Friday, September 25, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Prologue...
Prologue…
One word: Cronus, one word with limitless profound meaning. A name, yes, but not mine. Mine does not matter. All that matters is Cronus, and Cronus is all, and Cronus is the end. I can’t escape it; outrun it, not even in death. I’m not sure if death is even possible, for Cronus is infinite and unending.
For my entire life I’ve tried to hide it, conceal it from the world’s eyes. If they knew, my entire world would collapse, implode on me. Perhaps even Cronus couldn’t outlive the consequences of being exposed to the burning gaze of the people. Like a drop of water made revelation to the sun and all its glory, I would burn up—become one with everything else made dead. No, that isn’t correct. More like a red giant unraveling the hydrogen structure of a smaller star, Cronus would finally fade. If not, perhaps further fuel the time bomb of our society.
Few individuals even know of Cronus. Even those I trust mostly sometimes do not know. In the entire scope of human existence, an exponentially small fraction of people will even hear a whisper of it. Knowledge is indeed powerful, yet some things are meant to be kept from mankind. Cronus should have been left untapped in the Pandora’s Box of human achievement—potential. No one should ever have had to bear it. Of course, you could argue that it’s a gift, and you would get resounding agreement from many of those who also have the curse of knowing about it. Cursed populations, also because of the unlucky circumstance of living in the same era that this mutation occurred in my double helix, call it a ‘gift’, ability, advancement in human evolution. Few agree with me and understand that Cronus is a Midas touch. All I can do is cover my abnormality and wait for an angel’s intervention. Then, maybe then, I could become part of the hive of everyday individuals.
And who is part of that denounced assembly who will never see the light of heaven and suffer my same fate? My parents know. My godfather knows. The corporation knows. I have to live every day with the intelligence that they will all be chained to the depths with me. 300 people are lucky enough to be invited with me. There are about one thousand people who share the shift in genetic material with me who may someday become part of the group as well. All because they have only heard of me—are friends with the people I am acquainted with. In order to save themselves, they have to harbor me, help me lie in the shadows. I’m a secret among the secrets of the corporation. We have no choice but to do so, to live the half life of ours, to always look over our shoulder and become as invisible as possible. If not, they’ve told me we would be hunted down, killed and exterminated. I wouldn’t mind that really, were it just myself, but I must go along with the charade or risk the lives of those I care for, and the nameless souls who rely on me anyway.
I’ve tried to do it myself, end this miserable existence of mine. Numerous sinful times I have tried. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t remember how many attempts I’ve made. The first time I actually did it was controversial. I couldn’t decide whether or not to go through with it. I had thought about it, obsessed over it each night as I lay in my bed and pondered my own existence. Struck with fear, I stepped up to the plate, horrified and eager. I wanted to end it, to finish the dreadful story of my life. Natural human instinct took over, even though I’m not entirely human. Death was so appealing, yet frightening. That first obstacle in my way to eternal peace was a cliff. Looking over the edge, I finally took the step. I broke half of the bones in my body. My neck was snapped, along with my spinal chord. A rib bone punctured my lung. My body was contorted in a sickly position at the landing, a particularly sharp rock piercing my thigh. But I failed. The second barrier to my cause was a lake. Taking in a deep breath, I dove into the water, not bothering to strip down to a swimsuit. My clothing would sink me lower, which was exactly what I wanted. I was excited for a moment as I broke through the cold membrane—the surface—of the water. However, once I was submerged, I sank as I had planned. My lungs filled with water as I didn’t struggle or flail in the abyss of the dark, murky lake. My heartbeat didn’t slow, for I don’t have one. The absence of oxygen didn’t do the job as I thought it would. I was a fool to think that the water would do the deadly deed for me. Failure after failure followed as Cronus didn’t allow me to rest. My most recent disappointment involved a gun. I’m ashamed to say how I got my hands on it. Somehow, I thought disabling my nervous system would solve my problems. It hadn’t worked before, yet I still had hope. The bullet incinerated as it hit its target before it could do any damage. Cronus was to blame for my sorry attempts at suicide. It wouldn’t let me go that easily.
It traps me in a cage of my own insecurity, my own limits. Boundaries I place on myself cannot be broken, lest I risk all the lives of our alienated people. Every day I must control my feelings and become a pallid display of emotional spectrum. I’ve become an adult all too quickly, so my mother says. I cannot live with the petty teenage symptom of mood swings. If I make a wrong step and become enraged, frightened, or incensed, I can cause unexplained damage. The collective of every day people would look for enlightenment and thus discover Cronus.
