An Unnamed Adaption

Part I: To Have It All Explained…Is To Have Just Begun

Chapter One: Conscious

5:40 am. My alarm bell had rung for the fifth time that morning. Sleep should be irrelevant, unnecessary, and unsatisfying, but that day, like any other day, was fulfilling a need, a need that caused me to disown reality. I hated sleep and loved it as if it was a constant satisfier. I hated it because it pushes me from reality but I love it because it is an escape, an outlet for all emotion. I couldn’t remember a time since I was twelve years old where I didn’t have such a contradictory relationship with sleep. That night, I dreamt nothing and that was perhaps why I loved it so much. It was nothing; it was devoid of matter and meaning. Some days I’d try to challenge myself to see how many times I could click the snooze button. To wake up, was to be back in reality—something that was much worse than sleep. Most people waste away on sleep.

When I looked in the mirror, I could see nothing but pain. I despised it. Hated it. It was triumph—not my triumph, but the triumph of the basest fear. I stepped into the sputtering shower. How would I know that this day was to be the day that would change my life, my associations, my drives, my passions, and my reality? The water could run for minutes and minutes over my body and face. A shower didn’t wake me up from my endless slumber. I allowed the heat to run around me, but not resonate from me. How would I know that waking up that day was going to be my last day as an outcast—disjoint from society? Perhaps, I’m still an outcast and perhaps, I’m as integrated in society as any human can possibly be.

Nonetheless, that morning began like any other—I’d hit snooze up to five times (ten was my record), think about why I’m waking up, roll out of bed after quiet contemplation, fall into my shoes and clothe myself while stumbling like a being without thought. I wasn’t really that enthusiastic. I’d pour myself a glass of water and eat a fistful of bread since I hadn’t any money. I sat down at my decaying table. It was such a small table. Right in the middle of the room. An explicative of my very existence. Something that nearly failed standing.

In fact, I hadn’t much of anything. My house was a pile of sticks; you know the kind that the Big Bad Wolf blows down in the Three Little Pigs? Yeah that was my house. I had a thatched roof and a wooden box that enclosed me about seventeen feet wide by seventeen feet long. What furniture and artwork I had in the house was next to none. Two pictures rested on a stool. I rarely glanced at them. One was blurred and the other scratched from the war. They were pictures I’d scrapped together after the war.

Not really quite sure how I found them. And if I did, it’s not worth telling. That was long ago. Not even worth the remembrance—except at times when I felt especially down. Maybe like today. I squinted at the figures spread outside in a grassy cemetery. They were both pictures of people in cemeteries. The cabinet squeaked as I set the one glass back. I closed it loudly. The slam sharpened the air—I didn’t so much as blink. The crumb laden floor hid several papers and fliers I’d collected over the years. I couldn’t put them up or anywhere so they lay on the floor. I stepped on them and heard the scrap of paper against particles of dust.

One stool, a table, two pictures, a shower, a glass and what some might refer to as a kitchen. This was my house. Home would be a stretch. I lived in a suburb about five miles from the main city and my transportation to and from work was always walking.

Walking always calmed my nerves and prepared me for the tedious task of pressing TOYS, or Temporary Objects for Young Students as went the acronym. Of course, it was raining—more specifically, pouring—and I was late to work. I hurried through the streets only to remember I forgot my worker identification card—something I had done for the last six days in a row. I’d receive some sort of punishment. Nothing more, nothing less. It was too late. I couldn’t go back to the house. In the past, I’d not only been reprimanded for forgetting my WIC, but I had skipped work to stay in bed and it had become very frequent. Work was the last thing keeping me conscious in this world.

A large splash swept over me as an old Toyota skidded by. The liquid was not water—at least not entirely. Brown mud and gritty rocks stained my clothes. It didn’t matter. I’d look like that walking back home anyway. As it was, the rain continued to soak me. An umbrella would have been useful, but storage or money was not something of a commodity around here.

The travel, once enjoyable, only could serve to tire me. The buildings, in prime, might have resembled a remarkable or lasting appearance, but now I could only see archaic sadness carried over by the presence of rain and soot. Whose world was this? Any person on the street impatiently sidestepped me. What could be liked by a man without the measures of passion and livelihood? I pressed on if only for the thought of gaining less than modest money from work. Lights, bleak and unrecognizing, broke out ahead in a pasty, opaque mosaic. There stood the factory.

