Phoenix (dystopian romance) (Theta Waves: Episode 1) by Thea Atkinson Page B
Authors: Thea Atkinson
Ads: Link
World War. Had died there right there, retching in his trench, taking a dozen other men with him.
She wasn't sure how much he'd understood, but she did know he got all of it: every detail, every nuance of sound, each smell and sight. He was there because she was there. And because she was there she knew things about him that he wouldn't want anyone to know--least of all himself. Poor soul had flattened right out on the remnants of sidewalk and she'd had to rummage through his pockets for the five-dollar bill.
Just like her old gent here, who was still swaying on his feet, enough that he stumbled and went to one knee again. She knelt down next to him.
"I said get the fuck out of here," she hissed in his ear.
It was often this way with the reincarnated. When their lives got telecasted to them in living, breathing, reeking colour, they felt the shames again as though they were fresh. Except most of them didn't quite understand that it was their own soul memories they were experiencing; they imagined it was a reaction to a vision she had somehow pressed into their consciousness, a roller coaster ride of hallucination. They weren't real sure how she did it, or even if it was something she actually did to them. They just knew they lived something in those moments and it was worth the price of admission. A short bit of exhilaration in a life filled with agony and despair.
Because there was no pleasure in New Earth, not since the god had come, no real joy in living, and so whether a little trick of the light, a trick of the hand, a trick of some sort of hallucination: didn't matter. It was a pretty trick she turned indeed. No one in New Earth cared about such trivial things as morals, ethics, even the old-fashioned notion of sin. It was back to the primeval concerns of eat, sleep, forage, fornicate, and if all that was taken care of, you moved it up a notch. Steal, kill, use, assault. Same things really, just on another playing level, like some kind of warped Dante's inferno high on a gob of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.
Now, not nearly eight months after the war, she actually made enough money to buy an egg salad sandwich each morning from the survivor's station, one that fortunately came with a smear of godspit taped to the bottom of the cellophane wrapper. The coffee she got free, left on the back step in a thermos by the manager of the station: Ami. A good man for a dealer, even if he was a bit intense for her tastes.
She wasn't sure why he was being so nice to her. Unless it was because of the trick she'd turned for him, the one he'd said changed his life.
His re-vision hadn't touched her any more than this old gent's or the fresh-faced college boy's; nothing touched her anymore. She was a conduit, only, it seemed, able to walk through the experiences unscathed and unafraid with her johns, giving her the odd sense of being in the world but yet strangely above it--hovering almost, not quite entered in. Limbo.
She wished she could say she was grateful for it; instead, the only thing she was grateful for was the money for the sandwich and the smear of bliss-inducing drug that Ami taped to the bottom.
Only the physical touched her: the sun baking her arms to a toast-colored brown, the rain making her card table even more dilapidated. Most times she didn't even feel sorry for the prostitutes who set up shop with a bruise or two on display. These last four days were the first time in nearly eight months that she felt some sort of anxiety past getting her next fix and she paid attention to that nervous energy. She'd be a fool not to.
All because of that unflinching stare from across the way. She'd need to find another spot, perhaps to peddle her wares. For now, she had her hands on her knees, studying this new arrival from beneath a hooded gaze, wondering what he thought of her particular brand of shenanigans. The re-vision she'd executed didn't bother her; what bothered her was what this man across the street must have been
She wasn't sure how much he'd understood, but she did know he got all of it: every detail, every nuance of sound, each smell and sight. He was there because she was there. And because she was there she knew things about him that he wouldn't want anyone to know--least of all himself. Poor soul had flattened right out on the remnants of sidewalk and she'd had to rummage through his pockets for the five-dollar bill.
Just like her old gent here, who was still swaying on his feet, enough that he stumbled and went to one knee again. She knelt down next to him.
"I said get the fuck out of here," she hissed in his ear.
It was often this way with the reincarnated. When their lives got telecasted to them in living, breathing, reeking colour, they felt the shames again as though they were fresh. Except most of them didn't quite understand that it was their own soul memories they were experiencing; they imagined it was a reaction to a vision she had somehow pressed into their consciousness, a roller coaster ride of hallucination. They weren't real sure how she did it, or even if it was something she actually did to them. They just knew they lived something in those moments and it was worth the price of admission. A short bit of exhilaration in a life filled with agony and despair.
Because there was no pleasure in New Earth, not since the god had come, no real joy in living, and so whether a little trick of the light, a trick of the hand, a trick of some sort of hallucination: didn't matter. It was a pretty trick she turned indeed. No one in New Earth cared about such trivial things as morals, ethics, even the old-fashioned notion of sin. It was back to the primeval concerns of eat, sleep, forage, fornicate, and if all that was taken care of, you moved it up a notch. Steal, kill, use, assault. Same things really, just on another playing level, like some kind of warped Dante's inferno high on a gob of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.
Now, not nearly eight months after the war, she actually made enough money to buy an egg salad sandwich each morning from the survivor's station, one that fortunately came with a smear of godspit taped to the bottom of the cellophane wrapper. The coffee she got free, left on the back step in a thermos by the manager of the station: Ami. A good man for a dealer, even if he was a bit intense for her tastes.
She wasn't sure why he was being so nice to her. Unless it was because of the trick she'd turned for him, the one he'd said changed his life.
His re-vision hadn't touched her any more than this old gent's or the fresh-faced college boy's; nothing touched her anymore. She was a conduit, only, it seemed, able to walk through the experiences unscathed and unafraid with her johns, giving her the odd sense of being in the world but yet strangely above it--hovering almost, not quite entered in. Limbo.
She wished she could say she was grateful for it; instead, the only thing she was grateful for was the money for the sandwich and the smear of bliss-inducing drug that Ami taped to the bottom.
Only the physical touched her: the sun baking her arms to a toast-colored brown, the rain making her card table even more dilapidated. Most times she didn't even feel sorry for the prostitutes who set up shop with a bruise or two on display. These last four days were the first time in nearly eight months that she felt some sort of anxiety past getting her next fix and she paid attention to that nervous energy. She'd be a fool not to.
All because of that unflinching stare from across the way. She'd need to find another spot, perhaps to peddle her wares. For now, she had her hands on her knees, studying this new arrival from beneath a hooded gaze, wondering what he thought of her particular brand of shenanigans. The re-vision she'd executed didn't bother her; what bothered her was what this man across the street must have been
Similar Books