I can’t even wallow in my own loneliness or separation. One thing connects me to everyone, no matter how hard I try to break away. I can wander the open fields of the psychic plane. Things that people keep bottled up in their minds are open to me. Thoughts echo into my mind from the minds of friends and strangers alike. There is no way I can stop the ebb and flow of thoughts. It is too new and inexplicable to control.
Cronus is to blame.
My birth was supposed to be monumental in the lives of my parents, not in the history of the world. I would have been fine with any normal birth and be born a normal healthy baby. But it was not meant to be. Of course my parents expected something unusual and unexpected to come from their child, the only one the corporation would allow them as they attempt to control our population growth. Our gifts as the multitude christens them are genetic and hereditary. My parents also have the burden of living a life of stealth and a lowered—humbled—head. They anticipated a child who would have to survive in the same fashion, as I have. I would follow in their footsteps to become an agent of the corporation—the conclave of ‘gifted’ individuals.
My mother met my father in their common occupation. Her ability recorded in the data of her DNA string is reflected in the manifestation of it. That is, she can absorb energy—kinetic, electric, etc.—store it, and expel it in the form of sound waves, light, or even explosive blasts. I don’t have a finite opinion of how far her power can go or how much energy she can soak in and release. But in Cronus’ infancy, she was able to absorb my uncontrolled outbursts to the point of exhaustion. I’m not sure if she could hold it all at Cronus’ current potency. She worked in the honest field of espionage and was out of town for very large lengths at a time, once for even a month.
My father was in the same operation when they became acquainted. His ability was quite useful in how the corporation employed him. He was a detective and investigated crime scenes related to corporation business. He specialized in forensics and quickly became a senior investigator. By just a look at a crime scene, an object, he could see exactly what happened. He could see into the memory of matter, into the past. Sadly, it was not the extent of his ability. The discovery of the other side of his gift occurred while I was still in my mother’s womb.
He’s told me how it happened only once. It still haunts him, I can tell. He was pondering his child, soon to be born. Mom was in the last stages of pregnancy, and he began to explore the possibilities of his seed. He wondered about my life and what I would turn out to be, and gazed into the future. Witnessing my birth weeks before it happened, he saw my childhood. I’ve asked him before if he saw Cronus and knew that it was going to happen to me. Repeatedly, he gives no answer. It wasn’t ignorance, for it was vital that he not reveal what was to happen. Horrible things could happen if he tampered with the future.
However, the corporation enlisted him to use it again, despite the risks. One of the executives, someone very high up in command asked about his future. My father saw his death, and told him after much pleading. He has regretted the decision to this day. The man became fearful of his own mortality and went insane. He now lives in a white plush room 3 floors below corporation headquarters. My father refuses to use the second aspect of his powers to this day.
I should have paid more attention to his reactions when I was being tested for a gift. The corporation scientists took a blood test from every ‘powered’ child at age ten, just before puberty begins. Most mutations express themselves sometime in the natural maturation of individuals. The aim of the corporation is to get an idea of the ability they’re going to deal with before it displays itself. There have been frightening cases, such as a child who was destined to become a human nuclear weapon. His bone marrow was rich in radioactive material and would have become active, dangerous as he grew older. I never quite heard what the corporation did with him, but I can imagine. How plausible was it to harbor a human explosive?
I remembered that first blood sample. The duo that tested it—a medic and a biologist—predicted my ability. I had anomalies in my blood. They described them as antibodies that had marvelous immunity and ability. I would never get sick; perhaps even have a healing factor. One of them even ventured that a blood transfusion with me could heal disease. I was the human panacea and my parents were proud. Like they said, I never got sick. And again, in the latter part of my eleventh year, I noticed that the scrape on my knee had healed in an astonishing time of three seconds. However, a few days after my yearly blood test, as they were evaluating the new sample, strange things began to happen at home. Objects around me spontaneously combusted as horrifyingly painful headaches followed. As we returned to the corporation lab the next day, the specialists were confounded. They took more tests, including an MRI. I don’t remember much, as the headache had returned consuming all my thoughts and concentration in the pain. What their instruments depicted was unbelievable. My plasma levels were off the charts. Only one thing equaled—something celestial, not from this world. Tucked in the space between my heart and left lung was the microscopic source, though over the years it has grown in size, consuming the core of my cardiovascular system. But, how could such destructive and galactic power is held at bay inside a boy’s chest cavity?
The corporation gave it a name that day, something to call the anomaly. In its entire history, the corporation had never encountered anything like this. It’s the name I scourge today, the name that tastes bitter in my mouth when I pronounce it.
Cronus.
Cronus is to blame.
