Hello! I am currently working this short story into a full novel. I had a lot of fun writing the short version, so wanted to release it into the world! Lay Back is dystopian fiction, about modern isolation and explores the deep flaws of capitalism. A surreal and uncomfortable story, maybe grounded a little too close to reality for those who have worked mind-numbing corporate desk jobs and fought the urge to run into the forest and never come back.

 

- Please, enjoy, and maybe even leave a comment (if its a nice one), Chloë 

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LAY BACK

Chloë Green

 

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                        The carriage is full, as usual. I’m standing, knees bent to take the impact of the train's lurching movements. My arm stretched awkward above my head. The bar I am clinging to makes my palm clammy and itchy, but I am stuck here. My body rocking with the motion, wedged against the other passengers.

 

I glance over my shoulder through a tangle of people and out of the window, with squinted eyes I try to bring the outside world into focus, the city air and misty windows make it difficult to see more than just dark shapes. The buildings here are all too similar to distinguish one from the other anyway, but their towering size lets me know we’re almost at our destination.

 

Everyone on the carriage jolts in unison as the train comes to a stop. I wonder why they all haven’t learnt to brace themselves yet, we knew it was coming. It comes every day. I pull my bag onto my shoulder as the button illuminates to signal the doors are unlocked. The air is stagnant and, as the metal doors slide open to the outside, it remains so. I step heavily down onto the concrete platform below, at the same time as two other people. Our shoulders crack together. Being thrust one way or the other is normal, everyone has to be in the same place at the same time. I adjust my bag, and carry on my way.

 

Leaving the train station, I walk with the flow of people. A crowd of various heights, ages, genders, skin colour, all in unison. If I look hard enough though, I can tell how many years each person has been working. The fresh ones that are less than a year or so in, boast crisp ironed outfits with stiff uncomfortable shoes. They’ve just got to get through those tough entry level years. Then they’ll know the process so well they will hardly need to think about it at all. Soon, the days will fly by, they won't know where the time went.

 

Then there are those 5 to 10 years in, walking with extra confidence, a lifted chin and softened shoes. They know exactly what is expected of them, and a glow of contentment around them, as the days pass in an order they find familiar and comforting.

 

Those who are past 10 years of being a worker. The route to and from work, to their desk, and through their daily tasks is second nature. They feel as comfortable at their desk than they do in their own home. They barely have to think at all. They’re able to type, and click and navigate the system from muscle memory alone. They’re reliable, hard workers, and they don’t need acknowledgement to know their contribution is valued. This is the category that I fall into. My life before work is a distant memory, I can’t imagine life without this routine.

 

There are still some workers that have been doing their jobs for over 30 years, they are by far the easiest to recognise, but the rarest. Not many people make it that far. Their backs have arched so much they permanently face the ground, which is fine, they have no need to look where they are going any longer for they know it off by heart. If you do ever catch a glimpse of their eyes, which you won’t often, they’re grayed, almost like a film has grown over their iris and shielded the original colour. They keep going, if not a little slower than the rest of us, because in one more year, it will surely all finally pay off.

The city grows above me as I walk through the narrow street. Where the sky ends and buildings begin is no longer distinguishable. Clouds have merged with the concrete and glass. A mass of grey. I step out from the horde of people and order a coffee from a hole-in-the-wall kiosk. They know my order which is why I come back each day. The coffee is fast, and there is the bonus of no conversation or an attempt at any pleasantries which may delay me. My coffee appears on the counter in a plastic cup, and I rejoin the conveyor belt of walking people. Everyone else has their own cup of coffee now too, cradled close to their body to avoid spilling. Eventually people break off, left and right. Then it's my turn, I shoulders the glass door open into the building where I work and glance at the clock. I have arrived perfectly on time.

The lift doors close just before I get to them, I press the up button a few times in quick succession. Free newspapers are nestled neatly in their stand between the two lifts, a sign above encouraging me to take one, which I do. The free company newspaper. A lumpy skinned man dominates the front page, with a smile packed full of too white, too big teeth. The adjacent headline talks about growth; another successful Q1. I fold it under my arm, and step into the lift.

