A Walk Along the Bay (Gerard Porter)

A Walk Along the Bay

Gerard Porter

When I look at the sea, I often see myself glaring right back at me. Its tempestuous waves resemble me. Maybe it’s because we’re both filled with rage about having to race to crash into a cold, uninviting shore just to fade into nonexistence. In my case, the shore represents my home that’s filled with people who do not understand me and force me to become just an empty shell. So, I choose to walk home from school each day, even though it takes about an hour. On this walk, I can be myself. I stare at the boats that gracefully glide over the sea, though sometimes it realizes that they do not belong and mercilessly tosses them about. I smell the salt that invades my nostrils each time the wind blows my way and I envy the children that get to swim all day and relax on the golden sand. I love the sea.

            However, the land often captures my attention too. My path leads me along a remote bay, lined with lean coconut trees that I wish I could climb and their green leaves with flecks of yellow fill the sky and shade me from the scorching sun. Most importantly, I see my best friend. He’s a bit younger than I am, although I never asked for his age. His maroon brown skin and the black curls that lazily lie on his head are evidence of his mixed heritage. He laces his speech with a faint British accent that contrasts strongly with my melodic Creole tongue. I tell him about my plans to buy a boat and become a sailor, my parents who never listen to me, my teachers who think all I do is “daydream” and how my day went. 

            “If you stare at the ocean long enough you might actually drown in it,” he says grudgingly, obviously upset that I’ve been walking silently for the past forty minutes.

            “I wouldn’t mind that at all,” I retort. “I can’t imagine any other way I would want to die.” I pause for a while to look to see if my response perturbed him, but his face shows no evidence of disgust. He understands me. “I saw something strange today.”

            “What was it? Did you look at a mirror?” he chuckled, but then turned his face to me to show his interest.

            “We were learning about the Cuban Revolution in class and I thought the teacher had interesting eyes. So, I stared at them for a while, and then they got bigger and bigger and bigger until they expanded and filled the entire room before stopping right in front of me. And I could see her pale brown irises in such detail. They looked like the trunks of palm trees.”

            His eyes widened. “Are mine getting bigger and bigger and bigger now?”

            I hit his shoulder lightly and laughed. I knew that he was amazed, so he mocked me because his day was much less exciting.

            “Let’s race,” he challenges. Before waiting for my response, he takes off running on the dirt road.

After feigning a loud sigh, I follow him. Soon the trees are flying past me until they become a blur and the wind batters against my face, telling me to slow down. But I ignore its warning. Now I see the bay beneath me with its headlands infringing on the sea or maybe it’s the sea that has neatly carved out the land. I forget what I learned in geography class. I’m getting higher and higher, but my eyes are fixed on the green earth below with a few patches of gold and blue for the seas and rivers. I don’t see my friend anymore, maybe he isn’t going fast enough to take off. I can’t wait to tell him what I’ve seen. Oddly I don’t feel any sweat, though that would make sense as it should be a bit cold so high up.

Then, I start to fall. The ground approaches quickly, with its trees that now seem like spikes growing steadily larger. I feel my breakfast resurface in my mouth. I wish I were at least falling into the sea, where I could feel its wet embrace for the last time.

“Boy, why aren’t you eating your food?” my mother snarls, cementing me to the kitchen table. I don’t remember ever arriving home, but now a plate of untouched food lies before me as well as my annoyed parents.

I begin eating without responding and after watching me eat for a few minutes, my parents resume their conversation about the neighbors. My mother is almost the opposite of me. She’s loud, confrontational, yet deeply caring. She is beautiful, but not like the European models that fill all the advertisements I see. Instead her beauty reminds me of the sun setting slowly over the sea, as if kneeling in to kiss it good night. I resemble my father a lot more. He’s quiet, removed from the world and loves a good laugh. I love them both, but most times they don’t understand me, so I remain silent.

“May I be excused now?” I ask softly. I spread my food across the plate so that they would think I’ve eaten most of it. I wish I could eat more just to please them, but my appetite fell along with me.

“Tell me what you learned in school before you leave,” my father commands.

I feel excitement surge through me as I remember what I told my friend while I was walking home. I can’t wait to see how surprised they’ll be. “We learned about the Cuban Revolution today, but I got distracted by my teacher’s beautiful eyes. Then while I was looking at them, they got bigger and bigger and bigger, until they filled the room!”

I feel my smile fade as I look at my parents’ unamused faces. “Boy, I thought we agreed that you would stop daydreaming during lessons,” my mother says. “These fantasies won’t get you anywhere in life. What year did the revolution start?”

I stare at her blankly. Maybe I’ll find the answer somewhere in the contours of her face.

“Go read your textbook,” my father sighs and waves me away.

I happily retreat to my room and my parents’ groanings follow me. I fall on to my bed and bury my head into my pillow. I don’t want to hear their disappointment anymore. I don’t want to see anything. I just want to descend into the oblivion of sleep. Eventually, the darkness surrounds me completely.

Something nudges me awake. My mind begins to construct a few excuses for why I am asleep as I worry that it’s my father who has come to check on my studying. But when I turn around, I see an unfamiliar silhouette. I open my mouth to scream but then the man hits my stomach and I lose my breath.