My name is Caleb, and I have a star inside of me.
One word: Cronus, one word with limitless profound meaning. A name, yes, but not mine. Mine does not matter. All that matters is Cronus, and Cronus is all, and Cronus is the end. I can’t escape it; outrun it, not even in death. I’m not sure if death is even possible, for Cronus is infinite and unending.
For my entire life I’ve tried to hide it, conceal it from the world’s eyes. If they knew, my entire world would collapse, implode on me. Perhaps even Cronus couldn’t outlive the consequences of being exposed to the burning gaze of the people. Like a drop of water made revelation to the sun and all its glory, I would burn up—become one with everything else made dead. No, that isn’t correct. More like a red giant unraveling the hydrogen structure of a smaller star, Cronus would finally fade. If not, perhaps further fuel the time bomb of our society.
Few individuals even know of Cronus. Even those I trust mostly sometimes do not know. In the entire scope of human existence, an exponentially small fraction of people will even hear a whisper of it. Knowledge is indeed powerful, yet some things are meant to be kept from mankind. Cronus should have been left untapped in the Pandora’s Box of human achievement—potential. No one should ever have had to bear it. Of course, you could argue that it’s a gift, and you would get resounding agreement from many of those who also have the curse of knowing about it. Cursed populations, also because of the unlucky circumstance of living in the same era that this mutation occurred in my double helix, call it a ‘gift’, ability, advancement in human evolution. Few agree with me and understand that Cronus is a Midas touch. All I can do is cover my abnormality and wait for an angel’s intervention. Then, maybe then, I could become part of the hive of everyday individuals.
And who is part of that denounced assembly who will never see the light of heaven and suffer my same fate? My parents know. My godfather knows. The corporation knows. I have to live every day with the intelligence that they will all be chained to the depths with me. 300 people are lucky enough to be invited with me. There are about one thousand people who share the shift in genetic material with me who may someday become part of the group as well. All because they have only heard of me—are friends with the people I am acquainted with. In order to save themselves, they have to harbor me, help me lie in the shadows. I’m a secret among the secrets of the corporation. We have no choice but to do so, to live the half life of ours, to always look over our shoulder and become as invisible as possible. If not, they’ve told me we would be hunted down, killed and exterminated. I wouldn’t mind that really, were it just myself, but I must go along with the charade or risk the lives of those I care for, and the nameless souls who rely on me anyway.
I’ve tried to do it myself, end this miserable existence of mine. Numerous sinful times I have tried. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t remember how many attempts I’ve made. The first time I actually did it was controversial. I couldn’t decide whether or not to go through with it. I had thought about it, obsessed over it each night as I lay in my bed and pondered my own existence. Struck with fear, I stepped up to the plate, horrified and eager. I wanted to end it, to finish the dreadful story of my life. Natural human instinct took over, even though I’m not entirely human. Death was so appealing, yet frightening. That first obstacle in my way to eternal peace was a cliff. Looking over the edge, I finally took the step. I broke half of the bones in my body. My neck was snapped, along with my spinal chord. A rib bone punctured my lung. My body was contorted in a sickly position at the landing, a particularly sharp rock piercing my thigh. But I failed. The second barrier to my cause was a lake. Taking in a deep breath, I dove into the water, not bothering to strip down to a swimsuit. My clothing would sink me lower, which was exactly what I wanted. I was excited for a moment as I broke through the cold membrane—the surface—of the water. However, once I was submerged, I sank as I had planned. My lungs filled with water as I didn’t struggle or flail in the abyss of the dark, murky lake. My heartbeat didn’t slow, for I don’t have one. The absence of oxygen didn’t do the job as I thought it would. I was a fool to think that the water would do the deadly deed for me. Failure after failure followed as Cronus didn’t allow me to rest. My most recent disappointment involved a gun. I’m ashamed to say how I got my hands on it. Somehow, I thought disabling my nervous system would solve my problems. It hadn’t worked before, yet I still had hope. The bullet incinerated as it hit its target before it could do any damage. Cronus was to blame for my sorry attempts at suicide. It wouldn’t let me go that easily.
It traps me in a cage of my own insecurity, my own limits. Boundaries I place on myself cannot be broken, lest I risk all the lives of our alienated people. Every day I must control my feelings and become a pallid display of emotional spectrum. I’ve become an adult all too quickly, so my mother says. I cannot live with the petty teenage symptom of mood swings. If I make a wrong step and become enraged, frightened, or incensed, I can cause unexplained damage. The collective of every day people would look for enlightenment and thus discover Cronus.