A self-described man might have called it a daring venture while the purposeless referred to it as something to work in. It was by no means situated in a significant location nor could its presence be a mark of capitalism. At one time, it had even been non-profit. The buildings around it betrayed its significance and did little to resurrect a booming history. Some windows were shattered from bricks thrown in by anti-supporters. The owner was either loved or hated it seemed. I’d never seen her face, but she was apparently industrious and tough. That had been the modern perspective—until recently.

To me, it was something to work in.

Today, utterly drenched, I arrived to the factory at 8:16 or one minute past when I was supposed to be there. The first person to greet me with a dissonant tone was Kelvin Wetley, my hotheaded supervisor.

You! Kelvin sputtered, wobbling slowly over to me. ‘You’ what an indirect way to say my name. Barren of any meaning but impersonality.

Yes sir? I said without enthusiasm.

You’ve been late six out of the last nine days and today appears to be no exception. You are exactly one minute and eleven seconds late to work today. Your tardiness is inexcusable and you are walking a very thin line today Mr… Of course, he forgot my name. It appears that you forgot your WIC today as well which marks the 7th day in a row. I’m placing you on high probationary status which means that if you are off your quota for TOYS today, I will fire you and strip you of any job in this city. Dutifully note this incident in the log will you. He then added after a pause. Tread lightly.

I nodded my head in understanding. There wasn’t anything to say. I was late, but it hadn’t occurred to me that my job was in danger until then. We had run through that same routine several times but he had never gotten to the point of actually threatening to fire me. What told me this one was particularly different was the fact that he didn’t represent my name in syllabic nonsense or laugh after his insults had settled upon the air. He had stated his point quite—well—pointedly. Then he decided to speak.

Return to your duties… His blond hair was an anomaly amongst the room. He was short, fat, and none too friendly. He had looked away, but remembered something else. And get that stupid quizzical look off your face. I apparently had my own quizzical look all to myself. It was somewhat of an accomplishment.

Yes sir, right away. I said hastily. It was 8:25 and I couldn’t afford to waste any time not making quota—not that it mattered to me. Nothing did, so why would a quota matter? Truth is, he had raised my quota above everyone else’s just to make it impossible to ever accomplish. Why? Just to see me fail—repeatedly. I lived as a result of his desires and wants, not mine. I had never come close to satisfying his quota and I never wanted to—until that day when it was impertinent that I do so to keep my job.

I rushed into the pressing room and quickly set up the machine. The machine warmed up. Click. Click. Click. All three switches were set to the on position and on I went. The sounds of the other workers drove me insane. Chatting and chatting. Always trying to have a good time when there was nothing to warrant it. They knew how to stop though when Wetley came around. I couldn’t afford to be idle like them. Hour by hour, I was on track for the unreachable quota of the day. I was moving fast, too fast. I’d gotten into such a focused mindset that when Mr. Wetley came to check my progress by standing over me, as he did at exactly 6:10 every evening, I spun around and knocked his arm into the presser. In an attempt to catch himself, he pulled down the lever, which pressed his arm into one of the TOYS.

His face contorted into twisted, unrecognizable pain.

He was sent immediately to the hospital. I, on the other hand, was fired on obvious grounds. On his way to the emergency room, he muttered something about pressing full charges against me. That last of my connection to the world was severed and now I had no definable physicality. What was left was a small flicker of a human, a devastated human. My existence was null—a blip of humankind.

And I hadn’t trudged the five mile journey home. A city’s heart was far from its fingertips. I’d wished I could have picked a closer place. Rent wasn’t exactly falling and any resemblance to a cardboard box was charged expense. Authorities rarely traveled near my house or these streets. I never looked forward to the walk. The scenery was ill and droll.

I checked the time, 8:01. In other words: late. The darkest individuals infested many of the streets I had to traverse. Some of them were cast down into this congested pit of suburbia as individuals of lit pasts while others were born and bred impoverished. The final classification was individuals without compassion—the emotion of binding. I crept carefully across those streets. Building and building towered over my steps. This night was the last night I would walk those streets.

