How Reality Died

Even in the wake of chaos and after the adversity we had all faced, life was simpler then. I lived in a quaint little house at the end of an innocent little culdesac right across from main street. Everything I could ever want was at the edge of my fingertips. Any food could be found at one of our three farms, fresh marts or convenience stores. Any sports gear such as footballs, basketballs, or soccer balls could be found at Joe McGee's Sports Emporium located in the center of our small community. Anything, whether necessary or simply wanted, could be found at most, a few miles away.

However, sometimes my mind would wander. Sometimes I would become curious- a bit too curious for some people's liking. You see, unlike many others in the community, I wasn't ready to just pretend that the world before never existed. I still had memories of a bygone era, even if 10 years had passed since. Every night, just as the sun began to set, I would venture off to the edge of the dome- away from the saccharine "reality" we'd conformed to. Away from the imitation trees and plastic dreams to journey into the real world- albeit with my mind doing most of the work.

I would sit there at the edge of the transparent dome, recalling images of life before the war; before humanity was damaged beyond repair. Visions of children, family, and friends dancing along to a tune oh so welcoming to sore ears. Children playing baseball on an open field filled with real grass. However, those visions were a fleeting thought to a weary mind, as looking out into the foreboding, barren wasteland we once called home only further stirred up memories of violence, destruction, and anarchy. Still, those few seconds of joy, even knowing of the dreary, desolate backdrop behind them, made the experience worthwhile.

My ability to recall certain memories faded over time, but I could always vividly remember the day we were rushed into the dome. My parents were very influential people before the war, and knew of the world's imminent, unavoidable apocalypse months before it occurred. Thus, when plans for a "Super Dome", a habitat for a very select few of humanities only survivors, was announced, they did all they could to send me in. The price to get one person into the dome was astronomical, so getting three tickets would be damn near impossible. Even given my parents' incredible wealth at the time, they knew that they could barely afford one ticket, let alone two or three, so they secured my safety at the sacrifice of their own.

I was only about seven years old at the time, and I couldn't fully comprehend the situation at hand. All I knew was that mom and dad were going on a vacation for a little while and I got to stay in some high-tech hotel. Of course, when the bombs dropped, the grim truth was revealed. Luckily, entry into the dome was worth the asking price. As marketed, those who were granted admission were in fact the last surviving humans on Earth. The world outside was now too hazardous and contaminated for human survival, so exiting the dome was a damn death wish- although that would be implying that such a feat was even possible.

The dome was sealed shut on all ends with nothing but an emergency exit that could withstand any blast, weapon, or temperature. The only way to get out would be with a keycard that was only given to the highest ranking officials and all officers that were GOLD members. This door would only be used under two circumstances: if there was a breach within the dome and escape was necessary, or for exile from the community. In the rare event that there was a breach and the door was opened, all GOLD member households contained Life-Suits that would allow the person wearing the suit to survive healthily for up to 6 months in the hazardous Earth environment. Luckily, my parents were able to secure me a GOLD membership, hoping that I would then be safe under any and all circumstances.

My childhood essentially consisted of being informed of the reason why I was in the dome and how to function in the community. Members of the community with disabilities or genetic flaws that could be passed down through generations were normally quarantined or sterilized, depending on what type of member they were, while those with no real use to the community (the elderly, the mentally ill, and the sickly) were euthanized via lethal injection as they were deemed simply as "extra mouths to feed". This originally led to controversy but as time went on we just learned to accept it as a part of life. This led to becoming a functioning member of society being of the utmost importance, as your life was literally on the line otherwise.

Although not prohibited, it was not advised to go near the outer limits of the dome, as the transparent structure could serve as "nothing more than a bleak reminder of our traumatic past" according to the officials in charge. Honestly, I can't blame them for claiming that either, as a lot of people's' mental states were deteriorating even without the constant reminders. Many inhabitants of the community had gone through episodes of "Nomadic Fever" as it's put, which in minor cases is nothing more than a passing bout of lunacy, but in serious cases is a permanent illness that can lead to a plethora of consequences. It's not exactly known why this sickness occurs- guess a combination of being confined to a dome and the constant, near-palpable artificial air being pumped in can do a number on a person's psyche. One day your neighbor Jim is your best friend, the next, he's trying to raid your house with a butcher knife, claiming that God had spoken to him or some shit. Everybody knew someone who'd suffered from the sickness, and only the luckiest of them knew survivors.

