Enantiodromia

A freezing wind blows throughout the wasteland, shaking the tall buildings and threatening to blow them down from where they rest in comfortable misuse. The city where thousands of people once lived now lays in waste; instead of people, cars litter the streets. Snow covered each, their paint barely reminiscent of the color it used to be. Among them, Lucas stands, slinking between the cars, peering into their windows in search of anything of value. The oxygen was not suitable to breathe even with his gas mask, and the chill of the wind and ensured he’d never forget that. “I’ve got to hurry,” Lucas mutters to himself, his gaze darting to the watch on his wrist. Thirty minutes until his filters expire.

A small framed photograph sat in the backseat of a particularly damaged gray SUV, the perfect wooden frame and uncracked glass being enough to incite Lucas’s curiosity as he peers into the clouded passenger-side window. For a moment, he hesitates. His eyes catch a familiar sight from within the frame. Without a second thought, he elbows the window, flinching as the shattering glass spills into the passenger seat. A moment passes before he produces the photograph from within. It was of a mother standing with her son and daughter on the beach, smiling at the camera with a joy that made Lucas uncomfortable. Something about this image sends chills up his spine. It was the kind of chills even the coldest nights could never hope to reproduce. Was it the love evident in the eyes of the mother, was it the thought that he could, and would never know such peace, or perhaps was it the daughter’s genuine smile, an expression that he had never gotten a chance to bring back to his sister’s lips?

Lucas didn’t know why he felt drawn to this photograph. He thoughtfully glances over his shoulder at his backpack. “Maybe this will be enough. If they let me see Nora, maybe she’d smile like the girl in the photograph.” Lucas smiles softly as he slides his backpack from his shoulders, letting it sink into the snow with a heavy thud. He takes another look at the photograph, this time feeling a more thoughtful sadness as he takes in the sight one last time.

Then, suddenly, a thunderous crack sounds and the picture frame explodes in his hand.

Blood. Pain. Fear.

Shock overcomes him as he feels an intense heat wash over his body and blood begins to ooze from a fresh wound in his palm. The sight of blood causes his instinct to kick in and he snaps his head back just in time to spot his attacker chambering another round. Heart racing, Lucas immediately reaches for his backpack, though his action is cut short as another ear-splitting crack sounds out.

A loud thud signifies the shot had found a mark, and as the smoke settles, the gunman sets his eye on where his shot had hit. The car rocks wildly as the air rushes from its tire with a loud hiss. Had Lucas been a hair slower, the shot would have pierced his ankle, but his years of learning when to run inform his split-second decision, and he throws himself to the ground.

Lucas takes no time to brush the snow from his parka, nor to wipe the snow from his wound as he scrambles to his feet. His body acts on its own, running as fast as his feet will carry him opposite the gunman. Several shots follow, none meeting their mark. The adrenaline rushing through his veins is almost enough to cause him to forget his purpose—why he journeyed headlong into the frozen city and risked radiation sickness in the first place. Almost. If he could put the image of his captive sister from his mind, he could nearly work up the courage to do what he’s always done: Flee. Run away like a coward with his tail tucked between his legs. But he can’t run away from it all now, not with his sister in chains. Not while he has no means to defend himself. Not while he was too afraid to defend what he loved.

After a while of running, Lucas finds safety under an overpass. The streets above and below remain cracked and damaged, being split at their seams by thick shards of ice sprouting out from underneath, making the structure appear unrecognizable at a glance—though a glance is all Lucas needs to deduce safety—From both the wind and his pursuer. A muffled groan emits from behind his gas mask as he eases down onto the snow, pulling the glove from his hand to examine the wound. “A graze. Nothing I can’t fix.” He thinks and reaches to grab a backpack strap that wasn’t there. Then again, and a third time. It is on the fourth attempt that panic truly begins to set in.

Seconds pass. The watch on Lucas’s wrist ticks lower and lower as he watches the seconds slowly pass by, each rhythmic tick striking his nerves like a hammer to an anvil. Minutes pass. It’s impossible to put the image of his sister’s tear-stained face from his mind. They will hurt her again if he goes back. He can’t return empty-handed, not again. In this moment, the only thing that drives his feet forwards with a stumbling haste is the familiar surge of his body’s adrenaline as he tries to retrace his steps.

