'awve
(Part 1)
Wisps of orange dirt swept across the stretch of cracked asphalt peppered with rocks. Paint once decorated the black surface, but accumulated years stripped it away. A not-yet man but no-longer boy trudged down the hot, dark road. His bare feet were too calloused to feel the sting of heat biting his soles. Tattered fabric, formerly a checkered shirt, became his turban. It was laid out overnight to collect dew and wrapped around his forehead come morning, but within twenty minutes under the Australian sun, the cloth was completely dry, just like his mouth. His hair was long, dark, wavy, and filled with grit, no different than the bushes he infrequently passed—withered, browning plants also dying of thirst. The hero of an unknown story wore a plastic bag for a cape to shelter his body from the onerous elements. The filmy plastic, branded by a corporation that did not know of his existence, threatened to tear away from his grip, but he would not release. The wanderer, the outcast, the black sheep, bent forward and walked against the wind on his journey to a better land that offered promise.
In the middle of the ocean, cut off from everything and everyone, is death experienced. Do not be afraid. You have been set adrift like a fallen-away branch, rolling with the current farther and farther away from every worry that has ever plagued you. Do not be afraid; trust where this invisible hand is taking you.
Heavy lids rise and reveal a pale blue canvas yet to be stroked by a painter's brush. White noise is present, but without visuals, the curtains fall, and the dark intermission resumes.
They rise again, this time to a full house of stars and a large, shining face looking down upon the world silently watching the story unfold. Listlessly, the protagonist turns his head and finds his stage empty of his supporting cast. The mise-en-scène stretches into infinity, connecting seamlessly with the fabric of space. The ground undulates and, glittering like the stars, rises and falls again in a never-ending dance.
Water.
Night is for sleeping, so the exhausted mind drifts back to its natural state.
"Man down! Man down!"
The panicked voice was drowned out in the sea of other soldiers screaming for aid. He was hunkered over a wounded man in an attempt to stop the bleeding when his attentions were stolen by an earthquake; it was the ground-shaking titanic stomps of his allies in their bipedal tanks. The drivers were focused solely on the mission, so they did not see their fellow brother up ahead, who was screaming at them to step around. The AMP suit raised its foot, and the Marine did a tumble-away with his fallen comrade seconds before impact. Cursing at the futility, he hoisted the injured brother onto his back to evade the rest of the oncoming suits.
"We need backup!"
"Move! Move! Move!"
"Bravo Division, rise to my flanks!"
Barring all, he charged through the battlefield ringing with gunfire and commands. He serpentined past the metal giants, who were shooting off deafening blasts from their Gatling guns, and sheltered behind their legs when the enemy returned fire. His only option was to retreat, so further, he pulled from cover, narrowly avoiding a stricken AMP that had crashed into an inferno as he advanced towards the razed ex-jungle. The terrain itself was deadlier than the battle; the trees of Venezuela had long since burned away, and without roots to hold the soil together, it gave out under the Marine's foot. Both men stumbled down the slope and rolled into a ditch, where more earth fell atop them. He searched and found his friend's hand poking out from under a mound. Immediately, he began digging him free, brushing away the soil obstructing his mouth.
"Thank you…"
"We'll get you outta here, mate. Just—"
"Incoming!"
You never hear the one that hits you. Instincts had him throw his body over the man to shield him from the blast. Then, the din of a thousand resonant sounds were swept up into one unified ring.
A gushing blast shot past the hero's ear; and, on reflex, he spun away with a cry. Lying on his side, he heard the event play out again, and a glistening spray rained down on him. His hands scrambled across the wet, leathery surface of his island, trying to understand what was happening. Like a newborn, he bumbled onto his knees, but a third eruption startled him back. He was supine and still in shock when the booms stopped, and the protagonist, lulled by the lapping waves, drifted back to sleep.
The overheads of the hospital blared like the sun but unleashed no warmth. The only wind came from the air-conditioning, emitting an acrid scent that was unpleasant to inhale. The doctor's fingers coiled around the bed rails in a way that told the patient the worst had come to pass.
"Give it to me straight, Doc. Don't sugarcoat it."
"You should be proud of your actions. It saved a man's life."
"What did I just say?" He tried to be unruffled. Cocksureness, when all hope was lost, was the hallmark of any good Marine.
"I'm sorry. You suffered a complete spinal cord injury. Everything from the waist down has been paralyzed."