Whether mentally stable or not, if you were considered a major threat to society, you were either executed or exiled from the community. As there was no prison system in place, this was just the easiest method of dealing with criminals and other threats to our community. If you were lucky and didn't commit too heinous of a crime, you were simply executed in quick fashion. However, if you were a severe offender (murderer, rapist, etc.) you were exiled.

Unfortunately, at one point I bared witness to the normally secretive exile procedure. It was late, past curfew, and being out at this hour, especially with the goal of witnessing an exile was an act that could lead to massive consequences. However, with all of the talk and all of the warnings since my first years in the dome, I had to see it with my own eyes at least once. After word had spread about a murder spree committed by James Trufandale, and the verdict on his impending expulsion was announced, I knew that I had a chance. I camped out by the officials' office and waited for James' release from his cell. Three men wearing Life-Suits strolled out with James and carried him to the outermost western part of the dome.

There wasn't a single light shining within any house or any lamp upon any street, thus allowing my secrecy to be maintained. James was carried out confined to chains that were obviously too tight for even the slightest bit of comfort, and he had a far-out look in his eyes. As he was being dragged, he was throwing out every cuss in the book- how any family was able to stay asleep during this period was a mystery in itself. The walk to the dome's exit was about 30 minutes. Hiding, I watched as the three suited officials walked into a secluded room which contained the exit. I was not able to see what went on inside the room, I was only able to witness James being forcefully thrown out into the wasteland and the aftermath of the act.

After James was thrown out, the three officers simply walked back to their office and didn't even pay James a passing glance. I kept my eyes fixated on him though, waiting for any noticeable changes. For what felt like a full minute, James got up and kept ramming himself into the walls of the dome, banging his head on it repeatedly until he had a crimson mask. After this, he began coughing and sputtering violently until he fell to the ground and started shaking as if he was having a seizure. His skin began to bubble then pop, leading to splatters of blood and pus that landed on and then dripped down the side of the dome. His screams were inaudible due to the soundproof walls, yet the sight of his jaw agape and of the flesh on his face melting off the bone made the sound of screaming ring within my head. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. Whether I was paralyzed with fear or simply going mad I couldn't divert my attention from the scene, almost like a train-wreck in slow motion. What was left of him turned pitch-black, almost as if it had been charred to a crisp, and red spots began appearing all over his body, whether on his near-liquefied skin or his now exposed, brittle bones.

It was at this point that I couldn't bare to witness anymore. I bolted back to my house, the occasional glance showing me that things were only getting worse for James as time went on. As you would expect, I got no sleep that night, and became petrified of life, or lack thereof, outside of the dome. It took me a few months to regain the courage to venture back to the edge, as eventually the urge to "live in the past" took hold yet again. James' body was nowhere to be seen. So there I sat, every night as the sun set beyond the stark landscape, trying to expel dark memories and rejoice with the jovial ones, a constant battle, over and over again.

I did this for years, until one fateful night everything changed. I sat down on a tree, aimlessly peering into the abyss, when I noticed something amid the encompassing darkness. Although hard to make out, I spotted a hand print upon the wall of the dome. Perplexed, I climbed down the tree and cautiously ambled over to the print. It was dusty and slightly disfigured- there was something off about it, but I couldn't put my finger on exactly what. I had never seen a marking on the walls, as every substance that touched it either bounced off, dripped off, or slid off without leaving a trace. Naturally, I was confused and attempted to wipe it off. I did this a few times yet nothing happened. It was at this moment that I realized- I realized something that shook me to my core- I realized that the hand print came from outside.

Bewildered, I staggered backward and darted all the way back to my house and into my bedroom- trying to convince myself that I was merely in a part of some twisted dream. Eventually my heart-rate slowed, my eyes became heavier, and I was able to force myself to drift into sleep. I awoke the next morning not even greeting my foster parents, and ran out toward the edge of the dome. However, my vision was obscured by a cloud of dust.

