02// The impeccable dismisser of Blight dhatins

~Kersen's POV, present, a few days ago~

According to my father, Galep, I'm doing my job as a dismisser right. And, when I mean by to do right or not to do right, I mean by punishment. I don't want to be whipped again by the likes of Galep, and because I don't want to be whipped... I must refuse to look them in the eyes.

But while their screams plagued the hallways, and the stench of bile and blood clogs my nostrils, I can't help but feel the need for pity.

" There is no room for pity, as a dismisser of those vile creatures," Galep snapped, as he barked orders to his men to take her away.

I simply nodded in approval, as I bit down on my lower lip, the blood seeping, I licked it. In vain, I couldn't seem to understand the purpose of why we had to execute the dhatin of Blights. After all, in all my eighteen years of life, my father's business has always been shrouded in mystery, and I've never been allowed to even as ask why.

" Yes, father," I respond, in a formal, curt manner. I straighten my jacket and try my hardest to not look the child in the eyes.

There's not much to gain out of an unpleasant person and situation, but I gained much more experience in the punishment and likeliness of why they had inclined, to punish such an innocent-but so very stupid- soul. Why, in fact, I don't understand the meaning of this. A soul made out of the putrid vomit stain flowing down the side of her brown, ragged patched-up dress. A dress that she refused to clothe upon her and complained about its itching fibers the instant she tried it on. This little dhatin of Blight girl, she was taken from her family from the Dismouth forests, and is now going to be sent away to the dismissal slaughter camps.

" Good, my boy. Now, you remember the drill don't you?" Galep said, as he and I continued to walk down the hallways of the Asylum, otherwise known as the ORBV. His black leather boots click-clank against the white marbled tiles, as the sound of his cane made of dhatin of Blight bones thump thumped against the floors. His salt and grey pepper hair, now balding, has been covered by a red velvet magician's hat, with a string of dhatin bones etched into the rim of the hat. Some hanging pieces of baby bones and eyeballs hang down from the rim, and clanked against each other, producing a harmonious sound, that didn't come from a pleasant origin.

" Yes. The dismissal starts at 2:45 pm, right, father?"

" Yes, 2:45 pm sharp. You better be there fifteen minutes early, for I must speak to you of something of importance," Galep rasped, and then he barked out to one of the dismissers, " Tighter! You bastard! She's getting away!"

" But sir!" The dismisser called out, but then, he is... Dead.

Galep shoots his head, and grabs his face, saying, " Ah, well... I just lost another good dismisser. Kersen, take him away."

" Yes, father!" And quickly, I'm about to carry out the dead body, but then... I see something much more terrifying than the blood spill: Tears.

****

Just because you are forced to do something, it doesn't mean that you have been forced out of control. The little girl was summoned to the asylum when the moment I received the call. The call that determined both of our destinies. What I call our "destinies" were the woven pasts of both of our history to be revealed on that bleak and un-tasteful afternoon.

But, little did I know, that today wasn't just any ordinary day of dismissals.

****

For as long as I can remember, this was the right way of doing things. And though the afternoon was bright, the sun shattering light through the large vast windows of the dismal judge room, I could only see a bleak future ahead. There wasn't much to be revealed about the tweet of the robins bouncing off the windows. The clear mellow, robin's egg blue of the glistening-but ever tasteless- a painting that was the sky: the clouds draping over the whole color.

" Who am I kidding? Unless I want another beating..." I start to say to myself, as I think back to that time.

A time that I had defied my father's will, that will be left... As a story for another day.

****

But, either way, that day was more of a better advantage to my power and ability rather than to hers. Hers was the slave of mine, the underdog to the greater good of my father, Galep's power, and consumption. Consumption that could only ever spoil the stomach if she wasn't cooperating. To claim something that's already seen as superior in my world seems much too negative to negotiate with people trying to understand. The point is, the age of the future isn't the age of prosperity, wealth, and technology. (Even though in this world we have too much of that) The age of the future technology is the rebellion against what history has claimed: "was to happen". This rebellion, why it is the war of 3032.

It's not the past.

I get it.

I get how if it's in the past, it's in the past. But, what I don't get is how people would cling to the future like sick puppies and strangle the past like how it "shouldn't BE". The year's pass-thankfully-estranging people of that mentality out and their thoughts bounded off to a distant place. It's troublesome how some are too much afraid of what will never come again.

It's been about 48 hours since the last passing dismissal, and I couldn't have gotten anymore angrier.

Angrier.

Bursting licks of flame from head to toe and armed in guns, spears, swords, arrows, a bow, and sharpened knives.

We are never who we say we are. We are what we want to be.

I hope that I didn't scare you, but what shouldn't BE, is what I tell them.

