First Day

Some believe that one day we will see the sun but not me. I was born into the twilight and I will die in the twilight. A voice behind me says “I think it’s a bit brighter today.” I shake my head, it’s never brighter.

When I was a child my grandfather told me stories of how the sun shone every day, he told me about sunrises and sunsets, he said they were beautiful just like my grandmother, and then he would cry. I have never seen the sun or my grandmother, so I will never know the beauty he talked about. All that is left of my grandfather’s world are the corrupted stories on the lips of those damn revolutionists. They promise change, they promise sunlight, but they can’t deliver, no one can. They say that the dark sky wasn’t a natural disaster and that it can be reversed. But they are wrong; they peddle false hopes to gain power for themselves. That’s why I took the job. Today is my first day.

On my way to the food queues I stop by the tree. It is tall, so tall that I feel dizzy as I look up and try to see the top, which is lost in the grey sky. The leaves are thin brown and knobbly, they should be green. I don't know what type of tree it is, but I know it is the last tree, the last piece of real evidence that the old world had ever existed. The revolutionists say that it is a sign that things can change; a symbol of hope, the tree fights on and so should we. I stare at the tree and see only a slow death.

“It should be dead,” says someone to my right, my reply is no more than a grunt.

“Not enough light to um-,” It was a woman's voice, soft but confident. “- photo something, anyway there isn't enough light for it to do its thing, yet there it is. A miracle really,” she sounded full of energy.

“So it should be dead like the rest of us.” I reply.

“Oh, you're one of those.” There was mockery in her tone.

“What do you mean?”

“One of those who believe there is no hope and this,” she point's to the grey sky, “is all we have.”

“Isn't it?”

“No, there’s so much more,”

“What else is there but twilight?”

“Hope, dreams, wishes.”

“They aren't real.”

“What is real? If you close your eyes and imagine the warmth of the sun on your face, who's to say that isn't real.” She was beginning to sound like a revolutionary and I hate revolutionaries.

“You have never seen the sun, how do you know what it feels like?”

“Because it is in me to know, I close my eyes and there it is, bright and warm, embracing, a smiling light that lifts me and is always with me.”

“Living in your imagination doesn't light up the sky or feed people. It's just another way of getting through the day.” I can feel my heart beating faster, my fingers grip the gun in my pocket. They gave it to me. It was just in case they said. Just in case they resist, the revolutionaries. That’s my job, to bring them in if I find them preaching their poison at the food queues, to remove them, with force if necessary.

She pushes her head back and looks up. “You're as dark as the sky. The tree doesn't think it is all over. It's still growing, searching for the light.”

“Really.”

“Yes,” she leans towards me, I smell her scent, feel her warmth, a gloved hand rests on my arm, she whispers, “even you are searching for something.”

I look at the tree and lean on the barrier that surrounds it. I grip the gun tighter it gives me some reassurance.

“Are you a revolutionary?”

“That depends,” she says.

“Either you are or you’re not.”

“I don't think I am, but some might accuse me of it because I won't bow down to the dark thinkers like you.”

“I am a realist. This is how it is and how it will always be.” she grabs my coat and pulls me towards her. I feel her breath on my face. I look down into her eyes; they are bright, almost glowing.

“Haven't you ever wondered what life would be like, what your life might be like?”

“What would be the point?” I say.

'So things will change. If we don't try and see beyond the darkness then that's all we will ever know.' She let go of my coat and I wished she hadn't.

“Isn't it better to accept things for what they are, than believe in dreams and be discontented and frustrated?” I noted the desperation in my own voice.

“Dreams don't cause frustration; they give us our desires, our inspiration, our creativity, something to aim for. The frustration comes when our dreams are taken from us.”

“You are a revolutionary.”

“What if I am?” she says.

I hated revolutionaries, but I didn't hate her.

“I have a new job,” I said, and took in a deep calming breath. I stepped back from her. I try to prepare myself for the job I have to do. I try to clear my mind of her, the tree, and I remind myself of how I feel about revolutionaries, their poison, but my thoughts are stuck on her.

She is staring at me, as if she knows me and what I am. Then slowly I move my head, following the tree up as far as I can, until it disappears into the cloud heavy twilight sky and I think, maybe, it is a bit brighter today.