On the last mile from my home, I was engulfed in the murkiest of all the streets. It was home to a gang lord, an unrespectable creature of inhospitality. On the streets, he went by Z-Yaz, but his name was Eratz Lukoya. I had escaped those streets by hiding in the darkness but that night I was a destroyed human being. I walked at a crawl on his main side of the street un-phased by wary eyes. Three of Lukoya’s members chose to be drunk that night. Lukoya ordered them to patrol the streets and stomp anyone who neared his ‘kingdom.’ They were unfortunate victims of indoctrination.

I had been looking gloomier than usual and they thought that was rather humorous.

Yo, gent. I looked up a bit. Yah you. What’s wrong with you? Somebody call you a bad name? You need any cheering up? Their leader exclaimed as he tossed a precarious looking club around in his hands.

Just a dismal day. Leave me to myself. I shoved my hands into my jacket, perhaps the only thing I owned that hadn’t begun to tear.

Nah you need some help. We got some fancy toys to play with.

Not interested.

We see ya walkin’ this path every day an’ you don’t care. Always shneakin’ around and avoidin’ us. Is that how you treat your friendsh? Real mash-ter of subterfuge. His drunken squalor had gotten annoying by this point and I realized that if I didn’t get out of there at that instant, I was most likely going to be beaten to death by a lowly street gang.

I took off knowing that they would pursue and if I was found, I would be beaten. After a minute into the chase, I was far ahead of them. Their drunken stupor left them slow and clumsy. A half a mile left to go, I took off into a closed alleyway hoping to hide from them. As they ran by, another member of their gang, covering this street, called them over to the alleyway and told them I was somewhere inside. They spread out and covered the entrance, but I wasn’t going to sit around and wait, so I stood up and tried sprinting out when they got close. Two of the thugs grabbed my collar and pinned me against the brick wall.

Not so fast, mash-ter. You goin’ some place tonight and not invitin’ your friendsh? That’s harsh. His tongue licked back and forth—unstable like a potent concoction. I ashked if you wanted to play with our toys. At least be respectable and anshwer proply. He then proceeded to punch my stomach seven times in an uppercut fashion. I felt the wind knocked out of me—the breath of life coming in then out which blurred the distinction between light and darkness. He took the club and smashed in my right shoulder blade. On the fourth hit, the club broke and shards from the club went into my arm. My blood spattered onto the already reddened brick wall. With the broken club, he thrusted it into my left thigh and then ripped it sideways leaving shards. Blood by now was dripping down my legs and arms uncontrollably.

You’ll never ignore your friendsh again. Let’s leave him to think about his actions. At this point, I was thrown against the ground and punched across the face one last time before they left. The ground was stained red by a vibrant mixture of living cells and rocky pavement. The alleyway consumed me. I was swallowed up by a child’s fear, the fear of helplessness from the monstrosities of the night.

I closed my eyes, expecting to die—even wanting to die, but I awoke with a woman standing over me calling for help. Her face was broken, but beautiful and entrancing. Her eyes portrayed a ruthless and uncompassionate past. She was strong and she was an anomaly among her kind. Most people destroyed by their past were un-resolved and they relented to the system. She went against that stereotype. She was more compassionate and more driven than anyone in the streets. My eyes blinked and I asked her why I’d been sent an angel. All that came out to her was muttered gibberish and I was still in danger of dying with so much lost blood. She repeatedly told me that an ambulance was coming and would be arriving shortly.

By the time, the ambulance came and she patched me up with the best of her resources, I had lost seven pints of blood—enough to almost cease functioning. How I lived that long until the ambulance came is mysterious. I believe that the mere fact that there was somebody out there who cared for me as much as she did, was enough to keep me functioning. It wasn’t that I had more will to live than any other person on the planet. It was the fact that I had believed I was more and she was more. One person was enough to latch me onto this world. One person was enough to help me. One person was enough to believe in me.

I was brought to the shambled, relic of the past that was our hospital. Sixteen people staffed it. This world had ignored the past and complimented the future. What remained was the sepia overtone of a previous best. The un-automated stretcher proved that. As I was brought in the hospital, the lights flickered on and off and were hung from thin copper cords. In a way, the lights were paralleling my fate—life and death. Those lights had barely enough power to illuminate one person, let alone a hospital. The woman had followed the entire time. She was the cord to illuminate me.

As I entered the emergency room, I went into cardiac arrest. The couple of pints of blood I had remaining were unable to flow throughout my body. The doctors tried using the defibrillator but to no avail. When I closed my eyes, all I saw was red and white light clashing together in an eternal dance. By then it was too much. I decided to let go. They pronounced me dead in the early morning hours.

