shiver (FEATURED) | ✓

o47

Ruins. That is what they've left me in bleak, grey ruins; something that crumbles under light touch. I move to the dining table first, which lies on its side. The glass tabletop is cracked, but perhaps it'll still hold. With a soft groan, I grasp it by the legs and pull it up. It jolts back and falls on all four legs, the framework stable. I shove it back into its usual place. I move it an inch, and the tabletop caves in, exploding into shards no bigger than my thumbnail. They scatter over my shoes, slide to every corner of the room. A particularly big fragment disappears underneath a pile of papers. The uppermost bears the wet footprint of my attacker's shoe. Files. Files upon files upon files litter the ground; all from work, all from things that have been- well. Filed away. The chip. They were looking for the chip. It was a desperate attempt, clearly, futile and stupid. I haven't been to work in several days. But surely, surely Jonathan wouldn't waste the time and energy of his minions searching for something that I always keep on me. Perhaps not the chip, then. Perhaps something else-- but what? Me.

Surely not.

I leave the dining table alone and walk to my bedroom. The glass doors slide open. I run my hands along the glass frame of the bed, and stare at the wall opposite the headboard. Flickering on and off is the projection-like screen technology embedded into the glass pane. It holds my schedule beside the one that programs everyone in the city. A chart. The hours for waking up. The hours for falling asleep. 10:00 PM - sleep. 6:00 AM - rise. It's a monotony that repeats itself every single day. It's not yet dark. Late afternoon. But I want to sleep. How, though?

The mattress leans against a wall, slashed as though by a knife on one side. Some of the stuffing has been pulled out. That would have been a good hiding place for something small, I think, but I'm suddenly glad all the things I have to hide are entirely in my head. I spot my pillow through the glass bottom of the bed. The eiderdown is crumpled beside the mattress, sprinkled with stuffing. It's been slashed too, soft feathers spilling out of it. It's bleeding, I muse. It's bleeding soft, white feathers. In the evening sun, they reflect the sunlight like liquid gold.

I kick the eiderdown out of the way and slide the mattress across the floor, plonking it back onto the bed. The duvet goes next, leaving behind a trail of little feathers that float down to the ground in every sunbeam. I get on my knees, fish the pillow out from underneath, and then fling myself onto my bed. Every picture frame, shattered. A vase I kept on my nightstand is in pieces. It's ancient - a relic, if you will, from our old world. Japanese. My wife gave it to me, but she's dead now. I roll onto my side and stare at the blue and white seigaiha pattern. Good luck. Power. Resilience. All gone. Gone.

I feel utterly violated. Stripped, like my entire life has been completely bared before a stranger. It makes me feel queasy inside.

The only thing that remains intact is a book that everyone owns. It's thick, and all twelve volumes that follow the first are all that occupy library bookshelves. The history of Tetrahmon. The book is what they call 'pocket-sized', although I'm not sure if anyone has pockets big enough to house the volume. The pages are so thin they're almost translucent, and their edges are lined in black. It's not ornately decorated. It's plain and simple. Embossed on the teal, clothbound cover are the letters of the title, adorned with gold leaf. One-thousand pages of waffle, as Evanna would probably say. I smile bitterly at the thought. It's her fault. This is all her fault.