“Don’t call attention to yourself or I’ll kill you,” he says with a steely voice. He waits for my breathing to slow down. “How do you picture an ideal world?”

I remain silent in fear. He hits me again and this time I cough up some blood. “I imagine a world filled with only the ocean and my friends. Then I can sail and laugh with them all day. I can finally be understood.”

“You’re naïve, but I’ll attribute that to your youth,” he mutters. “Imagine a world where there is only perfection.” The figure begins to pace and gesticulate excitedly. “Imagine a world with no diseases, no poverty and no elderly. Everyone will be young, brilliant and productive! Now that is an ideal world.”

I nod slowly to avoid being hit again. He continues, “Think about the progress humanity will make. We could solve the most difficult scientific problems, write the most beautiful poems, create the most outstanding art. With no ailments, we would have the time to truly explore the frontiers of human achievement. And you can help make this a reality.”

“How can I?” I ask. I can’t imagine the world that he speaks of as it seems impossible since imperfections exist in every human.

“I belong to a select group of scientists from around the world. We all believe that humanity can arrive at its full potential only if we eliminate the limitations that have been keeping us back. Unfortunately, that will require the sacrifice of most of humanity as many of us carry these limitations in our genes.” I gasp in horror. “It sounds terrible but think about the world that will exist afterwards. If these people were logical, they’d be happy to sacrifice themselves for essentially the creation of a superior human race!”

“How will you murder these people?” I ask scornfully. I can’t imagine my parents, my friends, my classmates and everyone else in my country dying for this utopian world. It doesn’t seem right.

“It is not murder,” he retorts. “Think of it as a conversion from one era of humanity to another.” He turns on my bedroom light and I finally see him. He’s dressed in a black wet suit with what looks like a plague doctor’s mask. His glass eyes glint ominously as they peer right at me. He holds up a silver vial with an elaborate emblem engraved on it. “This vial contains a virus that we’ve been working on for over a decade. It is air-borne and will spread at an uncontrollable pace, engulfing everyone who is not immune. The symptoms begin with convulsions as the motor neurons will incessantly send signals to the muscles. Then, the infected will feel like they’re being burnt by an incredibly hot flame until the pain becomes so unbearable that they go into shock. From then on, the virus will systematically shut down all their vital organs, but they will feel no pain and peacefully succumb to death.”

I feel like throwing up again. “Don’t worry. You do not have to experience this sad fate. My group has managed to examine the genome of most individuals on Earth, and you’ve been selected to be a part of our new world. But you’ll need to do something for us.”

“What is it?” I murmur.

“You have to release the virus in your country. We need to ensure that it spreads effectively across the globe, so we have elected someone from each country to release the virus at the same time.” He pauses. “You should feel grateful. You will be remembered as one of the founders of the new world for an eternity.”

I want to scream. I want to run away. I want to cry for help. Instead, fear glues me to my bed. How could I do this? How could I murder everyone I know?

“I can’t do it,” I say finally and brace myself for another hit.

He holds my face in his hands but doesn’t hit me. “You can and you must,” he says, peering into my soul. “No one here understands you. No one here appreciates your wonderful mind. In this new world, everyone will understand you. Everyone will yearn to talk to you. You’ll be worshipped. Why wouldn’t you want that?” He lets go of my face and resumes his pacing. “Take the vial from me and you’ll become a new man, I promise. All you need to do is drop it at your feet. That will make you immune and eliminate those that are not a part of the elect.”

He extends the vial towards me. I hesitate. Maybe I can do what he asks of me. No one cares about me here. They all think I am strange, and I feel so apart from everyone else. This could be my escape. I take the vial from him.

“Wonderful,” he says gleefully. “You should release it tomorrow around noon. When you do, we will begin a new era filled with unimaginable progress. I knew that you would make the right decision.”

He turns off my light and soon I no longer see any figures in the dark. I fumble in the darkness for my bag and tuck the vial inside. I’ll have to release it in school tomorrow. I think about my classmates writhing in pain on the ground as they feel the burns from a nonexistent fire, and I vomit on my bedroom floor. They don’t like me anyways I tell myself. They deserve it.

Yet, I know that they don’t. No one deserves such pain and suffering. Who are these people to decide who lives and who dies anyways? I can’t do this.

I find the resolve not to commit this heinous crime, even if they come after me again. I’ll warn everyone so that we can fight against them together. Finally, the darkness surrounds me again, and this time I remain in sleep’s embrace undisturbed.

I am on my way to school. The gray sky shares my gloomy mood. The beautiful bay seems withdrawn and foreign as huge waves collide loudly with the rocky shore. This time, my friend is absent. Maybe he senses the guilt I feel for being convinced to murder thousands of people last night. I look at the sea. It’s probably not too late to run away and submerge myself in its rough waters. At least there I won’t be afraid. However, I know I need to warn everyone. I can’t let this destruction happen.