The frigid air settles in Lucas’s joints as he scours the place where it happened. He surveys the scene: Shattered glass, blood, snow, though no backpack. The photograph lies where it fell in the snow, what remains of the once pristine photograph, now just a jagged piece of glass and a torn picture. The gravity of his circumstances dawns on him a second time, and his hands tremble with frustration. How did everything go so wrong so fast? He grips the picture frame in his hands, looking to the sharp glass then to his wrist. A dark thought washes over him. The urge to react irrationally is almost overwhelming; however, as he catches a glance at his wristwatch, one thing is undeniable. He had fifteen minutes until his filters would expire—barely enough to get out of the city in time.

It takes Lucas a while before he reaches the city’s edge. The walk back was not easy, and the sharp burn of air entering the deteriorating filter only slows Lucas down further. Dark thoughts slither across his mind, and for a moment he silently debates his return home—if one could even call it that. The slum of dilapidated buildings and tattered tents resting before him on the horizon was no home—especially not to him. If this were truly home, he would feel relief as his eyes spot its silhouette on the horizon. If this were truly home, he wouldn’t curse every sluggish step he took forward. If this were truly home, he wouldn’t be worrying about the price his sister will soon pay for his fruitless return.

The rusted gates draw back with a metallic screech as Lucas approaches. Meeting him as he enters is a tall man with a deep, gruff voice.

“You’d better have something real nice for the boss with how long you took.” The grizzly man threatens with a smirk, leading Lucas towards a large main building reinforced by rusted scrap metal and barbed wire.

Lucas cringes under pressure, keeping his eyes down as they walk.

“I bet she just can’t wait to see you.” The man adds, leading him through a heavy steel door and into the building.

The main room wasn’t too unique in its presentation. Inside its weathered walls, shadows flicker across the room from the various sources of candlelight. The faint creaking of wood fills the room, its volume mirrored by the muffled howl of the wind outside. The room is largely minimalistic, with little furniture occupying the space apart from a large wooden desk and an office chair, each in various degrees of wear.

Sitting at this desk was a woman arguably more worn and weathered than the furniture itself. She sits so impossibly still that if it weren’t for the lit cigarette in her mouth, Lucas almost wouldn’t notice her. She was in her mid-thirties, though the fire in her eyes made her appear much younger than the truly was. As the two near her desk, the lady stands up to address them, straightening out her black peacoat and flashing them a knowing glance. Lucas always avoided Helen’s gaze; even now his eyes find the floor as she appraises him.

The first to talk isn’t Helen, but the man who had escorted Lucas to see her.

“This one’s come to see you, boss. Just arrived from a tour.”

“Is that so, Lucas?”

The man claps Lucas on the back, hard enough to send a jolt of pain through his right shoulder.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He responds.

“And yet,” she pauses, “You don’t have your pack with you.”

Lucas grits his teeth and parts his lips to explain, though as he does, she raises a hand to silence him.

“ Unless your stories will replenish the masks you’ve cost me, then I don’t care about your stories. This is the third time you’ve returned to me in this way with nothing to show but lost time.”

Lucas raises his eyes to meet hers for a fleeting moment, her expression unreadable and stoic, yet a smile is on her face. Not one which reaches her eyes, nor one born of humor or smugness, but something much more sinister. As she approaches, her footsteps echo against the concrete floor. Dread settles somewhere inside his stomach as she comes to a stop before him, her towering stature apparent as she looks down her nose at him. She takes hold of his chin with a steely grip, forcing him to make eye contact with her.

“I want you to make peace. You’re going to talk to your sister one last time. Then she will join your mother.”

As she speaks, Lucas tenses up, and he feels the blood in his body run cold. He desperately wants to say something, though as his lips part, he finds it impossible to put his thoughts into words. There were too many. This situation was too much for his mind. Soon, her words become muffled, her face now a watercolor portrait of the woman she used to be.

Time turns into a twisting tide, which shifts from deep greens to a pale gray. Suddenly, he was in a hall, following behind the man from before. A turn is all the caution he takes to make sure that Lucas is following. Lucas does a turn of his own, seeing the room they just left grow further away as they walk. They were heading for his sister. This revelation causes him to smile, though his flame immediately quells as he recalls the reason. A familiar feeling of helplessness offers him solace, and as it pulls him in, he resigns to his fate. As it pulls him in, he can almost feel the world start to drift away, and as it pulls him in, he begins to remember what he is working toward—to protect his sister.