Blinding, luminous white startles my vision as the doors slide open to reveal my floor. Row after row of copy and paste work stations fill the room ahead of me. The room itself is vast. The huge windows that edge the giant space are shielded by grey blinds, the outside almost completely hidden. Even though I am multiple stories above the ground now, I can’t really tell.

 

Each work station is sectioned off with low barrier walls. Every surface is clear and plain. A low hum in the background, a collection of computers working and people typing. I walk down the aisles towards my own desk where I set down my coffee into an established coffee stain-ring. The still air makes my skin prick with sweat. I place the newspaper next to my keyboard, my jacket on the back of my office chair, and sit.

Today's work load pops up on my computer screen, unprompted. The days do not vary much here, which brings me enormous comfort. I always know exactly what to expect. This role was assigned to me many years ago, and whilst I find the workload is often large, and I have to work quickly to meet deadlines, I find the work itself unchallenging. The algorithm matched me perfectly.

 

There are thousands of jobs out there, I glance at the blocked window where the tall buildings stand side by side, but which I cannot see. Companies in the city are extremely large, which is lucky for us, as they accommodate the ever growing population. They give us jobs with packages full of everything we could need: housing, travel, health, water.
 

The vast majority of workers are at my level, but above me is a supervisor, and above them a manager, and above them I imagine a director, and then maybe a chief. We don’t often get to see those above our supervisors or hear much from anyone in charge, other than through the weekly newspaper.

Supervisors are well put-together, they stand up straight with neatly pressed clothes. I think they must have a lot of deadlines that we don’t know about as they don’t often stop to talk, or seem to ever stop at all.

For me, the days pass through a repeating pattern of tasks. I copy and paste numbers and letters from one place to the next. Code generated for something out of my remit. Things that I don't fully understand, but know the basis of the patterns enough to keep it in order, and correct any mistakes. It takes a lot of focus, a lot of repetition to meet my deadlines, and that is very draining for my mind and my eyes.
 

I leave my desk once a day for a mid-day meal. The meals are provided here; we all sit in the cafeteria area, and eat our balanced meals. We sip cool water from plastic cups, and finish off with a piece of imported fruit. Then I return back to my desk, and continue copy and pasting, correcting, and pasting, checking things over and over again, then sending my finished work to the supervisors. We’re able to leave our desk for water breaks too, if we like, which is appreciated.

When the working hours have ticked by, stepping out into the street takes a moment of adjustment. In comparison to the luminous white of the office a dimmer switch has been turned down outside; though right now, it is also the time of year where the sun has begun its daily descent already. I blink and blink, then walk and walk.

Retracing in reverse the steps I took this morning, the same steps taken with some slight, but limited, variation for years and years. Back to the train, and to the strangers I share the same platform with every day but have never acknowledged. How many people have passed me by through big life events, deaths and births, and I have never known. I wonder if any of them might recognise me after all this time standing together, side by side. If I didn’t appear tomorrow, or the next day, would they pause for a second and look around to make double-sure that I wasn't there? Would they theorise maybe that I had gotten married and moved up, to a house with a spare room, or two, and that I was now on track for a child.

I know, really, that they would think nothing of me at all, as I do of them.
 

The sky above is dull. The timetable blinks, and marks the train as delayed. A wave of murmurs passes through the packed platform as everyone notices. They begin watch checking, shuffling uncomfortably. Trains in the city are rarely interrupted, but when they are, people will wait patiently for the next instruction.

Today, I am particularly eager to get home and slither into bed. The bus is a lesser chosen option for getting back out of the city and to our homes, it doesn’t run directly from the city centre anymore. The streets here are too narrow for vehicles that size, so you have to walk a little to get to the stop. The bus is also much slower than the train, through the many stops and turn after turn. I would like to keep moving today, to get home.

I pivot, and walk off the train platform and start towards the bus stop. As I pass them by, several people glance at me, then quickly back to the ground.

