A Heartless World

Unsympathetic landscapes’ discordant correspondence to the despondent few who tenaciously clutched and clawed to continue through—beyond The Event—was conspicuously conveyed upon each extant entity’s countenance: Brief time and magnitude bitterly inscribed lines of old age on the youngest among the living; disaster’s sullen strokes left horizontal markings and daubs of distress on the matured as veritable war paints, recasting formerly tender, expressive visages into unsettled yet deadened semblances. Bodies spoke solely in doleful languages: Dead and persisting. Maimed survivors haggardly schlepped their rattled habitus across and throughout provisional, unlawful open market areas, inversely to the expedient scavengers who industriously lugged their loot for barter. It was a heartless world. Fitness amounted to affluence: The well who narrowly—fortunately—circumvented injurious ramifications of the cataclysm quickly mobilized to covetously monopolize commodities in order to ensure their continuity, as well as the endurance of uneven, unsteady agglomerations composed of other ostensibly able constituents, which deficiently filled the voids of power generated by the collapsed, organized political groups that preceded them. Extortion and thievery were frequently the means of obtaining valuables or perishables within the walls where the rats raced; outside the bounds of the shantytown, however, finders were keepers. Principally, living conditions were as poor as the paupers. The encampment comprised shabby, make-shift shacks, lacking most fundamental amenities aside from the crudest of plumbing systems. Fashioned alleys were bored through otherwise immovable debris, connecting residences and forming streets. The breezeways framed by fixed wreckage were exploited by irreproachable, loitering denizens who maintained a consistent clamor most hours of the day—which enshrouded skulkers and their intentions entirely.

. . .

Reminders. Everywhere. Destruction corrupted the structures within: emotional rubble piled and buried recollections of before; imagination, inundated, stole peace from the impoverished present. Vigor triggered bitterness, guilt. Conjectures, considerations, blame—crashed, demolished; turmoil and panic: havoc; permanent separation overwhelmed. Elijah sat, dead-center, in his rickety, one-room accommodation, physically the healthiest he’d been—bereaved. His family had perished; friends were missing or taken themselves. The only relic left was his mother’s cherished heart-shaped locket, which was now clasped tightly in his trembling fist. The locket hung, splendidly, at the bottom of an old, yet flawless gold chain, but was now wound between Elijah’s fingers. The heirloom housed a precious photo—one of his mother, aged only twenty-three—four years younger than he. To him, the picture was as timeless as it was priceless. The rest of his possessions were worthless in his estimation (and likely, in the estimation of any petty street vendor in the sector). One-and-a-half months had passed after The Event. Elijah’s every expenditure, up till now, had been prudent as humanly possible. But budgeting wouldn’t have cut for long, he knew. His mother raised him. She prioritized instilling a sound code of ethics within him. He was no criminal at heart. Illicit activity in the misshapen society he was currently situated in terrified him; but he couldn’t part with the locket—he didn’t have the strength. Elijah unballed his hand, donned the locket, and neatly concealed it under his shirt. The oscillation between the few options he had was sickening: He had to make a choice—soon: His supply of food was nearly diminished to nil.

Some passersby hobbled, others scuttled feverishly—paranoid, on edge. Above the detritus sank a setting sun. His gait was honest—crimeless. Peddlers and pedestrians alike hawked Elijah down, inspecting him: His stride was unerring. He recalled his late mother’s words: “Wait a beat, Elijah: Listen for the rhythms. When the music of your heart guides your movement, who you are deep inside will sound true”. He kept pace. Nearby, tempting scents emanated from food vendor’s carts; the aromas weren’t exactly satisfying, but, distinctly, they carried hints that alluded to a quality of cuisine Elijah hadn’t indulged in since simpler times. He strode along. “Should I gamble—should I leave the site? Is there anything else to lose, anyway?” he depressingly questioned adamantly. His body motioned toward the outer gate, but he finally minded the moon’s arrival. It was precarious enough—venturing through the ruins; nightfall would provide less safety. He doubled back, away from the settlement's edge, still moving apace. He concluded that the risk wasn’t worth it. Now it was his stomach that sounded: He was famished, truly. Elijah wondered what duration he could forgo food. “Long enough to figure out a reasonable plan?” he probed sharply. Hunger panged; hunger pained. Shifty figures darted rapidly in and out of alleyways: Crooks were creeping about—he could feel it. He was a long way off from his shack; traveling throughout town, without nourishment, had drained him; now, his headspace was nebulous. Elijah’s heart was beating quicker. He surveyed his surroundings: the weary and wounded dawdled; the able-bodied scurried with purpose; vendors were still open for business; darkness pervaded, lighting was scarce. Worries of fainting interrupted typical thoughts of despair as his mind was winding up. He needed food, and he’d have to return to shelter right away. Elijah’s heart pounded. Ahead, a sizable crowd, a diverse bunch—some individuals ominous; others unsuspecting; and a handful, somewhere in between—flowed through the plaza. “I could ask a merchant for food and repay them when I have the means,” Elijah hopelessly considered. He knew fully that no one would go for it—not with the way things were—not after The Event. His heart was beating uncharacteristically fast. In front of him bustled a man wearing a large, leather, seemingly encumbering rucksack: One arm was in a sling, the other was responsible for bearing the weight of the bag. The disabled man’s feet were swift, but he was virtually defenseless. Elijah felt ill. The backpack surely held items of worth: A glint could be seen from within; as the man bounded along, the open, un-snapped flap of his bag bounced too, occasionally revealing its contents, which appeared to be precious. Elijah quickened his pace—it ignobly mimicked his heart-rate. He caved to the impulse. He closed in on his target. Elijah vaulted forward. He was knocked to his feet. Someone, a dissonant soul, likely in a curious situation paralleling Elijah’s, had seen a glint. The locket was gone. It was a heartless world.