His mouth went dry from how long he held it open. "I'm a cripple?" With no emotion, he shifted his head away from the doctor—the thin pillow crinkling—and stared at the blank opposite wall. There were others like him, lying upon their beds that were in a row next to his—other forgotten veterans who didn't even get the privilege of a curtain partition, so anyone could see the despair on their pathetic, broken faces.
"There's still hope for you, Corporal Sully. Stem cell therapy has had many recent breakthroughs, including the repairment of damaged nerve cells, like in your spine."
"Does it look like my name's 'Nezha'?"
Lips tightened as well-meaning eyes understood the predicament. "Therapeutic cloning would be costly, but I'm sure benefits exist in your country to cover it."
His face was unreadable. "Yeah, I'm sure."
Another strained pause.
"There's also the possibility of finding a matching neural stem cell donor. I know, within families, there's a small chance a member could be compatible. Anyone?"
His dead eyes were hard on the ceiling when he shifted his head no.
"Once again, I am sorry."
The doctor left, and the invalid lingered on the way the shoes clacked against the tile floor as they faded out of earshot.
The mouth opens upon waking, and a parched wheeze exits. His lips are cracked and worsen the longer he remains under that tortuous sun. Blue fingers sink into shifting material that pours away from his rising hand.
Sand.
Waters no longer brush his side, so he is completely dry. The main character sits upright and surveys the beach he's now stranded on, a stage still bereft of his cast.
It's an unusual shore—the sand, a muddy yellow, and trees petrified beyond identification. Hanging off their dead limbs are sheets both white and brown that our hero surmises as alien algae. To his right, farther out in the ocean, sits an outcrop devoid of vegetation. Above, creeps a common blue, overtaking the yellow band of the morning sun. Beyond what is perceivable, there's an odd feeling of surrealism; he senses he's not in reality anymore but elsewhere.
Where am I?
This cohesive thought is too much for his head, and it starts shrieking in pain. He clutches his braided hair and leans far over his knees, waiting for the agony to stop. Once it clears and he feels strong enough, he sits upright and stalls in a position of staring at the ocean.
Time passes, and he falls back into darkness.
"I'm over here. That's it. C'mon, come to me. You can do this."
The awaiting hands kept beckoning the wobbling infant forward. First making an unconfident gurgle, a shaking little foot went before the other in an attempt to reach her encouraging father.
"All righty. You're a natural at this, Kiwi."
Suddenly, the foot slipped, and whatever progress thus far fell back on all fours. Summoned by her cries, the mother swooped in to help, but the father stayed her with a raised hand.
"No, no. She can do this."
His focus returned to his daughter, and when their eyes locked, she listened.
"Come to me, Kiri."
Defeated tears were surfacing; great was her desire to give up, but greater was her desire to hug her sempul, so chubby hands slapped the ground until that momentum gained her a wobbly stand. Her feet threatened to collapse, but the infant kept performing mighty feats one after the other, and soon, those little reaching fingers found home in those open palms.
"You did it! Way to go, Kiri!"
The father's cheers became laughs, and he rocked back, lifting his giggling baby high. There was nothing he knew his daughter could not do.
|"She takes so much after you, my Jake."|
Grit shifted around his opening eyelids, and the man realized his face was buried in sand. He pulled himself back up and stared again at the ocean.
Jake?
The voice was his and not his; it was gentle but firm. It called him to awaken. His head throbbed from the inner monologue, and his vision kept succumbing to a blackness that lingered for indeterminable seconds. He waited for the episode to subside. Once it did, he sat up with palms firmly planted in the sand to circumvent another fainting spell. Over the course of time, Jake looked about his isolated beach and attempted calling for help, but his vocals were too weak. Growing desperate, he tried crawled towards the ocean, but that, too, caused his mind to complain, and he collapsed. Waves tapped his hand and reawakened him; he righted himself once more, but all he could do was ogle that sweeping expanse.
Something's wrong with me.
That's when he noticed his head felt light—too light. Turning it from side to side, he detected nothing sliding across his back. It took several moments that waned into eternity before he hesitantly reached behind himself. When his twitching fingers found the end of his hair and coiled around nothing, his breathing fluctuated; his heart missed beats. His fingers started clutching madly at something that was no longer, but panicking was no use.
It was gone.
Shock bodily kicked him onto one hand with such force he could not utter a sound; attempts only resulted in a retching that eventually emptied his whole stomach until his gaping face was flush against the sand and pushing up ridges. His anguish wanted to unleash the wail his plight deserved, but it came out as a sharp croaking noise, scattering the opportunists circling the air. Alone and wretched, he lay in an unmoving stupor, his dull, lifeless eyes following the unceasing waves coming in to pat his outstretched hand in its touch-and-go condolences.
