Untitled, pt. 3

Each night at the hospital brought a new bowl of fruit and a new letter from the doctor, and sometimes even a video recording. They were often short: brief updates on relatives or some new machine they discovered that might help uncover new insight into... into my sickness. Ever since the bombs fell, the State has kept a close eye on technology and its uses, and even fewer people understood how they worked or what the ancient machines even did. The local clinics purged themselves of equipment entirely, relying more on natural and pagan methods to heal patients. But, in some dramatic cases, a person would be taken to the State Hospital for what was called "the Old Treatment." They would use all the old technologies to help someone important. Every device was rife with screens and blips and buttons and beeps. Apart from some of the small mundane contraptions, I had never experienced ancient technology, but it all frightened me a little. All I knew was that these things were somehow related to the almost-destruction of humanity, and like most people, I tried to stay away from them.

As the nights passed, more and more of these old technologies started to appear in my room. I was warned by Dr Kenning not touch anything, that they were there for my benefit. One was shaped like a giant box, taller than me, and would emit a small buzzing sound ever so often like it was full of bees. It had bright lights that illuminated in some syncopation, but I was unable to learn what they meant. I became curious one night and tried to open the box, with great difficulty; only using my bare fingers. I pried open the front of it only to discover a great mass of lights upon what appeared to be honeycomb protrusions and hard plastics. Immediately, it began to emit a high pitched tone and I became scared, so I kicked at the mass until it stopped. The next night I received a tersely-worded letter from the Dr, and he was none too pleased that I damaged his "device."

Some nights I would write the doctor and tell him how I was feeling, how I was bored with textbooks and fruit, how I didn't understand his latest chess move, and how I wish more than anything there was someone to talk to and to play with. Usually on those night I would just tear the letter to pieces from fear of appearing too needy or forward. I'm afraid I may have too strong of feeling for the doctor, but I do not think it can be helped. He's the only person in the whole world that I can talk to. He always responds gently, saying how he understands and that he knows what its like to miss someone deeply. He encourages me to stare in the mirror and to stare at the midnight sky, quoting that such practices "encourage self-awareness and mindfulness." As fond as I am of his idiosyncrasies, I've grown quite tired of the little girl in the mirror. Looking into it, I couldn't help but be reminded that I was the only one in the room. Despite my admission to chronic solitude, Dr. Kenning briefly mentioned how he was envious of me, and how he wished he could see the night sky once more. At first, the statement had caught me by surprise. How could he know what the Night looks like? Then my lagging memory jolted, and I remembered that Dr Kenning was an Elder.

The Elders were normal human beings that survived the bombs over three hundred years ago. There weren't many, maybe only ten or twenty, but no one knows exactly how many there are now. Something about their bodies changed when everything was fire and raditation. While everyone around them was dying, they survived, and soon they found each other and formed a community. The generation after them lived regular life spans, but the Elders lived on to see their children grow, and their children, and even their children, down now to the sixth generation, and even outlive them. They were worshipped for a time, and highly valued for their knowledge of the old ways. They were wise, and were the first to suggest the destruction of ancient technology and encourage simpler living more connected to the life of the planet and our local communities. The human race is only able to survive now because of their teachings.

I decided to take Dr Kenning's advice of Night-watching and took to staring at the stars. I was amazed at all the spots and dots and at how beautiful it all was. I had only ever heard of how dangerous nighttime was, but I never knew it could be so mystical and marvelous. I love the first moon the most, the white moon with the open maw and great big eyes. I began to speak to the first moon as a dear friend, "Hello, first moon. My name is Caraline, and you are my only friend that sees me while I'm awake. I want to tell you all my secrets and all my feelings. I don't mind if you cannot answer back. I only need you to listen to me and keep me company on these lonely night." It may have all been a bit juvenile and appeared quite silly at times, but I believe that's how I kept my sanity in those dark hours, talking to the first moon.

When the second moon would breach the horizon, in its pale red glow, I knew my time of wakefulness was almost spent. The second moon traversed the sky very quickly, and when it set was when I fainted, stricken with the day-sleep. But my restfulness during the day was often good, and my dreams felt more natural, like my eyes were closed with my spirit playing behind them.