A random chapter from The Beckoning

I stand with my legs apart, bending over a square grey structure with a button in the center. I am in a jungle, in an abandoned place that seems to be a control room of some sort; the walls have boards and ancient computers that dangle by their dead wires with cracked screens that miraculously still sustain life - a few sprigs of shamrock are nestled in one bunch inside, with various types of ivy creeping all around the room. How ironic, I think, that Death and Destruction give way to Life. The room is an open box-like structure with no ceiling and three walls, littered with stacked papers layered with dust, wires oozing from computers and their screens, and blueprints that seem to have designs for various machinery - or weaponry, I can’t tell - but they have been torn to shreds, either by enemies or the wildlife lurking around in this dense jungle. My eyes rest on a stained rectangular piece of cloth with faded colours as well as a blotched hue of carmine - I don’t recognize it completely, but vaguely link it to a history lecture back in high school. It appeals to me: it is a circle with a vertical line running down the middle, and two arms leaking downwards like an upside-down ‘Y’.

The button, however, is the reddest thing I have ever seen; it is as red as the glowing Netflix screen I had been snoring in front of less than twelve hours ago, as red as the glistering ‘F’ scribbled on my math test that was handed back to me last week, as red as the stuffed Elmo that I was clutching as I lay sobbing on the floor not so long ago. My hand is frozen exactly three inches above it, casting a shadow on the ‘Do Not Push’ written in bold black letters and increasing my temptation every minute to do exactly what it tells me not to.

I want to push the button so badly. It beckons to me; my temptation piles up like lava in a volcano. But I cannot. Not without thinking about its consequences first. I had always been told that actions have consequences. But this is an action I have been waiting for my whole life. An opportunity to fix what humanity has done wrong. Sure, it may take away the very thing that makes us human - the soul, the spirit of our humanity, but I think it is worth it.

A familiar-looking young man runs into the room. He is panting hard, but he sees me frozen in front of the button and rams into me. I stumble back awkwardly, his hands wrapped around my arm and preventing me from giving into my temptation. I jerk free of his grasp and look him square in the eye. I carefully observe the intention in his eyes, heartlessly at first, but then see a terrified young boy and feel my heart drooping through my rib cage like a setting sun. “I’m sorry,” I say to him. “But it has to be done. There’s no other way.”

His eyes are desperate. “Yes, there is. Don’t do this. Please, Pandora,” he begs. I snort. He is too immature; too naive to understand that I’m doing this for him. For our families. For this forsaken world. His thoughts and ideas were always about things like ‘peace’, love’ and ‘unity’ between people. He always had a thing for humanity.

But he won’t understand. Humanity must evolve. Into what? A peacekeeping society that has no judgement and discrimination. A kind of brotherhood with only one goal to achieve: perfection. And I have that chance three inches below my hand. I can take away mankind’s biggest flaw, and make them perfect. Like they were supposed to be.

Cerulean pearls form at the bases of his eyelashes. He is shuddering, glasses dancing off of the edge of his thin, crooked nose. So fragile. But there is no place in this sanguinary world for fragile idealist teenage boys. I hear the President’s words echoing over and over in my head: Better to rid ourselves of flaws and then achieve the Ultimate Objective, President Prometheus had said.

“Pandora.. Dora, listen to me. This isn’t you. Don’t let the President influence you.”

“Your perfect illusion corrupts the possibility of change, and thereby holds humanity back from becoming what they were meant to be,” I hiss, repeating the President’s words.

Enough debating. I bring my hand down - but then his slender fingers wrap around my wrist and twist it away from the button. He twists my arm again, and pulls me into an unwanted embrace. I see his lips moving; he is saying something but my ears ring and I suddenly feel dizzy. An electric jolt of pain streams through my body like..like..a cool stream dividing into further cyan rivulets, like a viridian-coloured vein on an emerald leaf in the summer...I frown. Where did these thoughts come from? I am the most cynical person in the world, constantly trying to look for perfection and criticizing whatever is not up to those expectations. How did I find the very thing I seek in these impossibly euphoric thoughts?

I blink, then focus on my surroundings. He is still standing there, his eyes flashing murderously, imitating the glare of a clean, polished dagger. His mouth twists, contorting his features into an unrecognizable face as he glances down. Following his gaze, I realize his fingers are gripping an ivory handle. It is beautiful - until I realize that it is dotted with delicate drops that mirror the shade of sangria. It smells metallic. I limply realize where the pain is coming from. I look up at him. My senses are fading, but I can make out his words. Spoken softly, like a lullaby.

“I’m sorry, Pandora,” he says.