Voices in the Dark

Kindness. The kind of word you don't hear very much. Or see happening. I don't know about before the Big Death, but after? Kindness is like hope. Most people have lost it. They're too busy just trying to survive.

Maybe 'lost' is the wrong word. 'Misplaced' is better. Because I think everyone has the ability to be kind. Some more than others.

Like the Sisters. Kindness is more than an emotion or the occasional good deed to them. It's an action. An ideal to live by. It's one of the building blocks of Hope and the change for a brighter future.

I don't know how the Sisters came together. I don't know how they found each other or when they started the School. The Tellers probably know the details. Or ask Sister Hannah. She was there at the beginning. And before. She's old. Older than anyone I've ever met. Fifty, I think. I haven't asked. It's not polite. But the school might have been her idea. She was a teacher, before the Death. She's a teacher still, but so much more.

The school didn't start out that way. It started as a haven for the Sisters, hiding from a younger world that might not understand why they had been spared after so many of their generation died. Their home. But it wasn't enough to be safe. It wasn't enough to sit and wait out the storm. They felt there was something more they could do. Some reason why they had survived the Virus. They found their calling the day a 15 year old girl nearly dropped dead on their doorstep of exhaustion. A girl about to give birth.

How could they turn her away? They couldn't. And wouldn't. She became their purpose, and others like her. Unwed mothers, desparate, hungry, alone, and with no place to go. The Sisters took them in, cared for them, and helped them to care for their babies. Protected them from the terrible despair and desparation the Death had left behind. And when the babies began to walk and talk and grasp things like higher math and physics long before they were out of diapers . . . the Sisters realized that they were witnessing a miracle. This was their true calling. The future hope of the world. Out of the mouths of babes.

Dear Smith,

Words alone cannot describe the terrible changes that lay ahead. What the world will become. Worse than anyone can imagine. Soon. Sooner than anyone expects.

The world is going to change. In a month, maybe two, it will become as alien to you as your world is to me now.

Wherever you are, whatever you're doing – Stop! Look around you. Remember all that you see. No detail is too small. No item insignificant. Look at your room. Your favorite toy. Your favorite book. Look at the faces of your family. Is your mother there? Your father? Do you have brothers? Sisters? A cat or dog? Maybe even a goldfish? Look at them. Hold them in your heart but, more importantly, hold them in your mind.

Because the world is about to change. And you with it. Remember your home. Remember your family and friends. No matter what happens, hang onto those memories as if they were a lifeline.

Most of all, remember you. Your dreams and wishes. Your loves.

Your name.

There's hope in memories. And in the world ahead, only hope can overcome despair.

Sincerely,

Mister Smith

p.s. – Learn how to swim.

Setting his knapsack down in the damp grass, he moved to the edge of the embankment and stooped down. Dipping his cupped hands into the frigid river, he drank his fill before splashing his face with water. Ringlets moved outward from the disturbance and were quickly swallowed by the current. Rubbing his face with his hands, he scrubbed away several days worth of grime before running his damp fingers through is hair, combing it into shape.

His reflection combed its auburn hair as well with liquid fingers. Like it's twin, a young man with clear hazel eyes, boyish features, and clothed in shabby castoffs.

The mirror image rippled and undulated, at first clear and bright then lost in shadow as the sun disappeared behind a cloud.

Which is the real me?, he wondered as he reached a hand toward the reflection. It's ghostly hand moved up to meet his.

Thin. Insubstantial. Sometimes solid and standing on firm ground, yet other times -- most times, these days -- lost and forgotten within himself. Disappearing one inch at a time into the fabric of the world. Until soon all that must remain is a shadow of the man that once was . . . and would never be.

I want everyone who reads this to ask me 4 questions. Any 4, no matter how personal, dirty, private, or random. I have to answer them honestly. In turn, you have to post this message in your own journal, and you have to answer the questions that are asked of you.

He was sinking through brackish waters, the sun long since vanished from the surface into darkness. Sharp pain blossomed through his chest as his lungs filled with liquid, forcing out the air and starving his blood of oxygen.

He thrashed about in the silent world, strength ebbing away with breath. With consciousness. Peaceful. Calm. Thoughts and breath and life floating away . . .

(Not yet), said a Voice within his mind. (Not yet. There's still work to be done.)

He knew that Voice. Knew it from long association. Knew it and resented it. It had changed his life, for good and ill.

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(Continued from here)

Mister Smith was sitting up in bed. It had hurt like hell but he finally managed it with help from Samual who carefully propped up against the headboard with soft pillows. His chest was still tightly wrapped in bandages and probably would be for some time to come. But there was progress. It didn't hurt to breath quite as much and he couldn't feel his heart lurch in his breast every five minutes or so.

He was healing much faster than was possible for a mortal. By all rights he should be dead several times over. Any one of the wounds he suffered would have killed a normal man outright. Irrefutible evidence that forced him to finally admit what Bliss and Aille had been telling him was true. The golden apple he'd eaten had the power to bestow immortality and had done exactly that -- to him.

Unfortunately, the fact that he'd survived these mortal wounds didn't mean that he was out of the proverbial dog house. It seemed that everyone in the temple was quietly angry with him, and that hurt more deeply than the physical injuries. He would have preferred that they all yell, scream, shout, or throw things instead of their mute disapproval. He hadn't gone out of his way to get hurt. It wasn't as if he deliberately tried to jump in front of bullets or crossbow bolts. He didn't have a martyr complex and he never wanted to be the cause of their fear or worry for him. Yet somehow he always managed to succeed in doing just that.

I don't deserve them, he thought sadly. How would he ever make it up to them? Could he ever make it up to them?

"Are you sleeping?" asked Rose, peeking through the doorway.

"Sound asleep," he assured her solemnly.

"No you're not. Your eyes are open."

"They are?" He blinked at her. "Why, so they are! Or maybe I'm really asleep and having a very nice dream about a very pretty young lady."

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