I can’t even wallow in my own loneliness or separation. One thing connects me to everyone, no matter how hard I try to break away. I can wander the open fields of the psychic plane. Things that people keep bottled up in their minds are open to me. Thoughts echo into my mind from the minds of friends and strangers alike. There is no way I can stop the ebb and flow of thoughts. It is too new and inexplicable to control.
Cronus is to blame.
My birth was supposed to be monumental in the lives of my parents, not in the history of the world. I would have been fine with any normal birth and be born a normal healthy baby. But it was not meant to be. Of course my parents expected something unusual and unexpected to come from their child, the only one the corporation would allow them as they attempt to control our population growth. Our gifts as the multitude christens them are genetic and hereditary. My parents also have the burden of living a life of stealth and a lowered—humbled—head. They anticipated a child who would have to survive in the same fashion, as I have. I would follow in their footsteps to become an agent of the corporation—the conclave of ‘gifted’ individuals.
My mother met my father in their common occupation. Her ability recorded in the data of her DNA string is reflected in the manifestation of it. That is, she can absorb energy—kinetic, electric, etc.—store it, and expel it in the form of sound waves, light, or even explosive blasts. I don’t have a finite opinion of how far her power can go or how much energy she can soak in and release. But in Cronus’ infancy, she was able to absorb my uncontrolled outbursts to the point of exhaustion. I’m not sure if she could hold it all at Cronus’ current potency. She worked in the honest field of espionage and was out of town for very large lengths at a time, once for even a month.
My father was in the same operation when they became acquainted. His ability was quite useful in how the corporation employed him. He was a detective and investigated crime scenes related to corporation business. He specialized in forensics and quickly became a senior investigator. By just a look at a crime scene, an object, he could see exactly what happened. He could see into the memory of matter, into the past. Sadly, it was not the extent of his ability. The discovery of the other side of his gift occurred while I was still in my mother’s womb.
He’s told me how it happened only once. It still haunts him, I can tell. He was pondering his child, soon to be born. Mom was in the last stages of pregnancy, and he began to explore the possibilities of his seed. He wondered about my life and what I would turn out to be, and gazed into the future. Witnessing my birth weeks before it happened, he saw my childhood. I’ve asked him before if he saw Cronus and knew that it was going to happen to me. Repeatedly, he gives no answer. It wasn’t ignorance, for it was vital that he not reveal what was to happen. Horrible things could happen if he tampered with the future.
However, the corporation enlisted him to use it again, despite the risks. One of the executives, someone very high up in command asked about his future. My father saw his death, and told him after much pleading. He has regretted the decision to this day. The man became fearful of his own mortality and went insane. He now lives in a white plush room 3 floors below corporation headquarters. My father refuses to use the second aspect of his powers to this day.
I should have paid more attention to his reactions when I was being tested for a gift. The corporation scientists took a blood test from every ‘powered’ child at age ten, just before puberty begins. Most mutations express themselves sometime in the natural maturation of individuals. The aim of the corporation is to get an idea of the ability they’re going to deal with before it displays itself. There have been frightening cases, such as a child who was destined to become a human nuclear weapon. His bone marrow was rich in radioactive material and would have become active, dangerous as he grew older. I never quite heard what the corporation did with him, but I can imagine. How plausible was it to harbor a human explosive?
I remembered that first blood sample. The duo that tested it—a medic and a biologist—predicted my ability. I had anomalies in my blood. They described them as antibodies that had marvelous immunity and ability. I would never get sick; perhaps even have a healing factor. One of them even ventured that a blood transfusion with me could heal disease. I was the human panacea and my parents were proud. Like they said, I never got sick. And again, in the latter part of my eleventh year, I noticed that the scrape on my knee had healed in an astonishing time of three seconds. However, a few days after my yearly blood test, as they were evaluating the new sample, strange things began to happen at home. Objects around me spontaneously combusted as horrifyingly painful headaches followed. As we returned to the corporation lab the next day, the specialists were confounded. They took more tests, including an MRI. I don’t remember much, as the headache had returned consuming all my thoughts and concentration in the pain. What their instruments depicted was unbelievable. My plasma levels were off the charts. Only one thing equaled—something celestial, not from this world. Tucked in the space between my heart and left lung was the microscopic source, though over the years it has grown in size, consuming the core of my cardiovascular system. But, how could such destructive and galactic power is held at bay inside a boy’s chest cavity?
The corporation gave it a name that day, something to call the anomaly. In its entire history, the corporation had never encountered anything like this. It’s the name I scourge today, the name that tastes bitter in my mouth when I pronounce it.
Cronus.
Cronus is to blame.
My name is Caleb, and I have a star inside of me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)