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The city is monstrous in the centre, the buildings stretch higher than you can imagine. Higher than seems stable. Lots of grey and lots of glass. Walking the same route each day means there are many streets I here that I have never seen before, so making my way to the bus stop feels exciting.

The bus shudders idly at the terminus, waiting for passengers to join. I nod at the driver, a novelty to have a human in control of something as big as this. The seats are mostly empty, I choose one by the window. The bus is old and boxy. It smells of dust and smoke. The patterned seats fill up with people one by one, all other workers, lower down ones, whose benefit package doesn't extend to train travel. They wear their overalls, or plain uniforms and sit their bags on their laps ready to go. This is their normal, for me it’s very different, I wonder if they notice me. If they can see that I don’t fully belong here.

 

The bus moves onwards with a deafening vibrating hiss and a separate background hum. I am not quite sure how a machine this loud can continue to keep going without rattling every part of it loose and dropping completely apart. But it does.

 

The city passes by the window like a zoetrope; tricking my mind into seeing the world as an animated, living being. One by one we reach the other passengers' destinations, they alight and step down to the path. Back to their families, or small, silent homes. 

 

My stop approaches, and I press the button to let the drive know I want to get off, a chime from a real bell rings out. Down on the street, I look left and then right to figure out exactly where I am. 

 

The houses here have yet to be fully re-developed and are outdated for modern workers. They have too many rooms, gardens, space that isn’t utilised or needed. Air flows freely here because of that. The drone of the bus vanishes into the distance and is replaced by swaying leaves,  which almost sounds like water rushing from my shower head.

 

Making my way towards my home, I go down long streets and turn corner after corner. I begin to walk alongside a low wall, punctuated by various gates, some made from flakey white wood, others black decorative spun metal. The sky above is turning melon and orange as the sun sets, and the hues between the houses have become soft.

I notice that the low stone wall is topped with sparkling moss. I can’t recall ever seeing anything like it before. A carpet of unimaginably tiny leaves following the weathered ripples of the old rock. Forming sweeping meadows and deep valleys. Small shoots reach upwards towards me, each holding onto a single droplet of water that has caught hold of the waning sunlight. I reach out a hand and brush the top of the moss which is a thousand shades of green. It is expectantly soft and startlingly cold. The droplets scatter and the tiny stalks sway just like giant trees in the wind above. I push my flat palm into the softness. I became aware of the cool stone beneath me, I check that my shoes are still on my feet, which of course, they are. My breath feels sharp and algid as my lungs fill with air that feels more like they’re filling with water. The deepest breath I have ever taken. It’s not unpleasant, it’s not scary, yet my heart is beating rapidly. All the world is suddenly wet and alive. Has it always been like this? I wasn't sure. I slowly let my eyes close.

I pull back my hand and turn my palm upwards, water dripping down my wrist, letting the captured sunlight free. My skin is pulsating gently under the chill. I glance around at the empty street, and shake my head. Take a deep, long breath in through my nose, then continue on my way with quickened steps, not looking back through the final streets, and corners that approach my own small, silent home.
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An alarm infiltrates the silence and brings me awake. Holding onto the duvet, still in yesterday's clothes. I sit up and blink slowly with stiff eyelids. No dreams had worried my mind in the night, no outside noise had unsettled me. I hadn’t slept that soundly, that uninterrupted, in years. Possibly since I was a child.

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In a dark bathroom I wash my face and swap my clothes for fresh ones, then sit at the kitchen table to eat breakfast.

 

I eat the same breakfast every day to eliminate the need to deliberate early in the morning. I am not a natural morning person, but I need to be, so I make choices ahead of time to make the whole process easier. This includes a pre-chosen breakfast. I like the repetition. Food is fuel, and I don’t need to think about it any other way.

 

I walk my route to the train station with a soft refreshness that has replaced the stiff awakenings I usually endure. The platform is bursting with workers with ironed shirts and shiny shoes. 