Thus, I was forced to find out much of the facts later. Since they could not find any identification on me, they decided to tell the woman because she rescued me. She didn’t pause to think and instead pushed past the doctor and into the emergency room. She had seen far too many people die to let another fall victim to such misappropriated punishment. She grabbed the defibrillator and went to restart my heartbeat when the doctor came in and held her arm. She let go of the left defibrillator and pressed the other one against the doctor. He fell onto the floor in an electrified slump. The left defibrillator fell onto my head and shocked my entire body.

The electric pulses from the defibrillator ripped into my neurons and muscles tissues. Instead of being destroyed, the frequency of the electrical shock was exactly the frequency of my cells—due to a providential mutation. The neurons multiplied and divided into twice as many networks—un-forming, forming, and reforming again. The muscle fibers ripped apart and doubled in number. However, I was half-dead at the time and the line between living and dying has haunted me since. Half of my cells retained function and the other half crumbled under the stress.

The pain was excruciating and after eleven minutes of my body convulsing and having been pronounced dead, I awoke screaming in agony as my body struggled against itself. A kick sent a flurry of papers into the air. Thousands of images flashed before my eyes: the walk home, the gang leader’s face, blood, the woman, alternating red lights, the factory, my mother and my father’s faces. All memories of the past—flooding my brain with powerful emotions. A team of doctors rushed in and restrained me by strapping me onto the bed. The room spun and the lights flickered. A pulse signaled from some machine that I had a heartbeat. I gnawed at the dutiful faces. A shirt was ripped and I felt the cotton texture in my hand.

Finally, my body had stopped torturing itself. The brightest light possible entered my eyes and I could see. I was awake. I was conscious.

Chapter Two: As is What is Not, is What is Now

There are some who have said that one must project themselves onto the world to become a leader worth living for. Whose principles belong to themselves? Whose principles are they? What are one person’s thoughts to another person’s thoughts but a restatement of their own? What is perspective?

As it happened, these thoughts and ideas emerged from the smolders of a past fire—my factory working days. It is here that I began. With such energy, power, emotion and passion, I had to do something with it. I had to satisfy this purpose. But through what path? Several times at the hospital, I laid awake thinking this future out, pondering the vast infinities of my life. At one time, silence controlled the room, but now I talked and talked to the nurses for hours about this immediate life-inspiring situation.

They cared as much as they wanted to care, of course. I couldn’t induce them to listen if they truly didn’t have the desire to. When they could, they did. Some stared listlessly at me for as long as I spoke, but where was the care? I knew more than I did before. I noticed more than I used to.

The bed frame I laid in was built of an old, cheap aluminum model barely sustainable for a man any larger than six ft. three and the sheets were made of a 200 thread count linen warm enough to heat the body up roughly a couple of degrees Fahrenheit. The ten-by-ten foot room, which enclosed me in, sat adjoining to an employer of mine namely Kelvin Wetley. In such a pragmatic space, what could not be accomplished? What could give me that worldly projection? How could I stop cruelty and fear from over running the streets while still making a name for myself? How could I emerge from the corpse of a spirit I previously was to a man revered and adorned for contribution? And when? The past was gone and the future bare and yet I was stuck in a hospital bed—for two weeks nonetheless.

Obviously, several orders of business had to be accounted for and taken care of. Eratz Lukoya, for instance. If my journey into shadow had changed anything, it was not my stance against Lukoya. A man with wealth and authority to use anytime he wanted and to displaced those on the streets he felt were unwelcomed passerby’s—innocents of impoverishment and suffering—was a man destined for the same muddled graveyard hardened by blood and dirt.

That could not be the destiny I was designed for. I could never kill and I could never find reason. The man must be rem—

Time for your food, sir.

Three hours, twenty one minutes, and twelve seconds is hardly enough time between lunch and dinner, don’t you think? And carrot mush again? Hardly befitting. Irritation shown on the nurse’s face. We had observed this same behavior for the past two weeks. He was never in a good mood and it was useless provoking him while I lay there. Nonetheless, I usually protested against the quality of the meal and the quantity. It really was not as tasty as I wanted it to be. He did not care.

Just eat. And so I did.

