot help but cry and when his family and friends saw him, they laughed at his condition aware of the situation—more than loss and mortality, he learned to keep things that mattered to him only to himself, for the sole reason that it mattered to him, and things that he cares about, the boy is particularly sensitive to. Consequently, vulnerable, with a threshold prone to an unspeakable degree of pain. The boy’s turn was over. The boy was relieved that it’s over. The chronicler told them that they cannot go home just yet, but allowed each, one-by-one, to take a leak while the others remained seated. When all of them are back at their own cubicle, the chronicler coughed to get their attention. “Well, all of you gave a rather dull record of your experiences. It’s pretty decent actually, especially you” pointing to the first one that shared his story, then pointing at the middle and the boy, “you two, not so much. But you’re just kids, so it’s fine.” The chronicler went silent, succumbing to a pensive state, glancing from time to time to his papers, back and forth from those papers to the three people. “I guess that makes sense… not really.” The boy has dissociated fully at this point, not understanding the situation, thinking that it would take a while for his turn once again in speaking, for the revision of the record. The chronicler continued, “the consistency is amazing… I don’t get it, I really don’t, which is perfect.” The room was silent; no distractions of any kind, the attention revolved around only to the chronicler, “I said, if you want to get out of here cooperate accordingly. Yet, all three of you just flat out lied.” “Huh?” The first speaker, uncontrollably, responded. The boy was confused, not paying any attention to the situation. The middle one seemed indifferent, no reactions at all. As the chronicler finished saying it, he stood up and grabbed the handbell and rang it. The room was lit and met with the clear visage of the chronicler. Guards in dark clothing went into the room from all five doors. The boy was startled, as the situation escalated into a more incomprehensible predicament, partly he is not fond of crowds. They were all tied down, no one resisted, into the chair of their cubicle. The boy, reluctant to look at anyone, still looked as if the truth must be faced now. Tilting his head, he saw the whole room, he saw the faces of the guards, the face of the chronicler, and a guy in a laboratory gown preparing something in a tray. The boy, well, the boy felt confused—everyone had the same appearance, with a scar on their forehead. Unaware, he was injected with something by the person in a laboratory coat. Back to the setting before, the chronicler smiling, “well, boys, how about we start the revision now.”