 

Outside the train window the scenery passes by and the colour drains from it. The freshness I had felt dissipates as the buildings grow larger around me. Until we are engulfed, and the carriages dwarfed. Not a slither of sky is recognisable today.

 

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I shift back and forth in my chair, and wonder for a moment if this is actually my chair. I glance to the left and to the right. It feels different. The familiar coffee ring settles my mind a little that I am at the right desk, at least. The mark exactly where it always is. The office-floor is sprawling, and the stations are all very similar so it wouldn’t be a surprise to find myself at the wrong desk every now and again. The recognisable coffee ring does little to dispel my uncomfortable feeling though. I pull at the lever under the seat, dropping down, then back up.

I look to my left, hoping to see a familiar colleague sitting in their regular seat. But, I realise I do not know what my neighbouring colleague looks like, on the left or the right, or anywhere, now that I think about it. I had never considered them, or looked long enough to entrap their features in my memory. The left-side colleague turns to look at me, smiles. I turn back to my computer, and begin to work.

 

The day passes by quickly. Uneventful. Then I am outside with the familiar sting in my eyes for the moment of readjustment. The streets are full again, with people on their own daily exile from office building after office building, joining the flow towards their train platforms. I drone alongside them.

The station itself is entirely outdoors. Various platforms made of concrete and each with a small shelter jolting out overhead, though it doesn’t rain in the city anymore. The edge of each platform is lined with bright yellow paint, the only colour around, to warn everyone to stay back from the edge, which of course we all do.

My mind is exhausted after the hours of computer screens. I let my chin sag to my chest. My whole head is heavy and my eyes half closed.

 

Below, I notice there is a small sprout of green coming from the gravel of the tracks, which is quickly shadowed, then covered completely by the approaching train.

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Most older buildings left standing are being replaced by taller, economical models. Schools, churches, cinemas, restaurants, which were once places for joy and milestones, are now no longer needed. The plots of land are more valuable now than any historical worth that might have come before. The buildings must grow upwards to house the swelling population.
 

The cities have slowly begun to merge into neighbouring cities now too, as their limits are pushed until it's no longer possible to distinguish one from the next. The buildings reach the sky, and can be office blocks or housing, it’s often hard to tell which is which from the outside.

There are lots of benefits to these new cities. The transport system is planned at the same time as the buildings go up. I was told that this isn't usual, and in decades past the transport system was wedged into place, but now trains are efficient and reliable. The new cities make no space for driving or parking, there are no cars anymore. No-car cities arrived long before I began working, and long past the point of being able to claw back the air quality they had damaged. Why cars were so relied upon when causing so much damage, is beyond my comprehension. I am glad they were taken away.

 

Some churches, schools, and standard two story homes still remain further out of the centres, made from bricks or stone on the outside, but gutted inside and replanned to house more people. Eventually they too will be flattened to build something that makes the most of the vertical space above.
 

The home I live in is one of those that has been repurposed into multiple-single dwellings. They aren’t made to live in for a lifetime. They’re this size to house you until you grow your own family. Space is assigned to me and my needs. The table I sit to eat breakfast at is small, and works perfectly for one. When I have a family they will move me somewhere with an extra room, in one of the taller buildings.

The space I have right now is exactly what I need and I am thankful for it. A shell which hosts my tired body outside of my working hours to give me space to rejuvenate and rest, until the next day arrives.

                            ________________________________________

 

 

                        I wake with a heavy feeling of unease grasping me, I turn over to check the time. It is one minute before my alarm is set to go off. Broken visions had haunted my night. Darkness and scrambling fear. I run and run and run in search of something in a desert of blackness. But whatever it is I am searching for is never there. Each time I fall or stumble, I wake with tongue velcroed to the top of my mouth, lips cracked.

 

I shift my legs over the edge of the bed to begin the day and notice long, raised scratches down my thighs. Made by my own hands. I get ready, and lock the door as I leave, and set out on my way to the train to work, again.

