Relative life

There are things that you can never understand in the world I’m going to describe, death and life are just as strange as they come. A parallel universe where people experience relativity and time at a very different level. Things which you like to do tend to make you age faster than things which you do not like.

People opt for careers that lengthen their lives -- everybody fears death and an accelerated death is much dreaded. Fathers outlive strong-headed sons who opt to do things that they like-- philosophers they are and optimists to the core. 

Things are very different in this world, more pessimistic you are, the more bitter you are about your life, the more you live -- a sad tale of life for people who are bitter, yet they live more than they have to. 

Many people tried to find out why the Creator course to give this life. The philosophers tried to find a way to decelerate this process, but ultimately a their attempts taught us one thing-- salvation is a quick process of you want to achieve it, a quicker way to get out of this cycle of rebirth.

An average lifespan of a male here is 13-140 years and a median of ages is the only way you can generalize the age. An average female can outlive a male and generally take up occupations that need bitter personalities -- a trait which the female population picked up from their parallel Earth counterparts from the current 21st century. The term in that universe is ‘bitching’ (Reference: Travel to the Happy Earth - A guide to the dictionary terms in real life by Ekito Kapooro).

The universe is largely inhabited by humans and their pets (includes insects, serpents and other regular fear inducing mammals). The regular domesticated animals like dogs and cats are moved away from the periphery of the habitation. The lives of people are more like the Poe and Murakami books – strange and dark. The Dark Ages of Earth seem to look happy in comparison with the life here. Fear of death and negativity breeds everywhere and though the humans appear as their Earth version humans, there’s a difference in the mind and heart.

Technology seems to add to the desire to live more and the marvels of this effort seem to be more popular than music or an act of compassion that may decrease your lifespan. Strange ideals to achieve and stranger rules of life, would it change? Or is it bound to remains as it?

Last man on Earth

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door. The knock was low, polite on the oaken door. The faint echo of the knock faded away as he tried to concentrate on the journal in front of his hand. He squinted to read the handwriting in the small candle light. There was a certain damp in the air, his breathing turning heavy every minute. The knock was unnatural; a bead of sweat trickled down his brow. He sipped the whisky off the jade glass. His throat was still dry though, the chill in the air made him shiver. His strong lower jaw clattered against the upper, was it from fear or the air . . . he wasn’t certain.

There was another knock—a heavy hand by the sound of it, this time the wall mount of a tiger loosened away, hanging perilously on the hook. The journal he was reading was that of his linguist friend, Joshua.

The doom, the  Xhaka, the indigenous tribals believed that a fair devil would walk on these lands. His minions following him, little would he know that the wheel of destruction would be rolled on his kind. The Xhaka. . .

Everybody had laughed off Joshua, feeling that the meek guy would piss his pants when he read his journal. Eddard had listened to him but he had never paid him much attention.

He was right though, every word of it. He’d seen deaths of all his family, his friends  . . . plague they called it, but he knew it was the curse. The ship brought news of the bubonic plague, spread across the known world, taking living souls cheap. This though was not any vermin’s work, the dead!—he squirmed in pain clutching his temples. He felt spent, the fear had numbed him. He couldn’t feel it, the ache in his temples was more excruciating to feel that. He was more frustrated, End it you bastard . . . end it! I’m waiting.

This was the same room in his villa where he lived with his wife . . . the scent of her still hung in that room. Was she there outside! She came back for me? Thoughts and tears swelled up, with a quavering voice he asked, “Who’s there? Mary? Are you there? Do you remember your Eddard’s voice?”

There was a knock again.

“Seven Hells! Go away, go away!” he shouted, he flung the jade glass towards the door. The fever was taking toll on his body; his senses seemed to desert him. He tried to read again.

. . . the path of destruction would be laid by him, the agents -- fair devil’s own minions. The bloodless revenge for his people, one would kill the other for flesh . . . devouring the meat. Abomination, these minions would be.

There was again thumping on the door; this time it was three slaps on the door. He didn’t dare to open the door, he was suddenly feeling frightened. Was it death or something else, he couldn’t decide on that. He could sense the anger of whatever entity was beyond the door.

The candle light flickered as his heart pounded, he could hear the silence. The dead . . . , he remembered with index finger rolling the forehead.

It can’t be, they are dead . . . I’m alive, I’m the last man. No, no, no. This time there were more bangs on the door, the muffled sounds as if they were calling someone. The Xhakaaaa , he whispered under his breath.

Sitting on the chair, he cursed . . . but couldn’t hear his own voice. The bangs on the door were more prominent; the heavy oaken door started vibrating. He realized whatever the entity was; it was trying to break in. The door now creaked with the thuds on the door, every passing minute the door was giving in just like his will. His brow was now covered with sweat; he felt his legs becoming water. He could not think of any other thing. Minutes prior he wanted it to end, but now he wanted some more time. The fever made him sickly, his stomach churned and the headache.

The room was now becoming darker, the candle’s glow slowly diminishing. The pounding the door was taking made loud voice; he chose to ignore it then. He returned to the journal amidst the chaos

The dead would rise again, the revenge bloodless. The wheels of destruction in flow.

With a loud thump the door fell on the floor. The sudden wind blew away the candle. There were black figure, men and women alike staring at him with the hollows in their skull. He could sense the goose bumps on his arm, he felt his bowels out of control and sensed the sphincter had released. The figures were still looking at him, none talking. The room now stank of the waste, he could smell it.

Rising from his chair weakly Eddard Bolton walked towards the figures, accepting his fate—his death. As he moved forward, there was a glow of light from the other side—a lantern judging its shape. This felt odd, a figure moved towards him from the other direction with the lantern. He was aghast to find that it was Joyce, his maid. She looked the same—the closed set eyes, small mouth and slender frame. But something was wrong; she was seeing past him . . . he felt something strange.

He looked back; a sudden spark went through his forehead. The chair . . . How could . . . him! Me! He laughed hard, laughed hard until he broke down crying on the floor. He saw Eddard Bolton on the chair, the jade glass by his side and the book in his hand lay dead.

                                                                       ***

Sir Eddard Bolton, (1580 – 1621) resident of Jamestown, Virginia. Author and Philosopher. He  was an insomniac and was supposed to have split personality disorder which was an unknown entity in those times. Joshua, his alternate personality through whom he wrote about the Powhatan Tribes and their culture. There were suspicions about the death of his wife, Mary Bolton during the winter of 1609. Mary Bolton was rumoured to be murdered by Eddard Bolton for his Cannibalistic theory of Pleasure. Since his wife’s death, he was locked in a room by his nephew, Robert Bolton and attended by Joyce, the maid who brought him food and looked after him. The journal written by him was thought to be his confessions about his crime but every work of Sir Bolton was burned by his nephew who owned the sprawling mansion.