The Light We Leave

It began with the pandemic of 2020 spreading its tendrils into the years to follow. Lock-down never lifted, because the virus never left. Or so the world had been told. Tensions in America only grew more intense, and in the following years, the country split right down the middle. At this time, the world was rife with a growing number of compounding problems. Plants and animal species began dying off inexplicably in droves. An extinction event, some whispered. Famine and drought soon followed, and a once-civilized planet plunged quickly into frothing mobs of fear and misdirected panic. The society that had been so well put together began to fall apart at the seams.

Eventually, warring within itself was what had done America under. The growing division led to minor battles that only evolved into wars, and eventually even those got out of hand. The battle for the United States was not of foreign design, as so many had predicted it would be. Rather, its demise was a domestic one. The once great nation had been brought to its knees: ironically, it was its own Trojan Horse. It wasn’t the future anyone had foreseen, much less hoped for. America had taken itself off the map.

What many had thought strange, however, was that after putting itself into distress, none of America’s allies had shown up to provide relief. Of those who had survived America’s calamitous outburst, several speculated that lack of attention from the outside world meant, quite simply, that it was because just as America had done itself in after prolonged starvation and drought, none of the other countries had fared any better. At the very least, it was assumed that no other countries had enough in the way of supplies to offer a helping hand to others. And so, any Americans who'd survived this doomsday were largely left to their own formidable devices.

Out of the ashes of the American Calamity, the Peoples Prosperity Commission quickly formed, weaving a network of ties across survivor groups: from it sprang figureheads who created structure, rules, order. Communities formed under the banner of someone to lead them, and the PPC drew power off its meager citizenry.

Survivors, of course, were never required to join a commune. A person was always free to leave and start life on their own. However, the Committee was there to make sure that any unlucky survivors found in their radius, would come to the conclusion that it would be less of a hassle to join the collective than to enjoy the freedom of paltry individuality. Steep taxes were imposed upon those whom the PPC found building ranches, farms, canning goods or otherwise providing for themselves. These steeps taxes were only imposed if no such services were provided for the community. But again, a person was not required to join the community; the survivor's life would just be even harder if they didn’t. Additionally, once officially indicted, the PPC informed its members that nothing belonged to them. Everything, even their clothes, were community items. Such was the idea, but luckily nobody had done much in the way of clothes-swapping, mostly because a number of individuals had raised questions over sanitary concerns.

Regardless, the ideal of mutual allocation remained: everything was for everyone. Nobody actually owned anything.

On August 27th, 2028 - late into year America had destroyed itself - Jasper found himself venturing into a community on the desolate streets of Raleigh, North Carolina. The commune’s name? New Home. It was a small community, roughly twenty-five in number. But everybody received mutual care there: whether or not they could or would do their fair share.

New Home wan't much. Looking at it, one would argue that it was held together by shoestrings - and they'd be right. But it was something. Jasper reasoned with himself that, despite the frustration of working harder than many of the others for no extra benefit to himself, it was still better than trying to make it in the harsh wastelands by himself. And besides, if he had never decided to sign up for supply runs, he’d have never met Molly.

The PPC didn’t know she existed yet. And if it were up to Jasper, they never would. He only ever met her when he went out to look for supplies. They’d set up a new place and time every time he went out, and on the next supply run, he’d meet her there. They would talk, enjoy each other's company and have all measure of good time. If he were being honest with himself, his meetings with Molly were the only moments in which he felt truly free.

The relationship they'd been fostering had been going strong for several months now. But as of the last couple of days, things were different. Lately, Jasper had more on his mind because the last time they’d met. Nisha, New Home's cook, had even told him he'd worn the concerns of the world more heavily lately. He brushed it off, making an effort around the camp to display a better outward persona.

He wasn't going to tell a soul that it was because Molly told him she believed she was pregnant. Knowing that, would it have been better to invite her into New Home, or tell her to find a better community? Jasper didn't really love New Home. Mostly he hated the way the PPC lorded itself over everyone else - as if they alone were the saviors of an otherwise blind and forsaken planet. Miniature gods who didn't even live up to their own standards. See, anyone in charge around New Home automatically got a bigger cut than anyone else. He or she was allowed to have more than anybody else. Rumor had it, they were even allowed to keep some personal items in their rooms.

