Virulent Recall

• Stephen Mercado, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2016

It was such a long road, it seemed to extend in front of me. Never would I have thought that I could have escaped from the noose of my mind. No, the noose of that time. That time that deconstructed, disintegrated, degraded me of myself. My recovery strengthened me to become a saviour, an advocate, for others fallen the same way I had. My next client only proved to be a dull diamond, a typical case. But when I examined him, in every angle, under every light, he seemed to reflect my past transparently. “The amount of pressure continued to increase as time passed.” Confusion and delusion took over as he recounted his experiences. I felt I had relived those sights not knowing which were his horrors and which were mine.
A cacophony of sirens triggered adrenaline to flood our bloodstreams, even though we all were well aware of the signals in the form of the earth oscillations months prior. All that filled our view was a towering mushroom comprised of a suffocating concoction, looking down upon us as if sparing our lives for a grander scheme as it stood upon its pedestal of what made those villagers’ hearts and souls. Although resembling a disastrous man-made bomb, no one could be held responsible for this monstrosity. A pungent stink that tower continuously excreted assaulted our senses. Along with its producer, a colossal oceanic tempest broadcasted the terror to reach populations beyond our sea’s boarders.
Finally, the day arrived. The reverberation shot through us, shattering whatever we had left in us. There was ringing, another cacophony, so intense, so internal, fulmination seemed possible. The darkness shrouding our hearts translated into the tower’s curse upon us. We could only watch from a distance as this malicious, cataclysmic activity unfolded, at a rate that could match the vehicles which cascaded through the congested lifelines, halting men, women and children from reaching their loved ones. To the ears, an equine battalion descended from the mushroom tower, audible throughout the provinces, inducing tears to stream from the panic and terror this raucous attack caused.
Within a twelve-minute walk of my first commute, I had experienced the forbidden temptation of ending my driving force. Ant hills now dotted around our area barely resembling their use and significance, doubting many of their belief of a Divine Saviour. The scorching, blinding sludge consumed our communications across narrow waters. Ridges on an infant’s torso cast shadows on their chafed skin, a heartbreaking indication of the severity this tyrant of a disaster had on our health. We did not anticipate the impact such a seemingly insignificant and harmless particle could have in multitudes on our society, defeating us ruthlessly.
Blow after blow, our community depleted, my family depleted, I depleted. But I was refined, had all my rough edges cut from me, polished and shaped, only to become the same person I was before my escape from that apocalyptic prison.