These happenstances were appealing at first and the nature of interaction was stimulating, if not entertaining; however, I was bored after these two weeks. One of the only interesting things that occurred could have been boiled down to the fascination with my expedient recovery.

Each day, a couple doctors from different hospitals examined my cells and took samples to see any difference between myself and others (comparing the tissue of one human to another is not really all that different from each other, oddly enough). An oddity I considered amusing, but my counterparts never lacked so much in silence. They examined and left multiple times and reported back telling me nothing had changed. Obvious.

One other thing I noticed that was strikingly different from before was how much I desired movement and action. Such, though, is the life of the crippled dreamer—or so we are led to believe. I yearned to touch streets with my bare feet and run unhindered like my child hood days. Being in the dullness of a hospital has little to offer the physical contrary to popular belief. What are they really healing? Is physical therapy the best we can do for damaged patients or is it simply one of the ways we can help? I was scheduled for six months of physical therapy, without being able to leave. Was I held against my will? Something had continued to watch me and it wasn’t just the doctors.

I felt guarded. But on most days, I merely wished to stretch and walk around. I was denied time after time. So I sat in boredom.

On many days, I had recalled past memories and pieced together future ones—aching for my anticipated new reality. These past memories, however, were the most frequent, but they were not always the most important. During these days, I almost could not help myself from crying bitterly. I’d hide my eyes from the nurses. What would they need to see? How could I show weakness?

Approximately sixteen years ago, my mother had been working as an Italian Loyalist. At the time, that actually meant something. Now there are many who would forget. Only some remember. And I, on a particular day, was called by her as a young twelve year old boy.

She explained to me on the phone that she had fixed our financial situation. This call had taken place on the road and as was her usual way of telling me everything, she did. She had apparently arrived to a warehouse somewhere across from the city. A man stood waiting. He was an underground theorist who could provide stability for our family. Contrary to what happened in reality, I became an observer of the gathering.

She sat next to him and asked how he was going to assist us. The bench looked cold. Sharp. Deadly to the touch. Yet she sat, strong as I remembered. Many of his responses were, as I can as best piece together, diversions of the point. Each time she spoke, he smiled a thin, dagger-like smile, internally deciding her talk worthless. As the time dwindled, he plainly stood up and laughed—madly. He had done nothing to help her and he hadn’t planned on doing so. My mother recognized this and being fierce, objected vehemently. Why had he brought her out to a warehouse if he couldn’t do anything? I’d always imagined one full of things to sell. A question my twelve year old mind considered daily from there on.

He said he wanted to punish her for conspiring against the new regime. Her eyes blackened white, she screamed, and then turned to run, but he pulled a gun out and shot her in the head twice. He strolled stoically to her body and shot her repeatedly. He spit on her face and reveled in the demonstrative act. Spit feasted on the air.

I received a letter—something impersonal and cold—the following day. All it said was:

She’s dead.

R. M. C.

P.S. Be better than she was.

The only question I’ve ever thought about this was: Why? I never took any action for fear of the same fate. I cried long since. Where a person becomes degraded enough to harm children is where a person has lost their humanity. Who was I to have this happen? Who is anyone to have this happen? What fields the aberration of life?

I would be better, but not as a comparison drawn from my mother. I had to be the best and I could not stand for others pain. Maybe…Maybe I could use this as strength. I could stop this from happening to others. I’d done nothing since that day. I stopped laughing and feeling. Everything was cold and everyone was cold. I was harsh. What parent could want that of their child? No friends, no acquaintances, no family…no enemies. Now that was interesting. I was told that enemies can be your greatest source of competition and power if you let it. But I had none. I had nothing. This had to be combated at the source. One gang member was enough to show the corruption of the streets. It’s the only reason I needed.

I decided it was enough for memories…And regret.

A nurse walked in. Time for—

That’ll be all. I got up in the bed. I’m leaving.

Sir—

No, I have to leave. I shifted my legs over the bed, hovering above the floor.

We don’t encourage—

I know. I need to leave. There’s nothing else you can do for me. I rose up and stood firm, much to my astonishment. My legs were not wobbling or weak.

Sir! You can’t leave! We are still undergoing testing!

I was still studying my legs by the time I answered. Testing of what?

She squirmed.

Me? I asked.

Yes. She whispered after 30 seconds. I’ll…I’ll have to report…this. She clicked a button on the side of the room.

