Fear is an idea!

Many have claimed that death has a smell. Well, I’d love to correct them and say that it is dead things that smell and bring the thought of death to the edges of our memory, just about to spill over into sight, clear enough for us to see it. In fact, all of this started with an idea; a thought.

Max held his daughter close beneath him as he crouched within the groove of an old eucalyptus tree. His fingers all trembled like they did when he proposed to his estranged wife. He was scared sick and he didn’t want to show it to his little girl, Daisy, the apple of his eye.

The rustle amongst the small bushes caught his attention like the stubborn fly that refuses to let us lie at night in peace. He knew the dangers that lurked around in these days. He dared not even crane his neck to glimpse outside. He held little Daisy closer to his beating heart and she slept even the more soundly. To her, nothing in this world was worth the fret. To Max, she was a gem he wasn’t ever going to be ready to lose, but what did fate have to say?

It was widely said, amongst the remaining ‘rationals’, that those who had gone rogue were completely and clinically mad. The rationals lived in constant fear of the rogue. Many suicides went unaccounted for. Fear was spreading through the land like a wild fire. People were abandoning their families and children on the precincts that they would have a better chance to survive if they had less ‘baggage.’ Streets were filled to the brim with rag clothed people. Everything seemed normal until you took a closer look. Society had changed completely. Civilization had been upturned.

Max struggled to keep in the scream that played within his throat, trapping his fear within and causing it to bubble inside him like literal butterflies in his stomach. He had seen his life flash right before his eyes but in the moment, her beauty outshone his life’s flash. She stood right there in front of him, as if by doing so, she was trying to make him forget what he had seen one week ago. Max could taste his heart in his mouth, could feel his knees in his thighs and see his palms become pale. This, indeed, was her, and that was what scared him.

He was back at their home, one week back in the past. He could feel the after taste of Ginny’s tongue in his mouth, red cherry. He sat in his chair, content and happy. He was a father of two and a proud husband to a most beautiful woman. What else could he ask for? Money? No. He was well ok with his honey.

But even though honey doesn’t go bad, it still does become cloudy after a while. Gin’s thoughts must have been clouded when Max found her in their neighbour’s house, sitted in a pool of blood. She must have been delirious or, even as the rationals wished to say, clinically mad.

Max, still in his memory, watched as Gin held within her hands, a beating heart; a human heart. Her mouth was bloody and her white rags were white no more. She seemed deliriously happy and overjoyed. She wasn’t happy in a crazy sort of way. No. she was happy in her natural way. Her smile was accented the way it always is. She had her pronounced dimples that indicated that she was excited, and the gap between her two top incisors was as visible and as beautiful as ever. Her natural smile was present and pleasant. She was herself.

“He does not deserve this heart and you know it, Boo. Why won’t you speak? I’m sorry I never talked to you about it. I wish I did. Listen to me, I’m not mad. It’s me, Boo. You have to listen to me before they eat your heart too!”

Max was too shocked and bamboozled to produce any sound recognisable as intelligent speech. He never told his legs to do anything, but the moment he blinked, he found himself running down their lane to the neighbouring woods with Daisy in his arms. He had looked for James but he was nowhere to be seen.

And, now, with Ginny right before him, in the same bloody rags that she had worn a week ago, he couldn’t help but think that she had already eaten up their son’s heart. He didn’t know where the thought came from, but from wherever it came from, it hit him with such conviction that immediately he received desperation. That’s how thoughts and ideas are; powerful beyond reasonable measure. That’s how the apocalypse had begun. One thought. One unifying and driving idea to give life to the poor and the burdened. To do away with the uncaring hearts of oligarchs and fat belly rulers. To bring justice to the labourers that build the world but get no credit.

These ideas had been blubbed about before by many men and women in history, but none had brought it to the consciences of people like Lypto had. Nobody had convinced crowds to let go of the many laws of religion that they had eaten up without question. Nobody had convinced people that they had the power to say no to dictators and leaders who felt like they had a right to be at the top. Nobody had convinced people that human hearts were delicious pieces of flesh; especially the hearts of heartless men and women since most of it was just meat, as wild as any wild game. Nobody, had, in essence, opened up the eyes of the public to see beyond the hollow charities and donations of billionaires and landlords. If these people wanted poverty to end, nothing was in their way. Simply put, Lypto was able to convince people that it was alright to be inhumane so as to restore humanity. That’s the stuff of revolutions. Bloodshed to cleanse our generation; cannibals to eat up our inhumanity.

These were the days of the apocalypse, the days of the poor, the forgotten and those who were humble enough to be associated with them. The days of rags and enforced equality. The days when men had discovered that they were overburdening the earth’s resources by finishing up earth’s stock of cows and water while their fellow selfish human beings were food enough. The days when the cock crowed in mourning, for all the frightened souls that had ended up in someone’s belly. The days when night and day held the same brightness, and, joy was but a vague idea.

Max stared at his fate in her eyes. He could feel her question his allegiance. Was he going to join them and abandon everything he believed in? Was he going to go back to his killer wife and hold her close to himself and call her names while they played together on their grassy lawn in the mid-morning summer sun? Was he going to believe in what Lypto said? Was he going to eat up human hearts?

As he looked into his wife’s eyes, only one thing was for sure; she wasn’t mad. She was herself. But the idea that had consumed her had not born fruit in Max, and therefore his fate was sealed. He looked into her eyes with even deeper intensity so as to chase away the fear in his heart. He tried to avoid looking at the crowd of rogues behind her. He knew it was his end, but he was going down a brave man, as weird as that sounded. In life, there were times to fight back and times to swallow the bitter prescription that fate had offered; he was satisfied with the life he had lived and he wasn't going to get scared over anything.

“Spare her, darling. She hasn’t made any allegiance. She does not deserve this,” Max said.

Ginny nodded gently with a slight hint of sadness. She had loved the man, and, at that moment, she stole his heart, swiftly and with such dexterity that Max was able to see his body’s engine before he died.

And with that, the apocalypse had just proved the power of ideas.