I enter my classroom and sit in my seat. It’s to the back of the class near to the window. I chose it because I could peer outside at the sky whenever the lesson loses my interest, though sometimes my teachers notice, and I get sent to the door. My history teacher from yesterday enters the class. She begins her lesson on the Cuban Missile Crisis. I imagine myself as a Russian soldier on the ship leading to the Cuba, on the brink of initiating the end of the world. I look at my teacher’s eyes again, but this time they remain normal sized.

Finally, the bell rings for lunch. I stand on my desk and raise the vial in my hands. “This vial is meant to kill all of you. There will be hundreds like it opened in each country in the world to release a virus meant to wipe out most of humanity! I’ve seen the people responsible and together we might be able to lead a resistance.”

Everyone looks at me in silence. Suddenly laughter spreads throughout the room. I feel ashamed and confused.

“There’s nothing in your hands idiot,” a student calls out to me.

My teacher walks over to me and grabs me firmly. “I think you need some professional help young man. I’ve had enough of your stories and wild ideas.”

I realize that my hands are indeed empty. I’m certain that I had the vial in my hands a few moments ago. My confusion morphs into frustration and soon I’m overcome with tears as my teacher leads me to the headmaster’s office and the other students continue with their raucous laughter.

They call my parents and decide to send me to a hospital. But I do not care. I am preoccupied with what went wrong and if the virus has been released everywhere else already. I wonder how much time I’ve given the rest of us before it infects us too. Not much time I think to myself.

On the way to hospital I tell the driver what will happen soon. The nurse accompanying me tells him to ignore me. She tells him that I’m unwell and that he shouldn’t let my ramblings scare him. I scream at her. Why is she saying these things? Maybe she’s involved in the plot too. Maybe they all are and they’re locking me away until the virus finally arrives.

I tell them I want to speak with my parents. At least if I tell them what’s really happening, they might come to rescue me from these wicked people. They tell me that my condition makes that impossible.

Now I’m strapped to a bed in a room with aging white walls streaked with brown. The nurses decided to strap me down because I kept trying to leave so I could warn anyone I saw. The doctor hasn’t seen me yet. I have hope that he would realize their mistake and help me. I stare at the boarded roof and trace the lines on the painted wood with my eyes. They each split into more lines that then split into more lines and soon I feel overwhelmed. There are too many lines. They’re extending everywhere from the roof and creeping down towards me. I can’t run away. I scream as loudly as I can until my voice begins to crack.

Finally, the door to my room opens and the doctor walks in. “Stop screaming,” he says coldly. I recognize his voice and my heart sinks. He closes the door. “You made the wrong choice, boy.”

The doctor removes his coat and I see his black wet suit. Ugly scars mark his face that almost distract me from his pale, emotionless blue eyes. He’s holding the vial that I thought I had put in my bag. My teacher probably took it from me when I wasn’t looking! They must have recruited her too.

“Don’t do this, please,” I beg. “What does progress even mean if most of humanity is dead?”

He chuckles. “You understand nothing. Humanity’s progress towards perfection is what makes life meaningful. I wanted you to join in that with me, but we probably made a mistake in our selection. At least your sacrifice will be meaningful.”

He opens the vial and drops it on his feet. He turns to leave then says, “It is finished.”

I hear the door close, but it doesn’t matter. I begin to twitch and then my entire body begins to convulse uncontrollably. It’s painful. My muscles ache so much. And then the burning begins. I scream until I feel the pain begin to fade along with my consciousness. I hope that I dream about the sea.

Explanation:

I intertwined two apocalypses in my story, one imaginary and the other real. The imaginary one deals with the creation of a new world by eugenics, where humans that have been deemed as genetically “inferior” are murdered by a virus in order to push humanity into a new era of productivity and creative output. This parallels to the creation of a “New Jerusalem” in the Apocalypse of John where humanity will be rid of its faults but will have to exclude the majority as a result. It also highlights the dualistic motif found in many apocalypses that divides the world into two groups: the elect and the unworthy. In some ways this could be a destructive apocalypse, but to the perpetrators the transformative element outweighs any destruction they must do in order to create this “ideal” society. However, this apocalypse doesn’t actually happen. It is a hallucination created by the ill mind of the protagonist who is experiencing the onset of his schizophrenia. Here lies the other apocalypse: the protagonist’s descent into insanity. This apocalypse is destructive as it severs his relationships with his parents, results in him being placed into a mental institution and causes him to suffer even though the suffering is imaginary. It could also be transformative, in that at the beginning the protagonist’s perception seemed to mix reality with his imagination but near the end his perception is completely transformed to a fictional reality. Another motif present in my story is the Cassandra complex where everyone disbelieves the apocalyptic prophet and thinks that he is mentally ill. Hence the ending, where he appears to experience the symptoms of the virus meant to create the apocalypse to probe the question of whether he really was an apocalyptic prophet or just insane.

A motif that I decided to leave out was the gnostic apocalypse (liberation). I thought about including this aspect of the apocalypse because the protagonist seemed to be trapped in a material world (reality) by a demiurge (his sanity). Then he could be freed from this world by figures that appeared in his hallucinations and enter the realm of his insanity. However, I decided that losing his sanity seemed to be much more destructive than liberative.