It seemed as though a dust storm had struck, making the entire dome enveloped within a cloud of dirt. After about thirty minutes of desperate searching for the handprint, I gave up and rationalized that it must have actually been a dream. It was at this moment, however, that I saw a hand print form yet again, this time right before my eyes. I walked over to it, a mix of fear and anxiety bubbling up inside of me. This one hand print turned into two hand prints, then three, then four, and so on until seemingly one part of the entire dome was covered in dusty, disfigured hand prints of all shapes and sizes.

Not only was the wall covered, but the ceiling of the dome was too, and the sudden darkness caused a small crowd to surround the wall. School was let out early that day, and officials began surrounding it, barricading any citizens from tampering with it. Officers began trying to figure out how the hand prints were formed, along with how to remove them as the mere sight of them was causing mass hysteria. They began sending out officers in Life-Suits to attempt to remove the prints from the outside. Every officer they sent out into the cloud of dust didn't make it back into the dome, their tattered Life-Suits being mockingly thrown back each time with their key-cards stolen. Given that there weren't an endless amount of Life-Suits, nor an endless amount of officers, after the third casualty, no more were sent out.

On the second day we realized that this was no ordinary dust storm. It had been 24 hours and the dust still had yet to settle- our vision was still obscured from the inside, and if not for our ability to tell the time, we would have no idea if it was day or night. More concerning, however, was that another army of hand prints completely covered three fourths of the dome leading toward the exit door.

When the third day struck, all livestock either went insane or dropped dead for no identifiable reason. Fearing the worst, my foster family, much like many others, stored and gathered as much food as they could. Markets were ransacked, and there weren't nearly enough officers or officials to stop the rioting. The dome was in a perpetual state of dusk, the only source of light coming from the dim sunlight that just barely forced its way through the cloud of dust and the spaces between fingers. The handprints had completely covered the dome

On the fourth day we were greeted by the blaring sound of a siren- all electricity was cut out from the dome and it appeared as though the dust had thickened, along with the handprints seemingly layering onto each other, making the entire dome shrouded in shadow. All families were instructed to remain inside of their houses, as the siren softened and a message was broadcasted to every radio in the community, the only piece of technology that appeared to be working. Feeling that this message would be of dire importance, I jotted down what was spoken.

"The following message is transmitted at the request of the Officials in the Mendacity Dome™. This is not a test. There is an imminent threat to the community in the shape of-"

It was at this point that the message cut out. The only thing breaking the silence of the dome was the static being emitted from the radio and the occasional, jarring scream in the distance. After a few moments the radio qued back up again, and an eerie, raspy voice took hold. The voice was airy, ghostly even, and it slowly uttered every syllable of every word while wheezing and breathing heavily, making sure to articulate its message perfectly so that it could be heard over the ever present static. The voice said:

 "You believed we were gone... that we had vanished away into the darkest recesses of your mind... a faded memory... a lost cause. You believed that we had been whisked away... whisked away at the cruel hands of light... of power... of warfare. You may have been right in that regard... we had left you to fend for yourselves as you did to us. Whether erased years gone... or expelled from your serenity... we let you know now... we have returned."

The radio clip ended. The static ceased. Shocked, paralyzed, petrified, there was not a single noise coming from any household in the community save for the occasional whimper or gasp. Suddenly the radio cut back in again. The static resumed, but among the static we heard the sound of a heavy door creaking open, and then a metallic slam, along with the sound of an army of footsteps trudging forth. The radio cut out again. Much like many others, my foster parents shot upstairs and grabbed our Life-Suits. I quickly entered the suit, knowing that the exit door had been breached, and that contaminated air was now pervading throughout our dome. I had never thought that my GOLD Member status would ever aid me, yet here I was, knowing that without it I would have died a horrible death at the hands of noxious air.

We began barricading our doors, but then rationalized that if whatever was out there could get past the exit door, they could easily get past a few wooden planks and couches. I began scavenging for any weapons throughout the house, but seeing as guns were prohibited within the community, I had to fend for myself using a measly steak knife. My family and I went into hiding, finding solace within our attic- the safest place we had in our house.

