How The World Changes

Chapter One: The World We Live In.

         If the world you knew suddenly changed, what would you do? Would you hide away? Freeze your body for a chance of immortality? Only to die in your supposed sleep? Or would you rather search the world, helping anyway you could? Only to die in the once familiar place that would have been called home? Alone, realizing all your efforts were for nothing. Or, maybe you'd take the survivalist route, go on your own, survive by yourself, only to die from the new world, and its harsh, cruel, lonely grip.

      When the world changed, many sought out these methods. Infact, the government encouraged it. Those who wanted to live by themselves would be found in a year. Dead, beaten, and forgotten. Those who stayed with their loved ones, locked in their houses lost hope quickly, blaming those around them for what the world has become. Those who just wanted to make a difference? Those were the ones who were said to survive, but were rarely heard from again. Being almost drafted into a false sense of heroism,

     After three years when the atomic bombs destroyed America, the government began to make a plan. It was a simple plan. One that would encourage hope of the failing country, and solve a major growing issue across the nation. Make the last remaining religious buildings into 'safehouses' for the ones wanting to help. Turn them into nuns, and monks, to look like they were going to help, to make it look like there was any hope. The requirements were simple. Be over the age of eighteen, and have no sexual feelings.

     Those who chose this were rare. So rare in fact, that the government had to start forcing those who met the criteria to join their master plan. It wasn't long after my eighteenth birthday, I came out to my parents as asexual. Lacking and sexual feelings for anyone. Not but six months later, army officers 'escorted' me to the nearest, still standing cathedral, only to live out the rest of my days as a 'holy guide'.

      These 'Nuns' and 'Monks' the government had drafted were to be a symbol of hope to those still alive. That, while times are tough now, we can always rise up by the grace of God. That was in a way, what they were to be seen as. But the job of a 'holy', as the world liked to call us, was hiding the truth. While we blossomed a fake hope amongst the people, we also did what the ones in charge were too afraid to do. Take the dead, and dispose of whatever was left of them. The nuns, in a way, became the bird masked grim reapers from history. We became a twisted version of plague doctors.

     The attire of a 'holy' was simple. Black flowing robes, coif, long enough to reach their backs, and a bulky, heavy, gas mask, that would forever symbolize the sign of death. Like the bird mask of a black plague doctor did so many years ago. We wore long gloves, knee high, black leather boots, no parts of our skin could be exposed to the radiation that replaced the outsides air. If we did, we became foul, unclean, and overall, sinful for disobeying a direct order from the ones who are on high.

    I never understood quite how bad the world had become. I knew we couldn't walk outside without proper gear, I knew that almost every living animal had been destroyed. It wasn't until my first burning did I realize how much the world had been corrupted. The morning of my second week at the cathedral, I was dragged out of bed at an unholy hour, told to get dressed for the mission ahead. I was never told what we were getting ready for. But the feeling of unquenchable anxiety set in my heart. We were doing something big.

    I remember the time before the first bomb, two years before in fact, many people around the world would bury their dead. I remember helping carry my own grandmother's casket as we lowered her into the depths of the earth. But now, the tradition was long forgotten. The act fazed out not more than a few months after the last bomb hit. There were too many bodies to bury. So after the 'holys' were created, the government introduced a new tradition. One that was to purify the souls of the dead. One, that I was participating in.

    I helped hold torches as we walked. As I was still just learning, I was to obverse what the others Nuns were doing. We pulled a wooden cart, seven for one side of the town, eight for the other. My mind, still trying to wake up, had yet to draw the connection as to what they were for. That was until we stopped in the first neighborhood. At first, it looked like a drunken man had fallen asleep on his doorstep, too intoxicated to open his door. But as the light of the moon graced his features, it was all too obvious. The man was dead.

   "Now watch closely Sister Rose." The second eldest nun whispered to me. "For next week, we will need you to help." Three Nuns walked up to the body, grabbing every limb. They hoisted it into the air, dragging it over to the nearest cart, before throwing the corpse into the wooden death bed with a heavy thud. The sisters, their silhouette from the torch making them look all the more frightening, then stood still, folding their hands, closing their eyes, before turning back around. Heading for the next house. That was the day I learned of how screwed our world had become, and how I was a pawn in the mission it was pursuing.

   As I turned away, I felt Sister Camilla's hand rub circles on my back. A nun was to be holy. A member devoted to God. The thought sent bile up my throat. This was not devotion. This was death, destruction. And the ones who caused it was sending their people to be their interests.