Light in the Dark- Chapter One
Note: This chapter’s song is Aftermath by Caravan Palace.
The lights are constants
They may be gods
Who cannot die
Until they do
-From the journals of Edith P. Rose
It’s darker than normal today. It’s nearly impossible to see through the fog today, but that’s fine by me. The street lamps are the only thing cutting through the thick veil of smoke and fog right now, shining like little fireflies in the darkened street. I’ve never really been fond of fireflies, though. Those bugs, just like the lamps, are idolized for no reason. They’re replaceable, and whether you realize it or not, they are replaced. Even so, I can’t seem to suppress the urge to be in their glow.
I haven’t left my apartment in a few days, save for a few brief trips to my balcony, and it’s nearly pitch black, save for my small government-issued light. It’s a relic from long ago, made to be a decoration for lucky people in the Before. It’s shaped like a candle, and flickers like one, but it’s inside is wires, not wax. It’s battery is dying, but I’m too afraid to send in a request for another one. My position may no longer be critical enough to warrant the precious resource, or perhaps there’s simply no more light left.
The street lamps are the brightest source of light we know, and the government will do anything to keep them on, including stealing power and batteries from any light source they can get their hands on. My apartment, located on the third floor of a big building that probably used to be an office, was ransacked a long time ago. They say that in the Before, every apartment had enough lights to power a whole row of street lamps for a whole year.
Nowadays, you have to have a ‘critical position’ to be allowed even one light, and I barely hang on the ragged edges of that cutoff. I am a writer, and my job is to write. There are somewhere around a hundred writers like me, but the number seems to shrink near daily. As a writer, I’m supposed to write things that will cheer people up. I write about ways to spice up rationed dinners, how to conserve power, fun activities you can do in the dark, and whatever else the government sees fit at the time.
It eases fears to have this useless and meaningless information around, so it’s pumped through radios and given to people in the monthly papers. I don’t really enjoy writing it, but my other choice is hard labor in the fields or the factories. I’d rather be writing something more interesting, something with rhythm. In the Before, there were millions of people who wrote, and they all wrote different things. There were people who wrote exciting things, stories of worlds that had never existed.
It’s hard to come by the stories anymore, most of the books were burned during the early days of the After to make more light. My father used to have one, but he sold it when I was younger so we could eat. That was before the days of the rationing, when people were still trying to provide for their families themselves. Now, though, everyone gets food weekly at the market. I haven’t been by this week, but I should probably stop by soon. My shelves are barren, and I know that I haven’t eaten today. I barely notice the hunger anymore, but I know that I need to be careful not to starve myself.
I stand up from my small table and push in my only chair, making sure to keep everything neat. Even though I never have visitors, and I myself can barely see the place, I find it important to keep things clean. A messy room would be a dangerous variable in my already uncertain life. I could step on something sharp, or trip and break a bone. All that would just be a waste of time, and it’s already easy to be tidy when I barely own anything.
With only a small glance out the window, I can tell that I will need a thick mask today. The smog is dark, and so is the world. It’s really hot today, so I pull on a thin shirt and shorts. Fashion is pretty much dead, so I’ve never felt shame in going out in my unmodified tees. There’s really no point in dressing up to go out, you can’t see anyone else unless they’re less than a foot away from you.
I have three masks right now, and they’re all different strengths. I choose the strongest one today, place it carefully over my nose and mouth, and then grab my bag. In the Before, people used different bags every time they went out, and the market would just hand them out for free. I use one bag, and it carries only what I need. Enough food for the week.
I do a final glance around my room before I leave, making sure everything is where it’s supposed to be. I’m always cautious, and I fear that something bad could happen in my hour-long absence. You can never be too careful. And of course, my notebook lies open on the table, almost as if to taunt me, to feed my ever present and ever growing panic. I hurriedly close the notebook and slide it into its drawer with the false candle. Of everything I own, the light is the most valuable by far, and I’m always careful to keep it hidden when it’s not in use.
I quickly slip out of my apartment, careful to shut the door as soon as I can. The hallways of the building are usually clear of smog, but even indoors, you can never be safe from its grasp. Lots of people just wear their masks indoors these days, but I hate the idea of always having a restrictive cloth over my face. I already hate wearing it as much as I do.
The halls of the building are darker than my apartment, and if I hadn’t grown up here they would probably be difficult to navigate. I make my way to the stairwell and start climbing down, clinging to the railing as I always do. Falling down the stairs would be an unnecessary injury. Getting to the first floor, I take a second to catch my breath before pushing open the doors and heading out.
The streets seem clear, but who can tell. The market is a few blocks left of the apartment building, and I can usually get there by following my instincts and my ears. Nobody goes outside if they don’t have to, people are a danger. You could bump into someone, get into a wreck with one of the rare motorized vehicles if you’re not careful enough. Nobody wants to risk it for interactions they could have on paper.
It’s eerie outside, the street lamps’ yellow glow seeming somehow dimmer than normal. The fog grows thicker as I walk, but I shake it off. I just need to get to the market and pick up my rations for the week, then I can go home and relax. I don’t know if it’s night or not, but it hardly matters. Without the small clock on my radio, I have no idea what time it is, and the radio always stays at home. It’s not a light, but it runs on precious batteries, and there are white market traders who would do a lot to get their hands on a double a.
My walk seems to be taking longer than normal, but that doesn’t surprise me. When the fog is this thick, it’s easy to get turned around. Luckily for me, I was walking in a straight line. I dig through the pockets of my shorts and pull out a piece of lint and an old crumb. I put the lint down in front of me and the crumb behind me and turn around until the two are switched in my vision. When you can’t even see your feet, it’s easy to get turned around or second guess yourself, so I use the lint trick when I’m feeling nervous.
I keep walking, but I don’t feel like I’m going in the right direction. I’m sure that the lamps are growing dimmer at this point, their yellow glow seeming diminished. I keep looking to my right, hoping to catch a glimpse of the marketplace, or even my apartment building. I’m getting uneasy, but I know that if I stop walking I’ll lose my way. I can start to feel the pollution’s stink stinging my nose through the mask, and I press my hand against the mask, holding it tightly so it doesn’t slip.
I start to hear voices through the fog, and I exhale. If there are people, there’s a safe space somewhere close, somewhere indoors where I can catch my breath and wait for the fog to clear up a bit. As a part of the Commandments of the After, all buildings in which the air is clear enough to breathe without assistance must offer temporary shelter to any citizen in need of it. Lots of people complained about that law, but I think that now everyone understands that it’s what needs to be done. I see a distant light flicker, and I take off running towards the sound. I feel my feet hit pavement, the uneven surface making my sprint slow to a nervous jog.
I keep going towards where I thought the voices came from, but they seem to have disappeared. I find myself standing right next to a streetlamp, and I clutch onto it. I can stand here and wait for the fog to clear a bit, and when it does, I’ll hear someone out and about eventually. Not the best plan, but if I keep running, I’ll be using too much of the damaged air for comfort. I let myself slide down and sit on the cold ground, the muted glow of the lamp barely visible through the curtain of smog but there nonetheless. I hear a loud crack in the distance, and I jump up. Noises that loud are almost always alarms, but that hadn’t sounded like any alarm I had ever heard. I stand, poised to run, and then the lamp goes out.
