Chapter 1: DUSK
In summer days like those, urban infantry becomes a hostage of the clenching heat, stuck between the sky and pavement ovens. Humble, grape-clustered commuters try to hide under the moderate available islands of illusive shades at bus stations, while the fully exposed walkers helplessly withstand sun’s radiation driven by their life agendas. With no sanctuary for the destitute pedestrians, all outdoor activities become soaked in sweat. The ultimately loyal corporate foot-servants submissively hold on to their suit and tie costumes, while the less automated individuals opt for a diverse selection of robes and shields.
Dusk was sitting in the same room which, before her nestlings had fled away to some other zones, used to be hers. Her entire home life style remained confined there, just as if the long gone living arrangement had never been changed. Although everything seemed ordinary, her life was somehow tending to take a gloomy turn and her brain’s recent, but acute, swallowing mental disorder was slowly taking its toll.
The cheap, long not maintained air conditioner in Dusk’s apartment emitted a very strange smell, and once she persuaded herself that it was unhealthy to use it anyway, all she had left was the natural ventilation, as a bogus source of chill.
So, there she was, with her more than ten-years old sofa bed, the fifty-eight years old soul, and with yet another bizarre corporate document resting on her laptop screen for translation.
Dusk briefly gazed at the neighbouring modern block of buildings. And next to that window, in the corner, stood her notorious cabinet with a hefty drawer designated for the piling up, pending bills and tax fees. As she glanced at it, the pain in her stomach and chest spread, releasing a choke of desperation.
In her quarantined work-from-home environment, Dusk continued typing, with a background TV-live buddy. The news about the latest terrorist attack made her stop working. She watched and listened because she wanted to see and hear. Her mind was triggered. It started processing and interpreting the meaning of terrorism as a social phenomenon. Has it been a companion of human race, trenching the targets both as preys, and troopers; as members and sufferers, all infected by the same universal syringe?!
Dusk’s new, inner misery urged her to deal with the questions about terrorist tentacles and how they found ways to peak, sneak and infiltrate in her family bubble.
The whole thing seemed so huge, with such a tremendous impact on humankind in general; with many questions about its roots, consequences, reasoning, functioning, and the programmed recruits.
And, there was Dusk, just another climacteric female leftover, lolled in her sofa, meddling with language interpretations and fighting with the discomfort in her stomach. After a period of tranquillity, being once again trapped by her own colourful luggage, this TV news just added fuel to the fire in her mind.
The first terrorist lethal species she had met in person, were her parents.
As far as she could remember, it was sometime around the age of five. Back then, she could not have known that the exposure to terrorism was actually a recruitment procedure; an enlistment of envoys and executors; a trickery used for managing the families.
Her unawareness and the steady merging with a terror group did not make Dusk immune to the hits; on the contrary. Every punch was more painful, leaving lesser space to hide and preserve the sense of belonging and safety, within her house-terrorist-hold. Too often was she left behind to endure, just as any dispensable consumable. And the more punches she got, the more expedient terrorist grew inside her.
After being infected by that concept, it took quite some time, before she became a real follower and a subtle achiever. Usually, terrorists do not perceive themselves as such, and if they sporadically do, the pain of the respective historical wounds, drives them away from any remorse.
But, Dusk’s infection was also followed by the guilt bug. She would often wear sackcloth and ashes, yet never hesitating to neglectfully disregard and betray her vulnerable, helpless, biological dependants. Terrorism was her parental model and a handy self-gadget. Her doings were rooted and shaped by that paradigm, and the absorbed patterns which had been served to her by those she trusted and loved the most as a child.
Now, it was her time to settle up accounts. Of course, Dusk knew and was profoundly aware of her guilt. But, what she did not know was the duration of her sentence, and if she was ever be pardoned.
After all, could and should terrorists ever be pardoned? Has she ever pardoned them?
So, there she was, stuck with this burdensome haversack. It was full of her children’s piled, code-locked memory packages, pressing her chest, causing the pain that spread like a cloud. So many issues and questions were stacked there, haunting Dusk like her own black shadow, like hints of some implied, judgemental and scary messages.
Dusk badly needed to handle the ongoing mind agony which gave her physical shivers and tremor. The growing endless hole settled in her upper stomach, and the captivating fears, were a reason enough to call her old friend, Forger.
“Forger?”
“Oh, hi there, old chump. How’s it going?”
“Listen… I need to see you as soon as possible.”
“Aha. Well, let’s see; how about tomorrow at one?
“Fine. I’ve been waiting for quite some time, you know… now, now things got out of control.”
“Listen, hunn… now worries, gotta go now fix some things, but hang on, and see you tomorrow. OK?”
“Yes, thanks, see you then”.
This calmed her a bit. Forger was a person and a spot where she could seek remedy; perhaps a shredder that could suck all her chaos. And now, for the first time, she also wanted to speak to him about her handicap; an alleged condition planted by her mother that deprived Dusk of being a normal human being. Dusk has never been definitely positive if she was really limping on her right leg.
As far as she could remember, with a reason or not, her mother would have often got carried away by some kind of a pandemic fury, giving Dusk amuck looks, yelling at her about her right leg; sometimes using the cudgel and hitting the leg real hard. So hard that Dusk could not walk. Being as small as she was, she thought it was a way to cure the thing, as mum knew best.
When she started her primary school she was unsure about the visibility of her handicap and whether it was evident or not. Usually she could not help behaving as a cripple, which was not without some profound consequences to her entire life. That phase was just a stepping stone to the intrusion of terrorism into Dusk’s DNA.
