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The Hecatomb, Chapter 1 |
| Written by Sean | |
| Friday, 20 June 2008 | |
The Hecatomb
His name was David Verre, and he was a broken man. War had come silently, under the cloak of piety. It was never outright warfare. No, there were no tanks, no missiles, no field orders sent from general to general. In fact, in the eyes of most of the populace, it could hardly be considered a war. It was a purging; a cleansing that tried to separate what was "evil" from what was, in truth, far more wicked than the accused.
David was one of the accused, a member of those deemed twisted and unholy by the powers that be. The effects of that label had been felt. The university had taken his job from him, and while he still held the title "David Verre, Ph.D.", he no longer taught the beauty of English literature, nor was he even allowed on the campus. "Corrupt the youth," he was warned, "and the doctorate will be revoked as well." That was all his kind did, apparently: taint the young generations with sin, wretchedness, and malformation.
Despite all of this, David wasn't concerned with his own well-being. At thirty-two, he considered himself past his prime. He had not yet fallen into that state of disrepair in which men older than him suffered. Though his gym membership had been revoked a short time ago, David still did his very best to stay in some physical shape, not out of the desire to look attractive, but in concern for the safety of those close to him. His daughter, however, occupied most of his thoughts. She was eight, eight and one-quarter to be precise, still young enough to forget the travesties that had taken place. She would not remember the jeers, the police squads, and the hatred. Sadly, she would not remember her mother. Irene had been taken the same day they put that hideous M on his door.
M. Mutant. The letter, written in sanguine paint, was a symbol of his "evil." It could not be removed. There was no special chemical combination that rendered it indelible, only the laws, those that enforced it, and the fear that chilled David's every vein. He remembered the day he tried, the day he tried to chip away at the world that had consumed him. Men had arrived at his door, and later that night, little Evelyn wondered why Daddy wore a sling, and why his eye was puffy.
She came running down the stairs, unknowingly kind enough to free her father from his thoughts. He was cleaning up breakfast. Everything had been washed but the last fork, presently under the careful scrutiny of David himself to ensure that it was indeed clean. Evelyn, submerged in a hooded sweatshirt, would have run straight into the kitchen table had her father not stopped her. Smiling, David pulled down the sweatshirt and gazed into the girl's sapphire eyes, so much like his own.
"Daddy, daddy, look what I can do!"
Evelyn retreated into the sweatshirt, pulling the hood over her head like some sort of hatch. David waited patiently. Evelyn stuck her hands through the sleeves, and waved them about much like how a turtle would wave its flippers. From the depths of the fabric sanctuary, Evelyn started chanting, loudly and rapidly.
"I'm a turtle, I'm a turtle, I'm a turtle..."
She burst out of the top, in imitation of a turtle no doubt, the hood keeping her head from very nearly popping off and rolling along the floor. She giggled her way through one last repetition of "I'm a turtle!" before throwing her arms up in jubilation. Apparently, it was quite an accomplishment indeed.
David couldn't help but laugh. Evelyn continued giggling, her wavy red hair bouncing with every chuckle. That was her mother's gift, the crimson tresses. David had brown hair, and he hoped that his daughter would inherit his height. Six feet, he thought, was a very good height to be.
David pushed the scarlet waves behind his daughter's ears.
"Well then, you ready to go?"
Evelyn held up a little finger as authoritatively as one might expect of an eight-and-one-quarter year old, and ran hurriedly up the stairs from whence she came. She returned mere moments later clutching a sating doll her mother had made for her. It was one of Evelyn's most beloved possessions, and it greatly resembled its creator, down to the red hair and the emerald green eyes. Among Evelyn's favorite things, all of which resided somewhere in the chaotic neatness of her room, were various toys, three more dolls, pictures of turtles, and a glass portrait of David, Evelyn, and her mother Irene.
That was his power, his gift that so cursed him to this life. David could control glass. He didn't know how it worked, for despite his intelligence, complex science escaped him. All he knew was that it obeyed his commands. His wife was cursed as well, burdened with the ability to manipulate fabric. She was a seamstress, and apart from creating dolls for Evelyn, the greatest extent to which she utilized her powers was to fix holes in clothing.
