architect
On the morning of day 195, as Kazimir opened his eyes, memory of a dark image was fading from his mind. He stared at the ceiling until the last remnants of the image were gone, leaving only the gray, unpainted ceiling. His back ached as he got up, like usual. This time it wasn't as intense.
He watched his feet move through the air until they touched the ground. There's strange a sense of satisfaction as he regains stability and control over his movement.
Once his feet were on the floor, he sensed something was off, as if something strange had entered his personal space. He noticed two whiteboard marker pens on the nightstand next to his wife's pictures.
These markers were special, with an erasing sponge attached to their caps. Next to them was a yellow sticky note that read: "I can't be there in person. Here are some pens. The class starts at 9 in the classroom next to the armory. By the way, you look cute while you're sleeping." The note wasn't signed, but Kazimir was sure it was from Alfred.
Dr. Post deemed Kazimir mentally fit. That was enough to assign him a job. As one of the only two architects left in the shelter, he was encouraged to share some of his knowledge with the young members of the community.
In the new system, the council's orders and assignments serve as suggestions and encouragements rather than obligations. He knew he didn't have to go. But for some reason, he chose to go.
Sitting on his bed, waiting for his back to recover, he couldn't help but think.
Why did I agree to this?
Everything feels the same. Everything is the same. Just passing time until death comes.
If everything is the same, why this? Why choose this to spend your time on?
Is it alfred? That unbearable ball of optimism?
No. No. He's always been like that. It has never gotten through.
Is it the doctor? Is this what she meant by distraction?
No, no. If I had become soft, I'd know. I would feel something, or see it at least.
So, why?
I don't know.
I guess... I'll give it a try. See what happens.
Don't overthink it. The end goal is the same. That hasn't changed.
He got out of bed and got dressed. The clothes he chose were not different from usual. A white shirt that used to fit his body. Now hung loosely on him. Black jeans that still fit, though they were a bit loose around the thighs.
He looked in the mirror— a small piece of glass hanging on the wall. He looked at it every day when he woke up.
The face that met him was almost unfamiliar. His skin, once pale, had taken on a faint grey undertone. Dark cracks stretched around both eyes, sharp—like dried rivers branching in a grey desert.
Were those always there? he thought. His breath fogged the glass. When did I get those?
He touched the skin gently. It didn't hurt. Nothing felt different.
So he let it go.