Last night his mind had little space for the concerns of the greedy, however. He was far too busy thinking about his secret love; and what he could do to keep her out of this. He knew what he needed to do. It was just hard to convince himself to do it. But eventually he gathered the courage, and it was with a heavy heart that he penned a letter to Molly.

The next morning he’d arisen as the sun began to peak over the horizon. He took a breath of the crisp morning air, allowing the scent of dust and metal to roll into his lungs. With a heavy mood about him, he approached the gate - nothing more than welded sheet metal and string lights. He checked himself out, passing overturned busses with banners boldly displaying the words: your vote counts!

As far as Jasper was concerned, it was propaganda. The PPC would mold any candidate to their will, keeping them under the oppressive thumb of tyranny disguised as kindness.

It was November Second. Voting day was tomorrow; of those few residents of New Home who believed their vote mattered, Jasper was not among them. Still, he lived here. He wasn’t about to cause a ruckus over it. He knew if he left, he’d be hunted down by the PPC. They’d retrieved Mickey just days earlier. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but Mickey was returned, he simply wasn’t the same Mickey who’d left. Jasper wasn’t about to put Molly or their baby in harm’s way. His heart pleaded with him to try his luck and run away with Molly. But if things went wrong, he didn’t know what would happen, and he wasn’t willing to take that chance.

Jasper made it to the meeting point a couple hours early. It was a famous cookie shop. He was careful to make sure he wasn’t followed before slipping inside the broken glass door. He set the note somewhere Molly was sure to find it, and dug into his right pocket for the extra keepsake - an old heart-shaped, time- tarnished locket. The hand-me-down was embellished with a beautiful flourish. It carried within an image of his grandparents on the left, and a baby on the right. His left pocket held his handkerchief with the pattern of an American Flag, which he used to wrap the old necklace, and he left the gift there atop a dusty counter.

The note read:

My Beloved Molly,

It is with a troubled heart I write you. I could never explain this face to face; I am a coward, and I can’t return to New Home an emotional mess - I’m sure the others would be quick to suspect something.

The Commission doesn’t know you exist yet. It’s better that way. But it won’t last forever. Remember when Jill almost walked in on us - well, you know? I know it’s only a matter of time before one of them spots you. You are my world, and as much as I look forward to our every meeting, I can’t just think about the two of us now. We’ve got a child on the way, right?

New Home doesn't have any doctors. The closest thing we've got is a man who lived previously as a drugstore pharmacist. So I cannot bring myself to invite you there. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. You’ve heard my talk about it. Talk about the way they rob people, about the way survival in that community feels empty. I work myself to the bone, but mostly feel used up and tired by the end of the day. No real payoff there, you know? I tell myself it’s better than trying to do it on my own - better than the high taxes imposed by the PPC when they find me. But is it really? I don’t know, but for now I know I’m stuck here. Until I can escape, New Home is the best I’ve got.

But it doesn’t have to be for you.

I’m pleading with you: please, my love, leave Raleigh. There’s nothing for you here - nothing for us.

There are whispers amongst the others. It’s nothing much - but I hear there’s a group fighting for individual freedom - true freedom. Sounds opposite of the PPC in just about every way. They say people can really do better with them - a person’s work means something. If such a group really does exist, they can do better for you. I hear they call themselves Patriots. I wish I knew which direction to look, but I don’t. All I know is - we can’t keep on like this.

Please, just go. Go while you have a shot at life.

And when I find a way out of New Home, I’m gonna look for them, too. If rumor’s true, the Patriots are probably are a survivor’s best chance.

Please, look for them. Do this for me. Have our baby somewhere that you and our child can live free.

The locket has been in my family for generations. If the Commission knew I had it, they’d have taken it from me long ago: personal belongings are contraband here. But what they haven’t known about hasn’t hurt them yet. Still, I'd rather not take chances, so I’m passing it on to you and our child before they have a chance to rob me of it.

Take it, as a testament of my love, and as a hope for the future: for us, and for other survivors like us. It is the light I leave behind - the hope I have for fairness and equality.

I love you, Molly. With all my heart.

~ Jasper

The young man slipped out from their meeting place, heading down the street with a heavy heart and a sense of existential dread. As the morning sun began to rise, his mind quickly rolled over thoughts of his own escape from Raleigh - his imagination entertaining the dreams that were, for now, out of reach.

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“By 2030, you’ll own nothing, and you’ll be happy.” - World Economic Forum, December 9, 2016