They had taken her two years ago, back when the whole mess started. It all began very normally, almost boringly. The usual elections had taken place and a man who stood invincible on morals had won the position as leader of the free world. Even David, as well as Irene, had voted for him. Unfortunately, it wasn't made known until after the election was won just how such a moral fellow came to be. He was a militant, a general of hatred who wore the vestments of a kind and merciful man. It was he who added fuel to the already burning flames of aggression towards mutants. They were the smallest minority, hardly comprising a percentage of the population, and yet, they were the most reviled. It was he who began what David referred to as the Hecatomb, a long-forgotten word that denoted the sacrifice (or slaughter, as he called it) of one hundred victims. Supported virulently by most of the populace, 100 mutants were selected at random and rounded up nation-wide. It was to mark the beginning of a great era, they were told, the line of demarcation between a time of corruption, and a time of purity. The 100 were led to pits, great and massive depths, where they received the Quietus, a burning. They would be doused in cleansing flame, and somehow forgiven in the eyes of whatever kind God the supporters chose to corrupt. They had come for his wife, one of those selected, while Evelyn was at school. She went quietly, and her kiss goodbye, her soft, accepting farewell, was the only things that kept gentle David from killing every single damned enforcer. Evelyn thought her mother had simply left, and it pained David to subject Irene's memory to such disgrace. He couldn't bear to tell her the truth, though. He would not dare tell Evey that her mother died in "holy" fire, and that flames do not cleanse, but blacken.
Once again, Evelyn roused David from his thoughts. She waved the doll in his face.
"I'm ready, but Cassie hit her head on the way down the stairs. Kiss her and make it better."
David did as he was asked and kissed the doll's head. Grinning, he did the same to Evelyn, his goatee tickling her forehead. In one swooping motion, David bent down, picked her up, and tucked her under his arm, meriting squeals of laughter from the little girl.
Evelyn held at his side, David left the kitchen, tickling her as he went, and opened the closet just to the left of the front door. He placed his daughter down and removed his leather jacket from its hanger.
"Where are we going today, dad?"
"To the pet store. They've got some jobs opening up."
"So, if you get it, where am I gonna go all day? Can I go to work with you?"
"Nope. Sorry, sweetheart, but you're going to have to stay with Mrs. Harrington."
Mrs. Harrington was a fellow mutant who lived across the street. She was about twice David's age, and her husband had suffered the same fate as Irene. She could emit high-pitched noises that, at best, could be a small annoyance to those who heard it. Regardless, she was a kind and pleasant woman who positively adored Evelyn.
"But she doesn't let me have cereal there anymore!"
"Well, Evey, you did turn her plastic bowl into a turtle."
Evey had the ability, and ceaseless tendency, to manipulate plastic. Most often, she turned any plastic into the likeness of turtles, her favorite animal. She found nothing wrong with the practice. She thought turtles were cute and, therefore, everyone else should too. She had very happily displayed this talent to Mrs. Harrington, much to the latter's horror, which promptly resulted in Evelyn becoming forbidden to touch anything made out of plastic in Mrs. Harrington's home. As such, Evey was often bored when she went there, and had taken up the act of hating it.
"It's still boring."
"I know, sweetheart, but you get to come with me today?"
"Can I get a puppy?"
"I'll think about it."
This, of course, translated into a resounding "No."
David donned his leather jacket and, hand in hand, the two left their home. From his doctorate, David had saved up enough money to purchase a townhouse in a nice section of the city. It was, aside from his wife and child, his pride and joy. Now it served as both a reminder of his imprisonment to this life, and as the last bastion of memories from a life long past. It was almost funny, the level of contradictions that surrounded the house. On the stoop, just below the sanguine M laid a carefully draw hopscotch setup. Despite the various stains that tainted the outer walls, the effects of time and vandalism, the windows were immaculate, shed of fractures and impurities daily by David, who needn't lift a finger to do so.
A school bus chugged by, and Evelyn thankfully refrained from asking why she wasn't on it. David had been "advised" by the elementary school principal, Mr. Duncan, whose name always reminded David of donuts, that it would be rise to remove Evelyn from the public education system. In an attempt to save money, David had taken to home schooling little Evey. He was proud to say that it was going very well.
"Will there be any turtles at the pet shop?"
"I should think so."
"Can I get a turtle?"
"It would certainly be less work than a puppy."
"Is that a yes?"
"It's a maybe."
"I like turtles."
"I know you do, Evey."
"Do you like turtles?"
"Yes I do."
"That's good."
Evey talked the entire walk to the store, about everything and nothing in particular. When she ran out of topics, she took a much-needed breath and made up stories about people she passed. An elderly fellow with a walker was a robot, a young woman waiting at a bus stop was an alien, and a group of men David's age were discussing the intricacies of pie, specifically that of the cherry variety.
"What about him?"
David pointed to an inconspicuous man reading a newspaper.
"He's not important."
"Why not?"
"Cause I can't think of anything."
"Ah." Copyright 2008 Sean |
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