Lucas’s attention quickly snaps to a sharp noise emitted from ahead. The man walking before him idly swings a key fob, causing the keys to jingle. He has the urge to reach for it and wrench the keys from the man’s grip, though the gun at the man’s hip suggests he wouldn’t get far ahead. He takes a look at his surroundings, looking for something that might even the odds, and after a look at his palm, he feels the shard of glass in his pocket grow heavier with each passing second. It is then that he asks himself what he is willing to do to survive. It is then that he asks himself what he is willing to do to protect his sister.

 The answer comes as quickly as he can draw the shard from his pocket and wedge the jagged glass into the man’s artery. Not a second passes before the man screams a curse, reaching for the gun resting in his holster. Lucas then rushes forward to bring the staggered man to the ground. The gun skitters across the concrete floor and the grapple ensues. A right hook to the chin is enough to stun Lucas temporarily, knocking him from the top position. The man spits blood and lurches forwards to reach from the gun, though as the feeling passes Lucas pursues, managing to yank the glass from his neck, resuming the grapple. The two turn over and over, the pair growing more and more sluggish the longer the fight prolongs. He reaches his bloody hand for the gun yet again, though quickly withdraws as Lucas brings a hard downward stab at the man’s neck which he catches with his hands. The man, though typically would win in a fight with Lucas, shakes as his strength begins to wane and the blood loss begins to settle in. All it takes is one moment of the fight slowly draining from the man’s body for Lucas to capitalize, throwing the full weight of his body down in his arms. It is then that the glass plunges into his throat, causing the man’s eyes to go wide. From there it's a downhill battle and after a moment Lucas towers over the man’s lifeless corpse.

With heavy, shaky breaths he sits slumped over the man’s body, exhausted. From there, it's a downhill battle. The man's bloody hands weakly claw at Lucas's face before going limp. Lucas watches as the man's eyes glaze over, a cold, vacant stare replacing the anger and pain lingering in the man's expression. Lucas stumbles from over the corpse, fleeing backward until there's nowhere else to go. He slumps against the wall, his shoulders heaving with exhaustion as he takes in the scene before him. He did that: murdered a man without a second thought. His eyes dart around as he thinks, a pit forming in his stomach as he feels the disgust settling in. 

Lucas struggles to catch his breath, biting his lip to force back the sick that threatens to expel from his mouth. There was gore under his nails, and blood stained his face. “What would Nora think if she saw me like this?” He thinks for a moment. “Nora” He mutters to himself, his eyes widening as he sets his sights on where the keys have fallen. They rest ominously in the middle of the hall, the ventilation shaft above casting a shadow of its fan onto the keys. A downpour of guilt drenches and stains him as he takes the set into the palm of his hand. “I killed for these.” He swallows, the taste of vomit still on his tongue. “I killed for her.” He corrects as he sets his sights to the path ahead.

The silence is deafening as he walks, and his footsteps echo throughout the seemingly endless corridors. The memories he made behind these walls come to him in volleys. He tries to focus on them, though the walls judge his every choice—every mistake made as he relives his life from as far back as he can remember. He remembers the walls and their color, and how palely they appear now. Though these memories don’t serve him, and he pushes them from his thoughts. Instead, he remembers the way back to his sister's cell and struggles along that path. 

One turn left and two turns right lead him to his destination. A singular cell rests at the end of the corridor, one he recognizes as the place they were keeping his sister. Lucas notices the darkness shrouding the cell as he approaches, and has to squint to make out the shapes of the shadows resting therein. 

His breath catches in his chest as he vaguely makes out the figure of a girl sitting in the corner of the cell. She notices him and rises reluctantly to her feet, stumbling clumsily until she finds a weak grip on the bars. She notices the keys gripped tightly in his hands and leans a bit closer. Her slender, scarred arm slides from within the cell and takes a hold over Lucas’s chin. She holds him delicately as if he would shatter in her grip if she weren’t careful. Her eyes look him over with worry, darting to the bruises and blood across his cheek before finally settling on his own. 

For the first time in weeks she says his name, and as she says it he feels a weight lift from his shoulders. Her voice is the chisel which molds his stony expression, gently allowing him to take on one of sorrow. A single tear falls from his eye as it rings in his ears, causing him to ball his fists. A smile caresses her lips as she utters weakly. 

“Lucas.”