"Transcendence" by Alice Devlin (York County)
Whatever life came before now, it seems to be only a series of blurred edges, constantly shifting memories, and an inability to know whether the words I think I’ve heard and the words I feel I’ve spoken have been a truth or rather a made-up image I’ve convinced myself of.
Here–in the darkness–we are not prisoners, at least not in the way the word used to mean. To be imprisoned would be to still hold pieces of ourselves, and we have not done that in a long time. We are Theirs now–undeniably.
I’m hardly able to understand whether I am truly here now or if every sense of wood under my hands and ice-ridden tiles under my feet is nothing more than a string of aureate imaginings–perhaps I only wish to feel real.
I called my mother yesterday, for the first time in what I believe to be seventeen months. She said that this taciturn way of being is unlike me. The only issue is, I cannot tell if the silence I find myself existing in is truly unlike my authentic, archetypal self.
The people here are quiet, all silent unless they are directed otherwise by Them. Even then, everyone keeps to as few words as possible. We do not wish to be called out for unintentional duplicity. If we are, we are more likely to live with constantly breaking bones for months on end rather than death.
Very few are gifted death as a punishment for deceit, no matter how unintended the deceit was. I think that perhaps in the past–the little I can remember–I would have considered death extreme. Now it is no less than an accolade. Death–in its promise for freedom–is something we all dream of.
I cannot say if I intended to call her or not–whether I truly registered that what I’d found in a room suddenly in front of me was a phone or not. I thought I’d forgotten. I thought I’d forgotten everything. But I somehow knew the pattern in which to align the numbers; somehow knew the voice on the other end belonged to her.
I was not allowed to call my mother. None of us are. Communication is all but prohibited. They have warned us many times. We are too eminent in comparison to others, and we should not try to undo ourselves by even looking in an outsider's direction.
But concussed dreams are often more vivid than ones had otherwise. I wasn’t even sure I remembered her face until then. There is not much to see here aside from darkness. They tell us vision is a cruelty; that there is little point in anything other than physical input.
Can you feel how the ice feels over your ribs? Can you feel the intensity of your head against the wall?
Vision is something human–animalistic. We are no longer considered humans, for they are considered others. Beneath us.
Skin rarely feels like skin anymore, but rather dried and wrinkled like dehydrated scales. Flesh rarely feels like flesh anymore, but instead sharp like the bones creeping underneath.
When bones are broken, we are told to drag our hands over them. Notice the way they are sharp. Notice the way they don’t feel quite real.
The sharp contours when fingertips are smoothed over collarbones and knees is promised, for food is something human, too. We only need the bare minimum. Our cheeks are meant to feel hollow, and our teeth are meant to feel soft.
We get food of some kind once a day–though closer to inedible than edible. We don’t know what’s in it; They don’t intend on telling us.
I wasn’t entirely lucid while calling my mother; I wasn’t even aware phones existed here. I wasn’t aware light existed–though it won’t for me anymore. I was found–phone in hand under lights so bright they nearly blinded me–just standing open-mouthed as my mother’s voice rang in my ear.
I only remember the feeling of pain after They found me and the thinness of Their voice before I fell unconscious, reminding me that my mother was wrong. I must remain iconoclastic to all except Them.
Now the sockets where my eyeballs once lay feel hollow–empty–and my kneecaps feel bruised and perhaps bloody.
But I dreamed of my mother again last night–I didn’t even think it possible, really. It was almost her face, though this one was less real. Slightly uncanny. She promised she’d find me. So I looked down at my hands, only to find nothingness in their place.
I didn’t speak as I said no. I think it may be the case that she is not real, and that I hardly am either–but I think I miss her. I think I’d forgotten that things could be felt other than physical discomfort.
It’s strange how even the feeling of despair can feel like proof I was once human. It’s strange how feeling things in my heart–in my soul–seems to have evoked some sort of memory that They insisted on taking from me.
ALICE DEVLIN, age fifteen, wrote “Transcendence” to explore the themes of indoctrination and loss of Self during her sophomore year. She lives in Berwick, Maine, and she spends her time at her dance studio, Sole City, where she studies a variety of styles. Her writing often depicts her characters’ inner narratives and how their lives shape the ways in which they perceive the world.