Xárisma

I wake on the morning of my sixteenth birthday in a dormitory of empty beds. Sunlight fills the room for I have chosen to leave the blinds up and, as I am the last occupant, there are none to challenge my decision to wake at dawn. A slight breeze from the window open by my bed brings with it the scent of flowers, the sound of bird song competes with the trickle of a stream that runs behind the building to a pool of calm water, its surface broken by lilies and bulrushes, alive with dragonflies dancing across the surface.

I shower, the water running down my back cascades on the rough tiled floor and down a central drain. The tap twists in my hand increasing the heat to almost scalding, steam rising to the narrow windows set just below ceiling height. I toy with the idea of a bracing shot of cold, decide I don't need to be more awake than I am and turn the water off. I use several of the towels provided by the building’s servitors and drop them in the basket despite knowing they will never be used again.

The clothes I dress in are made of cotton, a plain T-shirt and trousers with a drawstring waist to secure them. Socks are a darker shade of brown, shoes stitched leather; a buckle the sole ornamentation. My personal effects (images of my family, a favourite book, a painting my sister gave me for my last birthday) sit on the table by my bed. A sweep of my arm drops them into a wastebin and I leave the room.

The commissary echoes with the sound of my footsteps, I sit at the table closest to the entrance and watch a servitor approach and place a tray in front of me; porridge, juice, a selection of fruit. I pour honey, a liquid gold flow swirling in abstract patterns broken and muddled by my spoon. My stomach rebels and I push it away untouched.

Double doors at the end of the room open out onto an ornamental garden, its exactness maintained with scrupulous attention that will continue until the last servitor fails and nature reclaims it. Sheltered from the wind I can hear the scuffling of wildlife in the undergrowth. A servitor trundles along trimming hedges into topiary marvels ignored by all. I choose a bench in the centre and sitting I savour the heady scent of herbs from where my passage has bruised them.

She finds me there, my sister, five years younger.

The last generation.

The last of us to be born.

The last of us to die.

With outstretched arms I stand to greet her. She runs to me, a leap that wraps her legs around my waist, her head pressed to my chest then raised to give me a single kiss.

“Happy Birthday!” She shouts the words, her smile tainted with the knowledge of what that means. The sadness in her eyes makes me ache, my heart shudders at the thought of never seeing her again. But the heart is just an organ for pumping blood and I know that the sentiment is fleeting.

“Thank you.” I say with the realisation that the words are meaningless.

She drops from my grasp, stares at the grass, her voice almost inaudible.

“Don’t do this.” She says.

I touch her face, trace a finger along her cheek. “There’s no point waiting.”

“For me! I’ll be alone.”

“You’ll see, when you're older. You’ll realise, you won't wait either.”

“I will!” She stamps her foot, the angry look making me smile as I remember my resolute determination at her age, my incomprehension. I squat, my head level with hers, reach out and draw her into my arms. She grips me and I feel the love squeezing out of her into me.

“I’ve lost everybody, mummy, daddy and now you.”

I have no answer, instead I hug her tighter, her tears on my cheek mingle with my own.

“I hate you!” She breaks my hold and pushes away. I stand, my head lowered.

In the silence the background sounds reassert themselves, a soft whispering of the breeze, birds trilling, the mechanical hum of her servitor waiting patiently at the edge of the garden.

“Don’t let us part like this.” I say.

“What’s it matter?” Her words tinged with spite. “You’ll be dead soon.”

“For you, I don't want this memory to be painful, for you to suffer, regret.”

“Then stay.” Her eyes pleading.

“No.” The words muttered.

Her face twists, pain and grief, confusion. For us childhood is wonderful, filled with joy but in adolescence that fades to be replaced by a deep melancholy, making the thought of living unbearable.

“There are so few of us left.” She says.

I raise my arms, a shrug that cannot provide the answer she wants.

“Soon there will be no one.”

I nod, keeping my eyes focussed on the ground.

“Please?”

“No.”

“Then die then!” She runs from the garden, soon gone from view. Her servitor appears to scrutinise me before too departing.