Their anger spurts out of them like wildfire and they slam their arrows at my head. They are being dismissed. But, it doesn't mean I didn't appreciate the visit. Afterward, father boils in rage and says things about meshed-up information and sentimental pity. In fact, he pities me, only today.

" You're such a softie, my son. And do you know what happens to those who go soft?"

Right. A whiplash.

Every time I disobey his orders...

But yet, today I'm lucky. Not going to be whipped then.

****

If I were to imagine the thought of running away from the asylum, I wouldn't imagine the demonized pain and bastardized whips I'd receive. Not following the orders again.

But why?

If I were to let you in with a little secret, It would be the scribbling of notes in the black moleskin journal on my desk at the asylum.

I'm no bad guy, I'm just trying to survive.

Survive in the ways of stuffing toiletries and clothes in one small yellow duffel bag along with the picture frame of the barn. Survive in the ways of conspiring ways of escape from the asylum- stealing keys from the cell, going through the back door windows at building three, disguising myself- all stored in my brain and kept in that moleskin journal.

****

As time passes-still and eery- there's a pause between every 30 minutes where I feel the sudden urge to drop a pin, and end the silence. The silence that makes every person left-if not dead and buried- want to splurge the silence with the noise of words.

I find that old, beat up, green tennis ball left in the cell before me-that I for all the 2 weeks I've been here never really noticed- and examine the fuzz of neon flying out of the ball as I bounce it.

Must've been there for ages.

Ages that the ball lost its bright neon tint and ability to bounce off the brick walls.

Not like it matters though. As long as I can toss it in the air and catch it-to entertain me-for the next couple of hours until lunchtime.

It sickens me to believe that this is all the asylum had to offer. How they would penetrate their yearn for hunger and thirst by limiting their time to eat, where to eat, and what they eat. But that wasn't the problem.

Father sent me here for a reason. And, in order to not be brutally punished for my actions, I would need to do him a favor.

2 weeks, 24 hours, 30 minutes, and 33 seconds were already exceeding the time limit of my stay. And yet, the blank four-sided walls-that smell of chemical paint stains- was a better choice of an option rather than to be stuck with a feast with father and his minions.

The depth of emotion that wavers over me-as I ponder my accomplishments and disarrays- often come across me when I see the hearts of dhatins of Blight, beating on the counter.

Father would brag to me about his findings of dhatin's hearts.

The look of excitement would sweep over his countenance as I'd glower over mine.

Any second from -the time being since my arrival- now, I could be gone from what seemed of a much better choice of stay.

Lunch flies by in a matter of seconds, along with the inhale of pig's feet and gruel. It wasn't all that bad, sure enough.

After being summoned to the familiarity of the lab-in order and preparation for the next dismissal- that was more of a friend to me than all the power combined- I see the scientists clothed in long white lab coats with splats of drenching clear purple liquid flying across the pale cotton that was their coats.

They had bulky clear googles tied to the back of their heads and supporting their two eyes. Long hair was tied back and covered in shower caps. Also, they all had latex rubber gloves paired with plastic black rubber shoes. Looks to me that they were far more ready for an authorized high school science experiment rather than an unauthorized-and far more illegal- discovery of chemicals of DNA.

The dismissal was to precisely happening at about 4:55 pm today-although I was sure that they would've had started it at the same time-2:30 pm sharp if it weren't for the incident.

****

That day, when I received the call, I was in a heaven of freshly baked bread from the supermarket mixed in with the bitter roast of coffee as I flopped on the couch with the mentality of sleep and relaxation.

When the phone started to ring, I was startled.

Weakness is not a virtue it is a feeling. We feel weak only because of our surroundings, not our situation. At age five I felt I was weak because of the flicking whip of my father's belt.

But I never once crossed the thought until he snapped. Truth is not inevitable. How do you know it's the truth? Living is not proof you existed, it is proof you were human. A human only responds to its surroundings and advances on the challenges but never feels weak nor alive until others show it. I'm still learning to process the meaning of being weak but for sure I know it's not being alive.

Nonetheless, I was very much startled by the sudden vibration of the phone. Maybe, the fact that I felt weak at the moment of my destiny was because I pitied her. Not in the type of I feel sorry for your type of way, but I pitied her as I understood her weakness.

Father was never the type to pity those below himself. The underdogs where more dalit to him than an equal. But, even though I was subjected to HIS will, and HIS terms, and hated HIS guts, I believed that the point of selflessness much is obtained at some points.

The dismissal was to start soon, and as I clicked my feet back and forth, walking back and forth across the living room, I was scared.

Because of the call I received...

Revealed something much direr than just a whiplash.