 

People talk about the feeling they get when they seem to be the only one walking in a certain direction. The opposite way to an endless flow of people coming towards them. There could be an emergency but they’re the only one that hasn't heard the news, and is now walking directly towards the danger. Walking against the stream of people makes everything slower and frustrating, they step side to side to avoid the bodies coming towards them. But I am the opposite of this.

I am always walking the exact same way at the exact same time as everyone else. Following our instinct to work, it is engrained in us. TThe industrial revolution came, a catalyst of capitalism pushing human evolution forward with it. We became the new perfect worker. We were able to streamline every process, to be the most efficient we could be.

The day passes, and the sun begins its descent as I arrive back in my home. The next day I will do the same, and then same again. Lock door, train, work, train, unlock door. Lock door, train, work, train, unlock door. 

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Dark dreams ravage my sleep again. These dreams are not new, or unique to me, workers know to expect night visions; where legs ache for movement and brains strive for ancient activity that we have evolved to no longer need. It is natural. But unpleasant all the same. Recently, I wake feeling bruised and my muscles twisted. I’ve noticed small crescent indentations in my palms, made by my own nails.

Sat at the table, with a bowl in front of me, spoon in hand. The desire to eat has left me completely. Once a drive to ensure I was fueled for the day, now feels like a monstrous chore that I have no desire to complete. The spoon weighs more than anything I have ever lifted before.

 

I leave the house and the full bowl, sitting untouched. On the train I stand, stiff legged and shaky. The shadow of the city emerges over the carriage. The sky, though spring is upon us, remains the colour of concrete. The air is thick as the doors open to the outside.

 

At my desk I begin to work, typing and scrolling through endless lists of numbers and letters. As I scroll my vision blurs and unease engulfs me. I try to fight it, blinking hard, but it doesn’t shift. Sitting back, away from the screen I adjust my chair, moving each arm back and forth. I adjust the height too, clicking up and clicking down, searching for the cause of this feeling. My heart beats quickly in my chest, hitting against my ribs. My mouth is barren. I reach for my coffee to take a drink. Tipping the take-away cup up to my lips, but nothing comes out. It is empty. The blood is rushing through my head so fast I can hear it now. I feel like I’m drowning, but my mouth is so dry. My skin is so dry.

 

The water fountain has a queue, people holding empty bottles, some adorning the company logo which they were given the day they started working here. I push to the front, unable to speak. My tongue stiff and thick. I drop to my knees and catch water in my cupped hands. I scoop handfuls into my mouth. Splash my face. Letting it drip down her chin, onto my shirt. The world buzzes and blurs and the unease wraps itself tightly around my chest. The coolness flows into me, but I itch. Every part of me itches.
 

My colleagues step back, staying in their queued order. I splash water into my eyes, and they come into focus. Each one looking down at me, clutching their bottles and stepping back further as I stare.

 

I shake my head, still unable to speak, and get to my feet. I start for the lift, hitting the down button frantically. Pacing in the tiny lift as it descends, and then leave the building completely.

 

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Outside, the sky is the same colour as the glass office windows, they reflect each other in an infinite dizzying puzzle. I lean against the wall of my building to steady myself. Everything above me, and around me is the same. My heart feels stretched as it pounds outside my body. This is the first time in a long time that I remember being outside of the office building during working hours.

The streets are mostly empty. There are workers in overalls, one is brushing the paving stones with an oversized plastic broom, another sprays what I assume is disinfectant at the foot of each building, a tank mounted on his back. My eyesight skips frames and fuzzes at the edges. I focus on the spraying liquid, the hissing noise it makes. After a few long and deep breaths, it becomes less laboured than before. I stand up straight, and stead myself, then, without really thinking,I start to walk my regular route home.

 

This may be the only time I have ever left work early in my entire working-life. My bag was still inside, and for a moment I considered returning to get it, but didn’t want to face my colleagues' strange looks. My blood seems to be flowing at the usual rate again. I drop my head, exhausted, and my skin still pricked with what feels like fear. But what is it that I am afraid of?

