It's been a year, and I thought I might be over it by now, but nope!
David scratches his thigh.
He doesn't mean to do it. He isn't supposed to. There isn't an itch—of course there isn't an itch. Itching indicates the manifestation of physical abnormalities, he knows: scabbing, hives, parasites, contact dermatitis, hepatitis, psoriasis, allergies, or the onset of age. These, he knows, do not exist in any way, shape, or form since The Wave. There isn't an itch. But there is.
David scratches under his knee.
He watches the pulsating green glow writhe across the skin on the back of his hand. The light flickers and weaves over his knuckles, across his thumb, through the crease of a childhood scar just under the nail on his index finger. It dances and loops back to his wrist and starts again.
David scratches the back of his hand.
Such a strange thing—the light—but soothing. What a comfort to look throughout his habitation complex and see the flashes appear on every one of his neighbours' faces. Even when he is alone—no he is never alone why would he think that—the trees and plants and leaves and indigenous species to this planet and all other planets flash too, the same way his skin does. They are all connected. They are never alone. They are all the same. No differences. No conflict. No arguments. No problems. Just the light brought by The Wave.
He doesn't remember before The Wave. He doesn't? Why would he? Some do—some still occasionally spoke of The Shepard or less occasionally of a species called the humans or the asari or the turians or the krogan or a dozen other terms for the inefficient, chaotic beings from before The Wave.
David scratches his elbow and frowns. That was a lie. No, not a lie—why lie—no use in twisting the truth, he knows—a miscalculation. Sometimes he does remember. Sometimes he remembers blues and reds and purples and browns unbroken by swirls of green. Sometimes. Like now. He remembers.
Bruises that turn black and blue then purple then yellow then fade away for good. Bloody scrapes that knit into faint pink scars that are lessons, stories, and marks of bravado all at once. Coughs and sniffles and vomiting and sweating that mother always said were the body's way of staying alive.
Saying goodbye to grandpa and that warm blossoming in his belly when he watched grandma and uncle hug at the funeral. Laughing in class at the lumbering form of Australopithecus and wondering what would come after Homo Sapiens Sapiens. Faking illnesses. Avoiding the dentist. Promising not to arrive late to work ever again. Arriving late the next day anyway. Stumbling over the pronunciation of craniosynostosis while Stan shook his football-shaped head with a laugh.
And then fear. Awe. Despair. Searching. Luxi is gone and Magi is too and then he sees Stan dragged away by lumbering blue shapes. Death. Hope. Anger. A Bright Green Light. Tranquility.
David scratches his cheek.
No, he doesn't remember. It doesn't matter. That was before—a time of antagonism and conflict. Now there is peace.
He works on the east wing today. He should get moving, he realizes. It would not be prudent to be late.
He passes one of the vessels of the Old Solution on his way through the courtyard. One of the smaller ones: thin and wiry with a thick neck. David is not afraid. He works with many such vessels. Even the largest of them are perfectly cordial and never induce violence or spread discord. As they pass each other underneath a young elm with shimmery leaves, David takes only a cursory glance at the passer-by. This one has the oddest of skulls: almost standard from the front, but it protrudes too far from the back and comes to a point where his own is round. It looks almost like a football, he thinks wryly.
He hears whispers, but there is no one around to whisper. He sees shadows at the corner of his eye but there is nothing around to cast darkness.
No, he doesn't remember. The green glow dances down his navel, then his pelvis.
David scratches his thigh.