I wasn’t in the mood for waiting around to see what would happen. The window was to my left and a fall of ten feet. It might be worth jumping out of. I felt strong enough. I wondered if I could withstand it. It would be taking a huge risk. And if someone saw… A bush wasn’t too far off. That I could make.

She must have sensed my thoughts. What…what are you doing!?

I slammed a wooden chair into the window only to have it break in my hands. The bed frame was made out of metal so I attempted once more to remove the paned glass from the room—such is the shattering of pain. Three guards moved in the room and aimed their guns. I looked back at the nurse, twice to the guards, and grinned. I was being held here for some reason. What could armed guards possibly want with me? Better yet, what could they represent that would want me? The government? It was almost comical especially with me in a light green scrub.

I’m leaving. Then I jumped onto the bush and then rolled to the concrete sidewalk. Shots were fired from the window at the street while shrieks and screams from the nurse rang out telling them not to harm me.

—NEED HIS CELLS! ST—

As is with understanding, is with a length of time. They stopped firing, but any chance to be recaptured and kept as a prisoner was not favorable to me—oddly enough. Hiding was the best solution. Since the database from Italy was destroyed in the war, my identity was probably unknown to them. I could stay at home. All paper trails had been destroyed after the war and this hospital wasn’t the most resourceful.

Nothing could trail me. No one, not even the workers or Kelvin Wetley knew where I lived. I didn’t have a bank account or a social presence. I was as invisible to the world as the world was to me. I took off down the street towards my house in an attempt to hide from them.

I had been traversing the streets as quickly as possible when a thought entered my mind. I couldn’t quite remember being able to run this fast nor with this ability. The air was different or something…Several possibilities could be present… One the laws of physics could have changed for the entire world or for me which was even more unlikely than the former.

Much more probable was that something about me had changed while under the scrutiny and skepticism of my…kind caretakers. It was a ridiculous theory, but perhaps I had undergone some kind of physical change or worse, they had injected some kind of physical enhancements –completely possible since experimentation of this kind had always been dreamed of in science fiction.

I froze. They could have placed a tracker on or in me. I quickly scratched at my arms, legs, and torso—looking for an entrance point. Nothing on the surface.

If they did drug me with physical implants or something, I guess all the better. I’d be stronger no matter what even if it did frighten me a bit…though it was disconcerting wondering if the ability disappeared after time. I could be left weaker than I started and in a worse position. I shook my head. It wouldn’t help to psyche myself out.

Nonetheless, I wasn’t quite so afraid as one may expect. If I’d been given this ability and escaped, it was more than mine. The best they could do was chase me and attempt to capture me… and the worst... It was best not to think of the worst. Regardless, it was one of my priorities not to be caught or experimented on further, so I started for my house.

The world seemed a blur as I seemed to run. The sun, while grayed out by clouded limitations, heated my body while the pavement was damp and rocky. Eyes watched me—wavered by the unnatural sight. But I was not discontent. I was not irritated at their stares. I welcomed it. I gave into the spectacles of curiosity and depths of mystery. A woman’s teeth shone bright against the sickened buildings and a man’s—

I slammed into a young man while not paying attention.

Let me help you up. He was amused and friendly. It’s tough enough trying to live here, don’t try to make it worse. He smiled broader.

Thank you. I said with little conveyance of appreciation and more of startled accident. The words puffed out like the dust off an old tome. I’d rarely said those words, much less gave them much credit. The world had become impersonal and nearly unsociable. The words meant less now than they did years ago.

You’re welcome. He said with greater amusement. You look different than everyone else…

I am wearing a green scrub.

Haha, yes you are. I’d ask why, but it’s none of my business. Now his eyes brought on a peculiar sense of wonder. Are you interested in becoming the best you can be?

Um…Are you? It was mystifying to meet someone with interest. I didn’t know how to take it.

Yeah, yeah. Don’t take me the wrong way, I don’t mean to make you nervous or reluctant or reserved, but you’d fit nicely with the people I know.

I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. My eyes narrowed, but I acted under a genuine inquisitive nature. I’d fit nicely?

Here take my card. We’re changing the world, one step at a time… He stopped. Let’s see where is that card. Soon the work… He paused to get the card. Ah here it is. Soon the work will pay off. Some say it’s the day of exposition, of reclamation. His eyes wavered from my face to the surrounding objects. My confused stare probably diverted his attention. Have you heard of it?