As I walk my damp shirt catches the air, and brings a coolness against my skin. 

 

Down on the train tracks, the small shoot has grown leaves. Multiple, tiny leaves. Sprouting between the oil covered gravel and stones. I wonder if anyone else has noticed it. Something so alive against a background of death. I glanced around at the mostly empty platform, outside of the regular commuting hours it seems much bigger and is almost silent. But the plant is right there, growing, making its way despite everything around it.

 

I step onto the train, despite the many empty seats, I choose to stay near the doors. It feels safer to be near the exit. The train glides along, smoother, without the weight of a thousand commuting bodies.

 

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I continue to walk off the weight of panic. I focus on my steps, the noise my shoes make as they hit the path. The repetitive noise like tapping keys on a keyboard. I mimic typing in the air. The soft glide of fingers over the keys that are an extension of myself. The skin on my hands feels tight and broken. The rhythm of the taps lull me towards calm.
 

The next street I turn onto is lined on either side with old buildings, the road in the middle is still wide enough for two lanes of cars. The occasional bus might pass though here, but mostly it is empty, unused space. 

 

On the outside, the buildings look mostly the same as I imagine they must have done decades and decades ago. I stand at the steps of one and crane my head backwards to look up at it, my heart still rippling through my body. Above the doorway chiselled into the rock the word ‘Library’. An inefficient space used to store texts before they were all compressed and made digital. The building itself is huge, only two or three stories in height, but it stretches down the street. Each enormous window has an arch above it, with decorative carvings around them. So much care had gone into this building. I had never considered it before that it must have been loved. Memories were made here. Stone steps lead up to the entrance, where a dark wooden door stands tall. I wonder what kind of people went through that door before the books were taken.

I turn away, and continue onto the next street. Each house here has a small front garden, and each garden has its own moss-lined wall. I brush my hands across the top of the tiny bristles knowing it would soothe my coarse skin. The numbness hits deeply again, and the water droplets that they perpetually hold are released en masse. The sound of a thousand water fountains running at once. Wonderful and flowing. Deafening. The droplets fall in slow motion. Glistening and crashing into a thousand specks one by one. How does such a tiny plant hold so much moisture? I stop walking, and push both hands into the pillow of seta. Feeling it compress and release like a sponge. The level of cold it’s passing onto my skin feels surreal and forbidden. A climate so vastly different to the world I exist in. So soft, and glacial, and perfect. 

 

Both of my hands are engulfed by the plant. The sharpness feels so familiar and the fullness in my lungs returns. The biting chill of my own blood, all the way down to the soles of my feet. Then elation seeps upwards, joy and calm and stillness. 

 

I draw back both hands, clasped them to my chest. Breathing quickly but deeply. I edge backwards, stumble, then turn away. Rushing towards my house. Droplets of water fall from my hands and down my wrists, hitting the path to my house, as I open the door and fall inside.
 

________________________________________

 

                        The metal clanked as my mother closed the gate between us on my first day of school. This was a task that she would be fitting into her daily schedule. I was at an age where she was able to finally return to work and her schedule meant there was no time or efforts made for goodbyes, or fussing. Not that I wanted that anyway. She walked away. I stared at her back for a moment as she disappeared down the street. Her steps were quick, excited to return to her office after years away.

 

As she turned the corner, I turned too, and walked into the school. The room was full of students of varying ages. They sat silently typing at their computers, faces lit with a blue-glow. I had been prepared for this era of my life, and knew exactly what was expected of me. I took a seat and began my work.

 

The memory of much of my school years had blurred in my mind. One day isn’t overly distinguishable from the next. I do remember that the classrooms were much like the office that I work in now, rows of computers, and a background hum of fans whirring. Children sat individually, following their lessons. Grey low pile carpet under our feet, white walls and bright lights surrounding us. The time table was repetitive, which we were encouraged to embrace, to prepare us for our jobs, and lives as adults. 

