When They Come For Us

Part I - The Pilgrim

In my nightmares stands a man of spectral figure. In an empty expanse of void, illuminated by unknown source, he sits there. He sits, watches, embraces the deadly howling wind which blows harshly across his stubbled face. Staring through me with his ceaseless gray eyes. Those dismal bagging eyes, void of all joy, sorrow, imagination. Arrayed in formal attire singed at the cuffs. Absently he stares. He may not have even noticed my presence. He sits forward, elbows on knees, in that oaken chair – in his atrophied skin. In his varicose veins. He stares. Unexposed atrophy. Premature varicose.

He waits. He yearns.

Such is what I tell myself, at least. In reality, his expression is too mundane to discern. Could he be waiting for something? Maybe he rests in a reception room – a doctor or an airport. Maybe he is being reprimanded by partner or parent. He watches intently – is there something specific he is watching, or is he staring into space?

Despairingly, none quite hit the mark. Indeed, I know exactly who he is. And no amount of mental gymnastics will ease him from my thoughts. Zachary, the one who died.

By now, many years past since when I once knew him, his visuals have become fuzzy at best. I do remember one thing – the most identifiable feature. He had a jagged slash scar running from the bridge of his nose to his left cheekbone. It was a rugged display earned as a child, yet somehow the broad crease earned him some indescribable sense of elegance. He was not of any remarkable physique, but the flaw gave him a faint manner of beauty. Regardless, it was macabre.

And this macabre demeanor was – at most times – not in contrast to his temperament. He was a dreadful man, if not frequently – and quite characteristically – apathetic. But his callous conduct was more a testament to standards than character. He held himself in high regard, as well as his peers.

I suppose his phlegm helped more than hurt. Whereas the common settler were to mourn the dead, he carried about his business undisturbed and uninterested – almost as if he had no prior connection to them at all. Frequently, his apathy would turn cold – he might even detest the man who dies as if perishing is some decision made or a test of will as opposed to some grotesque and unavoidable facet of life. He made it clear that he would shave out no space for lament. Sometimes I wish I could say the same of myself.

The wind grows harsher, his thin hair now drifts.

I speak of him as if he is dead. In reality, his location remains unknown. Of course, his grim fate is all but determined by complex statistics and basic reasoning. It seems as if the common consensus is that there is no conceivable, feasible, or probable means by which the man could still be living today. My problem with such things lies in the fact that no remains were ever located at the site of death, and this is that which haunts me each night. Zachary loathed mortality — despised even the faint idea that perhaps one's time may run out. I do not accept that someone so stubborn on the front of survival would allow himself to slip into the halls of perpetuity. No, Zach would not let himself fall for noble cause, quiet suffering, or even for unforeseen circumstance.

He was forever in pursuit of something more. Should it be a home to settle, a friend to keep, a family to relish, it never quite seemed enough to please him. His spirit, consumed with conviction, always wandered in search of a purpose grander than he had. With unwavering intention, he would invariably sustain an air of hopeless optimism around himself. He constantly got himself — and by proxy his colleagues — roped up in some plot, plan, or program intended to further his goals. And, despite the instability of these situations, would — for the most part — escape without harm.

Maybe his idealistic charm originated from his stance on life. I can not recall, in the early years I had known the man, a single moment where he had sat himself down and took time to reflect on the previous day's struggles, his focus was always on what came next: what to do next, where to go next, who to speak to next. Frankly, "next" seemed to be of his most cherished words. And for these reasons, in the desolate cold of winter, it was strange when he first arrived in the lethargic settlement of Haschwa, as, unlike him, the people of the weeping square indulged in their own quiet personal sufferings. To Zach, a dismal world seemed more of a mild inconvenience.