Another Life

In another life, he knew this had to have been a barn. Resisting the urge to open his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to imagine the old structure’s past. The smell of hay and manure was faint but he was absolutely convinced it was still there. Not that the others would have believed him, or cared. To his right, the stranger next to him coughed, abruptly. It sparked a chain reaction around the barn, echoes of coughs, smothered grunts and loud sighs. He turned his attention away from the men around him and focussed once again on the barn; his daily routine. Now old and decrepit, it still served its purpose; housing livestock and tools. As a city man, he’d never spent time in or around barns, and barely understood the life that accompanied them. It was a life that had been romanticised in literature and history; the glory of the pastures, the honest hard-working farm hands being the backbone of civilisation. Birdsong and nature, the soundtrack to an idyllic life. He longed for it now, but he could never escape his own reality. The man next to him continued to stir, an agitated shudder pulling him back to the present.

Finally, he relented, opening his eyes to the dilapidated structure, turning to pat the back of his neighbour who was still struggling with a deep chesty cough. Silence resumed. No thanks, no words were offered. With barely enough strength, he sat up in the cot and swivelled, careful not to wake the other stranger to his left, who had been remarkably still the entire night. Theirs was the middle of three storeys of bunks lining the inside of the barn. Bunks upon bunks upon bunks. Bodies upon bodies upon bodies. Pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them tightly, he fought the cold with every ounce of strength he had left. He shuffled down and felt his bare feet hit the cold, hard ground before stretching and making his way around the barn for what could have been the thousandth time. The same packed earth floor, the same rotted wooden panelling, the same corrugated iron roof. Others were beginning to stir from their sleepless nights, the voices outside growing in anticipation for the day ahead. Only the sound of men; there were no birds here.

~

In another life, he had been an academic. Words were his weapon, navigating through life’s daily struggles. Even now, he dreamed of holding a book once more, the stitching of the spine resting in his now coarse, rugged hands. The crisp sound of the pages brushing past his ears as he would be transported into newfound worlds and experiences. True escapism. He had tried over many years to teach the power of the written word to young minds, to teach love and tolerance, acceptability and community. But as easily as he had influenced some, most had been taken by the romance of war, weaponry and valour disguising hatred and fear. He’d watched young men and women be taken by such words, twisted and manipulated until they were barely recognisable. The power of words had even branded him and his people, and he was cast aside by those who had once come to him for guidance. He held on tightly to the hope that not all were swayed, but as he looked around the barn and the hundreds of haggard, malnourished faces staring back at him, he knew it was futile. For many days, he had held on to hope, searching for it in small nooks and crevices, but as the days dragged on, those flickers were becoming few and far between.

He shuffled between bunks, maneuvering himself to avoid waking the few that had been successful in their search for rest. Making it out to a small cleared area, his legs finally buckled and he sat, harshly, on the compact earth. Perhaps today he would eat and regather some strength. Staring down at his once smooth, unblemished hands, he barely recognised himself now. His hair was gone, shaved the moment he arrived, as was his beard. A fit and healthy man of thirty now struggled to walk fifty metres through a barn. A tear escaped his left eye as he looked up towards the corrugated iron ceiling; not the first time he’d prayed for guidance and it certainly would not be his last. As he did so, the dull grey winter clouds above began to open in the early morning wind. He could hear it rapping against the wooden supports of the barn around him. Through the gaps in the ceiling, droplets began to fight their way through before slowly fluttering down towards the packed brown earth. Snowflakes. He watched one fall, a perfectly symmetrical droplet of magnificence, hover before his face, catching the dull morning sunlight before hitting the worn, grey striped cotton of his shirt, disappearing as soon as it had come.

~

In this life, he was a number. A-11394. He looked down at the sleeve where the snowflake had melted and rubbed the bare skin of his left forearm underneath. The bumps of the ink still protruded, reminding him that he was no longer a man, merely a number on a record; his name meant nothing to them. The voices outside grew louder as the light snow turned to blizzard. Others inside the barn began to stir, they knew the day was here and were frantically trying to pull themselves together before the men arrived. He stood, shakily and made his way back towards his bunk, holding onto the sharp metal frame for support. The stranger to the right of his bunk was waiting for him, his eyes watering as he tried to stifle the cough that was encamped in his throat. The man to his left had still not moved. He reached out an arm to shake him, still asleep in his cot, but as he did so, his neighbour reached over and pulled his arm away with a solemn shake of his head and turned away. Understanding immediately, he turned and stood straight, awaiting the abrupt opening of the barn doors, and with great and expected efficiency, they arrived.

They walked, in their crisp, warm uniforms in front of the bunks, snarling and snapping as they galloped through the masses. Their voices spurred and chastised in a language he did not understand, but the power of tone and suggestion was enough. He’d become accustomed to the fear they invoked that tried to choke him every waking minute. Each one passed, mirrored by the last until an uncomfortably large, blonde man stopped in front of him. He stared, gesticulating towards the man who had not emerged from the cot, pointing and snarling. There was nothing he could do except keep a steady eye on the mud beneath his bare feet. Once the shouting stopped, he looked up and the man had gone. The man to his right was trembling, there was a gap to his left before the man from the adjacent cot shuffled forward. They were being led towards the wide open door of the barn, like lambs. He dared not turn back but instead, shuffled in unison with the others. They staggered out of the door, other groups being led out of their barns into the fields and barren land before them. As with every day previous, they walked until the fork in the road. He looked left, the towering chimney on the horizon domineering the sheet white sky with ash-filled clouds. He breathed a sigh of relief as they were led down the right hand fork, towards the fields, towards the billowing snow. For another day.