 

The only real notable difference between the office and school was the teacher. A brisk figure who would sit at a desk at the front of the room, watching us. Overseeing for infractions, injury or illness. Computer programmes did the actual teaching, allowing the algorithm to tailor each student's personal curriculum, the same algorithm that had already assigned our career paths. Children could move through modules and lessons at their own pace. There were targets and speed was encouraged. I only ever saw one student be taken from class for not hitting these targets. I never saw her again.
 

I saw this education as a stepping stone to speed-up the process from child to adult, and I focused entirely on my studies so I could graduate quickly, and begin contributing to society. 
 

After the first day, I arrived home exhausted. I ate, and went to bed. I remember the cold sheets against my cold feet and I quickly fell into a sleep filled with dreams of a blue-glow, of silence and prickly shadows. The first of many.

 

______

 

Today, the ride in my work lift could have transported me to another planet and I’m sure I wouldn’t know any different. Sat at my desk, I pictured each of my colleagues and myself in a self-contained bubble, protecting us from this distant planet's atmosphere. How long would it take breathing the same breaths over and over for the oxygen to be completely replaced with carbon dioxide? Slowly suffocating ourselves. We would keep on working, before heads begin hitting keyboards. I would continue to type, fingers not knowing what else to do but tap the keys as I squeeze out my final breath. The world would go fuzzy, static, and then completely black.

 

But of course, I am not anywhere but here. In a building that is always right where it always has been. I shake my head and look at the numbers and letters on my screen to begin my work. Déjà vu floods through my brain. This is all so familiar to me, but what did it do, what does it mean. I can spot mistakes, but mistakes for what. It feels impossible to feel so close to something, but have no real idea what that something is.
 

______
 

The next day my skin feels tight and itchy. I rub and scratch but the sensation won’t go away, it is buried deep within my body. And I can’t stop thinking about it. A constant distraction, an unwelcome one.

I am sitting in my kitchen and staring. Trying to put my finger on the thing I can’t quite remember, dragging my nails against the skin on my arm. I try to eat, but each mouthful takes longer and longer to chew. Moisture has left my body completely and my tongue pushes the dry food back and forth inside my mouth until I am able to finally make one big gulping swallow. The food tears down my throat.

 

The next day the lift transported me again to my startling white office. The background hum is louder, like a thousand dying house flies.

I stare endlessly into my work screen, blue light looking back. I finish the work with almost no thought, it is a ritual now to be completed. I eat my mid-day meal side by side with my colleagues, whose lives I know not a single thing about. I look to the side, a colleague eating, and wonder what kind of person they might be. They seem to be reasonably new, sitting up quite straight, eating small bites of their company provided meal. They glance towards me and catch my eye. Their iris is dull as stone, then they look away, but I continue to stare. Who are they.

 

We have oranges with our meal today. The peel is withered. I stick my thumbnail into the pith to get to the fruit inside and a small burst of fragrant juice expels itself. It stings my broken skin, and I drop it back down onto my plastic tray.

As the lift takes me down, I stare at myself in the mirror. My skin has aged. I am my mother, she looks back and blinks slowly, her eyes dry and pink at the edges. I rub my raw hands against her cheeks, the bones jut out. I feel like I was suffocating. Shallow, quick breaths and itchy palms that are cracked now. Scabs on my knuckles that make it hard to move my fingers at all.

At home, I sit on the ground, with my back against the wall. The shower head drips one small drop after another onto my scalp, my water allowance has been used for the month. My lips are cracked at the corners. Speaking would be hard, if I had any need to speak.

I start to pick and peel back the half moon scabs on my palm. Pulling the dried blood from its crevice to reveal the pink and white underneath. A shoot of pain. The small dent fills again with bright red blood.

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Sat on my bed. My home is a stranger to me. Before I felt safely cocooned within its walls, comfortable in my space, safe alone. Now, I am trapped.