Exposition? Reclamation? I’m sorry. I’m not interested. I’ll take the card to think about it though. I needed to say that last sentence, because his awkward presence became fully confident.

Yes, yes, of course. Anything. Take it. I hope you’ll find it interesting. First meeting is next week. Find some time. All sorts of people are there. Every background…

He kept talking and all the while I felt less and less magnified by the conversation.

…five flights of stairs to the top, red door on the right. You can’t miss it.

Thanks. I took the card and pursued my intended goal.

Don’t forget. He called. We’re changing the world.

The conversation faded quickly in my mind. Groups like this had sprung up in the streets before. Nothing was for certain. Most times they dissolved into the scattered forms, husks of driven personalities. Right around the corner, I threw the card to the side and littered his name.

A glint out of the corner of my eye turned me to face the buildings. I was reflected in the pane. Rough. Real rough. I soaked in the disarray that I was, letting it trickle from my head to my feet. My clothes were in desperate need to be changed since I was essentially running through the streets naked only lightly covered. I obviously hadn’t showered in a while and my hair certainly expressed this. It was greasy and moldable—shaped in configurations unknown before in the realm of fashion and material pursuits. A great deal of stubble and twisted hair grew around my cheeks and nose. They never once allowed me a mirror to look through. I wiped my eyes. Something was in them. I went in to look a bit closer. I noticed a fire wavering in my eyes—something unimaginable. Terror and satisfaction rarely meet, but now they playfully joined as one while I studied my image. I felt strong, powerful, confident and recognizable—to myself. I was somebody after all. The man proved that. The fire burned brighter and brighter as I thought and stood there watching the sparks engulf spindles of nerve cells. The vast network blazed from slow, insignificant flames, to swaths of enigmatic combustion, spiritual reconciliation, rational revolution, and emotional expansionism. I touched the window pane, letting the warmth soak into my skin, re-energizing a lost cause. Hot streaks remained from my hand after I pulled away. It…is conviction surging, resurrecting, and emerging without limit. I was entranced. Glistening beads of sweat slit from my eyes or were they tears? They left white, gritty salt trails of bitter days and nights spent in dismal darkness asking for identity and purpose. A transformation of this magnitude seemed impossible, yet here was I, someone once again.

I walked on only looking back once. That was to be the last time I saw the past and the first time I noticed myself. A man walked out of the store with a ridged mouth, bent by sore, tireless days.

Can I help you?

No—

Think this is some kind of mirror? Do you have a home? Go back to it and don’t bother us. We’ve got enough to worry about. Bums aren’t welcomed here. Find your own store to watch. Get some money, build yourself up like everybody else, and stop being the homeless plague you are. Find a gas can and warm yourself. Best you’d ever be. By now he was shouting louder as I started walking away. Get a haircut you worthless, lowlife. All you do is feed on my business and welfare. Think the government’s gonna keep paying you. Worthless, you—

I turned around and walked straight up to him. I quite agree with you. In fact, if society stopped letting people be parasites we’d be in a lot better shape. But I’ve stopped that. I’m done with that. I’m not taking your money and I never have. All people need attention. You can’t stop caring just because a person looks like they’ve never had a job. I started to turn back. Your windows need cleaning.

He stood there angrily at first, but slowly the tension shifted from his face to his feet. Eventually the force pulled him inside the store. Next thing he did, he grabbed a rag.

I let it go as well. He couldn’t help it. He was broken by the injustice of cruelty and paid pointlessness. These fragments of people were about the city trying to stop the gangs and government representatives hired by part corruption and part necessity. Who hires the just when the just have no interest to display? Where does compassion take us?

As I strode on down to the next street, my feet were split with newly made scars and cuts from the run. I went to feel the rough blistered skin, but instead I rubbed my hands against thick, slightly cut, callous skin. Odd, they didn’t feel painful. Perhaps the same was true about my thigh. I stopped and probed around where I thought it was. I could only feel muscle and cultured skin. The stab through my thigh should have shown up as a scar or the very least a minor cut, but where it had been there was fresh, flesh and skin tissue. I coughed up a laugh. Maybe this was all a dream. Or this was effect mixing with interpretation. Reality clashing with sensational indecision. I looked around anxiously. The asphalt shivered under the steady heat from my feet. Surrounding footsteps pushed the pavement into hollow sound. It was too real. The