I wait in the hope that she will return and we can part on more amicable terms, but I realise if she had it would only cause more pain. My mind is made up.

I will die today.

Behind my dormitory there is a path that winds along the canyon edge to where the machine stands. Stone slabs pave it, with steps where the gradient is steep. The walk is long, deliberately so, to provide time for contemplation, every step a chance to turn back.

None have.

A pebble jabs through the sole of my shoe making me pause. The sky is clear, a brilliant blue, the bright sunlight causing me to squint, the heat sticking the shirt to my back. I long for the breeze to return and regret not bringing water. Hearing a rustle in the undergrowth I look back wondering if I am alone, if she has followed me. An animal darts out and away, too quick to identify. I let out a breath I was not aware I was holding and resume my ascent.

My stomach growls, an indication of the time that has passed and the meal that was missed. I feel like chastising it ‘your fault I didn't have breakfast’ but know this is foolishness.

I stop, in no hurry to reach my destination but with the knowledge that it is something I will accomplish before the day is out.

Here the path is set back from where the edge is loose and crumbling, no doubt an ironic nod to safety by the fabricators and one I appreciate the humour of. Wild flowers seek to encroach and will have covered it by the time my sister makes the journey. I seize the closest in my hand and rip it from the ground. Gripping by the stem, the long hairlike fronds of its roots dangling, soil spilling free, a heady perfume from its flowers assailing me I throw it, an arcing tumble of colours, petals scattering. I pull up more but soon grow tired from the exertion and the knowledge of my actions futility. Rubbing my hands together I shake off the crumbly dirt, wipe the remaining residue on my shirt feeling some consternation that it is no longer pristine. I laugh at the thought, the last person I will ever meet was my sister, my next encounter would be with the machine and that had no interest in judging, its only concern; execution.

These thoughts give me pause, I wonder not what the point of it all is as I, and all those who have passed before, have realised that there is no point. To live or die makes no difference, the universe is cold and uncaring, indifferent to our plight.

No, I know there is no point, but my sister’s entreaty weighs heavy on me, perhaps I should return, wait till she is ready and make the journey together?

I squat at the side of the path, arms wrapped around my knees holding the position until it becomes uncomfortable. A bee hovers near my face, descends to where the flowers once were. I imagine its confusion, shake my head at its senseless striving, feel the urge to strike it with my fist and stamp it underfoot, grind its body into the stones, scatter the foliage over it as a memorial to its futile endeavours.

I stand, pushing the dark thoughts from my mind, watch the insect find the dying plants, crawling between shrivelled petals to take the final drops of nectar.

I look back down the path, my dormitory still visible, no indication that it is now empty, abandoned, the other buildings clustered round in the same state save for the one that houses my sister and several others, the last generation. The last of us.

The sun reaches its zenith banishing all shade making respite from the heat unattainable. I wipe my palm across my forehead and dry it on the front of my shirt smearing the soil clinging there to mud. The bee moves on prompting me to do the same. The path here climbs steadily, steps set at regular intervals to accommodate the incline. Head down I focus on my footsteps counting them until bored with the number I stop again. Noise from the birds nesting in the canyon walls is an ever present cacophony, they wheel and soar in the thermals, fat and lazy from feasting on the millions below.

Ahead the path becomes a spiral that curls to the base of a staircase that leads up to the machine. Set on a platform of stone cut with such precision that mortar is not required to hold them in place it gleams in the sun, an impressive array of metal twisted into shapes as much for beauty as for function, a pair of arms sweep down terminating in a place to sit, a blade ratcheted back ready for the killing stroke.

The wind shifts and the stench, so pervasive that is no longer noticeable except when a gust brings it to the nostril in a more concentrated form that makes me gag and retch. Hand over my mouth, the taste of sweat and dirt on my lips, disgust at the thought of my continuing existence drives me to climb the steps.

Resolved I sit setting counterweights spinning, a whirring of cogs, the flash of a blade catching the light as it descends slicing through the arteries in my neck.

I am lifted, swung, released.

And I fall.

I fall.