When I was young I was full of questions about adulthood, I was anxious to begin my life as a worker and curious for every detail. When the day was calm I would carefully pick from my list of questions and ask my mother. Then, I lived in a home with three people in total, a whole family, and I wondered how it would be to live alone. My mothers answer was that to be alone was to be happy, to be efficient and uninterrupted. I had always believed and felt that to be true. Now, when I step into a room, I see movement in each shadowy corner.  Hello? The word falls like gravel from my mouth. Being here brings the dark dreams alive. The crescents in my palms are now open wounds.

I need to get out. I need to walk and walk and walk. Past the older buildings that haven’t been destroyed yet. The ones where the walls hold the past, before they’re shattered and crushed by the growing cancer that is the city.

I walk until I find the familiar low stone wall that I knew I was searching for, with its entire world nestled upon it. I lower myself to my knees, so I can study it all at eye level. Where I can see thousands of fronds reaching for the sky. Layers and layers of them. The valleys and forests are filled with all different shapes. It isn't just one plant, there are many, different species living side by side, and on top of each other. Each with tiny whiskers, holding beads of water. They sway in the gentle breeze and glitter the light back at me.

 

My hands are raw, broken and scratched, and I know the coolness of the moss will ease the constant irritation I have been feeling, so I dip my hands into the velvet. I can feel the tiny branches, leaves and quills gently filling every gap in my skin with moisture. A sharp sting at first, replaced by gentle relief. 

 

My whole body shivers, and my skin pricks with goosebumps. Each tiny hair along my arms, legs, and neck sticking up on their ends. I look beyond the wall, eyes open and wide, and see, where I expected a house to sit, a vast forest.

 

I can see tall grasses. Untouched ferns and ivy spiralling up the trunks of gnarled, aged trees. The sky above me is turning a deep navy now, but beyond the forest it is blocked out completely by the thick canopy. There are no buildings filling this space, no efficient housing has been built. Just wildness.
 

I climb to my feet, and step over the wall, one leg first, then the other. Water dripping from my numbed finger tips. My feet land on grass with soft, soundless soil underneath. With each step, my foot sinks, and then lifts and sinks. And I start into a run. 

 

Light flashes through gaps in the mass of trees, and I keep running. Grass brushes my legs and arms as I pass. I hold my hand out to glide my fingertips against the trees.

 

It seems to go on forever, the street behind me no longer visible at all, just wilderness ahead of me, getting thicker with each stride.
 

A root, a rock, my foot hits against something solid. I stumble, and fall to the cold ground. My knees hitting the waterlogged soil, my hands flinging toward to save my body from hitting the ground completely. I stop hard with sharp pain. I sit up, examining my grazed knee, split skin bleeding slowly. My palms are coated in dirt. I am breathing heavily after the run and shock. What a beautiful feeling it is to run, like a child must feel. I lay my back flat against the earth. Letting the leaves and vines caress my skin. The ground moulds to my body and I stick my finger tips into the dirt, my skin feels healed.
 

It’s impossibly dark here, down on the ground, I lay my head against the dirt and look upwards. The earthy smell fills my nose, rotting leaves and turned soil, and trees and bark. And water, damp, crisp, water. I breathe it all in deeply, the taste coating my mouth, down my throat and lungs. My lips taste of salt. Above me all I can see is leaves, and small slithers of sky, speckled with stars.

I close my eyes and see nothing at all. And let myself settle, feeling the pulse of pain in my broken flesh, and the calmness surrounding me.

Pin pricks begin to cover my skin. Tiny sharp jabs. I hear drumming in the distance made by bouncing water. It’s rain. It's actually raining. I open my mouth and droplets hit my tongue. They slide into my eyes, nose, and ears. And begin to soak my clothes. The drips cascade along the curves of my body, and sink into the soil below me.

 

The sound from the water hitting the leaves is consuming. The sound of a rushing river.

 

My body sinks into the soil as it saturates, and I do not fight. I let it engulf me. I suck in air and clench my eyes closed. Clumps of soil fold over my hands, my whole body, bringing with it loose branches, stones, leaves, until I can no longer inhale under the weight, and no longer see, and no longer feel.

I am the earth now. As we always have been.

 

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