Remembrance

The walls were white. Always white. Empty. Fluorescent lighting buzzed like sandflies and added to the cacophony of moans and sounds of discontent. Unhappiness and apathy permeated the ward, but these were the roles everyone played – depending on your point of view.

The patients – Guests, always made noise. Coughing, choking, groaning, crying. They grasped at non-existent loved ones or skittered back on their beds, fleeing from invisible monsters.

The nurses had become rather numb to the tension that would close around their ribs when they unlocked a Guest’s room and found it empty with only the dulled white sheets present in disorderly protest. After a quick scan, the whimpering could be located in the small space behind the radiator or under the thin-stuffed hospital bed. Not many options, really.

One time a petite woman had scaled the thick, colourless drapes to escape her monsters. You could admire the drive, if not the futility.

Guests were not to be restrained unless they were a danger to themselves. To their memories. It would look uninviting for future Guests.

There was never any danger to the nurses – Guest Service Attendants. Attendants weren’t the scary ones. At least according to the GSA supervisors.

They can’t see you. It’s not you they’re afraid of - it’s their past. We’ve all been there. They’ll get over it or they won’t.

Essa wasn’t a GSA – she was an RSA. Resident Service Attendant. It was quieter here, only the occasional muted moan (and intermittent meow – Mr. Watanabe was an odd one) broke up the sound of her trolley rattling down the halls.

Guests resided in The Springs. Residents were kept in The Garden. Nods to the old Fountain of Youth or Tree of Knowledge tales because the Council of Heirs (Council of Airs) needed everyone to understand the importance and privilege of undergoing the Weaving.

Essa’s Weaving wasn’t anything outstanding or memorable. Ha. Memorable.

After The Event and subsequent rebuild many generations after, when all direct knowledge of the cataclysm had faded, all that was left was a fiery flash of memory. A feeling, a fear, a searing recollection that all children were born with, but none understood. That was the purpose of the Weave – to reveal and understand.

Some people called it past lives, however the Heirs called it genetic memory. An event so traumatic it was imprinted forever in the generations to come.

The Heirs were comprised of descendants of the initial scientists and doctors who created the process. They say it’s advanced hypnotism - the Fringe people call it experimentation.

She wasn’t sure what it was. All Essa understood is her ancestor was a nurse, therefore she is a nurse. Originally the Weaving could only express the suffering associated with The Event – as the process advanced, they learned they could express the memory from any ancestor, so long as there was a linking traumatic episode.

Her best friend had been a Tenochca (ritualistic slaughter) – following her eight day stay in The Springs, Beota was relocated to the farms where she could be useful with her remembered skills. Apparently, she was happy there.

Her mother was an artist (building collapse) – also sent to the farms. Art wasn’t deemed useful to the community.

Essa’s stay was three days until being allocated to the nursing staff. Happy isn’t the word she would use for herself. All societal members had to undergo the Weave as their contribution to the big rebuild.

Essa was fortunate all she retained was her mental health training, an altered accent and a fondness for heart-shapes. Her ancestor had been gifted a locket by her partner – it was with her when The Event happened.

I love you, but I can’t do that all by myself. Maybe this will help you remember to love yourself too.

Residents were not so lucky. They lost themselves to the memory or relived the trauma in cycle. Some split, their past and present selves arguing internally – sometimes externally to the dismay of the staff. There were good days and bad days.

They joked Mr. Watanabe was a feline in his past life. Even the supervisor couldn’t maintain his strict composure when the Resident knocked his medicine cup off the serving tray. Essa sometimes caught glimpses of a sharpness in his eyes. Though that was common with her cat too.

It was the ones who were utterly lost inside themselves, catatonic and drooling, that were never seen again. The supervisors said they were sent home to family or transferred to another facility better equipped to care for them. Essa’s little brother, Aipha, and his friends called them ghosts. The Fringe called them Hollow.

This was the price of enlightenment. Revealing the past was an honour and responsibility shared by all. They say it was a one in one thousand risk but it seemed so much more when working in the wards.

Eleven days ago, nine runners found on the outskirts of a Fringe community had been brought in by Sol guards. Mostly teenagers and a few adults, gaunt and grimy. A week later seven of them were released from The Springs grateful for their newfound history and talents.

Two of the adults were still merging. Supposedly.

“Good afternoon, Matthu,” an old family name, “are we a bit more aware today?”

Mr. Smyth only groaned in response. Guess not.

Essa slipped the little white pills into his mouth tilted his head back over the steel bedhead and gently poured the water. He swallowed clumsily; head lolling back to the side. Another groan.

The trolley rolled out into the hall and onto the next room. More of the same. Everything the same in this place. Another room, another resident.

According to Nan, one of her ancestors had been a researcher. If only he had passed away in a horrible fashion, then maybe Essa could have joined the Intellects and studied the Weaves.

Better quarters, rich foods and new lives to learn about every week. Rumours said Intellects were afforded many privileges, including art. They could request a tapestry or a painting or perhaps some custom clothing.

Jewellery. She would commission a locket. Are you supposed to get a locket yourself? Or is it only something a special someone should give you? What would it say? Hang in there?

Essa hid her snort and continued her shift, ignoring thoughts of alternative futures. Or other pasts. They never did any good. We should be grateful to have purpose. To contribute.

Still, those thoughts always tugged at her subconscious, a distant longing. It’s what the Fringe people whispered about, what if it was different?

No. More of the same.