Time passes.
And passes.
And passes.
So the isolated world, small and desolate, became home to the man more often asleep than awake and, when awake, more often dazed than lucid, going about the shore in mindless turns.
Night becomes morning.
Morning becomes evening.
Eclipses come and go.
Feelers brush his eyelids into a weak opening, and bleary eyes behold six spindly teal legs. Tiny eyestalks peel towards him as he stares back at the beachcomber, but once it realized he was alive, it shot across the sand and vanished.
How long has it been?
Jake wormed out of the depression he took shelter in, leaving the shade of a decaying palm to emerge into the light, his swivelling ears only discerning the whoosh of waves.
He was far away from everything.
Where he was, he did not know. Again, his hand reached behind his back to feel that harrowing absence. The sensation of his fingers curling around nothing caused him to bemoan once more, and he fell back into despair—back into the despondent abyss he had inhabited for a period he didn't know how long. Permanency is a horror beyond definition—when you know there is no recovery, no solution, but to accept the worst of outcomes and live with that—forever.
C'mon, Jake, get it together.
Jake drew up from his slump. He rubbed his face clean of the crystalline sand and scratched away the more stubborn particles. He had been in a cycle of fainting and moaning that tending to his person had been put on hold since his arrival. It was time for the survivalist to take over.
He started with inventory, stripping himself of every possession, including his ta'lan, and laying it all neatly before him. First, he inspected his throat mic, but as he thought, range and saltwater rendered it useless. His machine gun was gone, but he still had his ammo chest rig stocked with magazines; yet, for all his touch of tech, out in the wild, his most useful weapon was his Na'vi knife. From his bandolier, he fished out a black canteen filled with fresh water. Stranded on that pocket beach, it was all the castaway had, so he made to swig it back; however, when he set the lip to his own, the water only dribbled down his chin. He immediately stopped and was concerned by how difficult it was to drink. He fingered his face but couldn't feel any sensation from the right corner of his mouth now drooped in a perpetual frown.
Facial Paralysis.
Before he knew it, Jake was teetering over that treacherous pit. He reacted by whacking his head to ward off the attack so he could resume his objective. With the setback in mind, he clamped the canteen spout between his teeth using the working side of his mouth, then leaned carefully. In this way, he was able to get most of it down with only a few drops lost. Next, after choosing some driftwood for a staff, the hero finally staggered to his feet. He almost stumbled, but the branch kept him balanced whilst he recovered from the dizzy spell. His job now was to locate more drinkable water while he still had the time. Scanning the sands, he saw it was littered with tree limbs and other vegetation that didn't seem native to the region—the hallmark aftermath of a violent storm.
The plasma storm…
The battle was replaying in his mind before he was ready, prompting him to drown the surfacing memory; there would be time for reflection, but later. He had already wasted too many critical hours feeling sorry for himself.
Right at that moment, he chanced to notice something sticking out of the sand: a very large, helical blue shell. Flipping it revealed a Fibonacci spiral with evenly spaced chambers. It was perfect, Jake thought. He filled half of it with ocean water, then dug a shallow hole to cradle the tip of the cone, hiking more sand around it so it sat upright. Then Jake knelt there, staring in contemplation at his invention in the works. He was on the verge of a brilliant idea, but he needed time to realize what that idea was. After a long pause of mental inactivity, Jake recovered from his absence and went to work searching the rest of his surroundings. The algae from earlier caught his eye, so he walked over to feel the texture; it was rubbery with tough tensile strength, ergo, exactly what he needed. So he cleaned that as well while mindful not to go too fast. After this, he unhooked his empty canteen, unscrewed its cap, and lowered it upright into an unbroken chamber of the shell, then laid his washed organic sheet over top till his contraption resembled a drum. To prevent the material from blowing off, Jake unfastened his bandolier and wrapped it around, securing it in place. His last course of action was to take a heavy rock and drop it on the skin; it sank to the middle, causing the sheet to hover just an inch above the canteen's spout.
The man had completed his solar still.
Proud of his accomplishment, he measured where Rigil Kentura was in the sky, only to realize that more than half the day had passed—it had taken him that long just to complete a simple task. Devastation buckled Jake to his knees as he slowly came to terms with this new, but painfully familiar, reality. The extent of how far-reaching this disability would be, he wasn't sure. For now, cold, hungry, and dirty, he returned to his hollow, hoping to sleep through the nightmare that was to last the rest of his life.