The room contained nothing but a desk to the far right, a set of chairs, a spare radio, and a tinted window near the roof. We all huddled beneath the desk, praying to any God we could think of and planning an escape route if need-be. All that we could hear from outside our house were blood-curdling screams, the sound of liquid hitting concrete, and the crackling of fire.

The radios turned back on. Once again, nothing was audible other than the sound of static. This persisted for a few minutes, until the static changed to a rather cheery tune. Almost as if whatever was out there was mocking us. I recognized the song from my earliest days, and amid the chaos I even chuckled a bit. On loop, Mr. Sandman" by the Chordettes began playing. However that moment of happiness didn't last, as the track kept playing relentlessly, damn near driving me insane.

We sat there for hours with nothing but the sound of screaming and that goddamned 50s song pummeling our ears. Eventually, my curiosity got the best of me yet again. Slowly, I crept over to the tinted window despite the wishes of my family. I peered out into the ensuing anarchy. I was revolted by what I saw. Bodies thrown about, torn to bits within the streets. Tarred-black corpses speckled in red lining the sidewalks, with bodily fluids of all types painting buildings in the distance like demented graffiti. The neighborhood next to mine was in the midst of being ravaged, and I knew that mine was next.

Going insane from the anxiety and stress, I watched as one of my neighbors removed his Life-Suit in the middle of the street and succumbed to the toxic air. His reaction to the air was different than how I remembered James Trufandale's to be. Unlike James, he instead dropped dead almost instantly as his skin bubbled and liquified on his corpse, his bones turning black with red dots yet again. It was at this moment that I noticed not every person who was exposed to the air reacted the same. Some were merely black and red skeletons, others appeared mutilated, and a few were even still gasping for breath as their bodies literally, slowly fell apart.That was not how I was gonna go out.

After seeing the horrified expression on my face, my foster parents cautiously ambled over toward the window, and after what they saw, froze up. Once again all I could hear was screaming and music, that is, until my father broke the silence. He suddenly began devilishly cackling, and a menacing grin grew upon his face. He then turned to my mother, then at me, his face not moving an inch. He slowly walked toward me, his smile growing more by the second. With gritted teeth he said to me:

"Dear, be a doll and give daddy your weapon, okay?"

I didn't get a chance to respond as immediately after saying this, he snatched the steak knife from my hands. He then walked over to his wife and despite her pleads, he cut a hole in her suit, and then followed by doing the same to himself. They then stared at each other, a look of dread in her eyes and a look of glee in his, as they both dropped to the floor and started convulsing. I couldn't bare to watch and I did the best I could to block my ears from the gut-wrenching noises coming from their spastic corpses.

I dragged myself to the tinted window, not willing to even glance at my foster parents' disheveled bodies and ignoring the stench of death. So there I sat, watching as my neighborhood was torn apart limb-from-limb by an army of pitch black, red spotted carcasses, all deformed in different ways. Some had multiple arms, others no arms at all, many had razor sharp claws with teeth to match, and I even witnessed some melting people alive with an acidic substance they spewed from their mouths. Eventually the army stopped in front of my house.

I sat there, waiting for the forced entry of my home- yet nothing happened. There was complete silence for the first time, save for the sound of Mr. Sandman bludgeoning my ears like a sledgehammer. The entire army parked themselves in front of my house. I looked down at them, finally accepting my fate, and motioned for them to get my death over with, yet nothing happened. They just stood there, staring at me with beady, bloodshot eyes. They stood there not budging for hours, and I realized that they were waiting me out. Forcing me to come to them- knowing I didn't have enough food to survive forever. We were locked in a stalemate.

I've sat in this attic for days now, surviving off of nothing but canned beans and fruit. The only way I've been able to keep my sanity has been writing this. At least now I have something to do with myself, something to preoccupy me from taking that steak knife and plummeting it into my chest. Even if that means writing this memoir over and over again.

Every now and then I'll look out my window at that unforgiving army and drift off into thought. I look back at my fondest memories and remember how even in the wake of chaos and after the adversity we had all faced, life was simpler then.

~Incorrect3